Backfire

“Let’s walk over to the edge. See, they’ve got the thigh-high railing. I wonder what good they think that’ll do? I mean, if you want to end it all, you just gotta step right over and then you’re flying. Or in your case, you’re going to get a little encouragement.”

She poked the gun hard in his back. “Walk.”

He walked. Savich knew he had to do something or he would shortly be dead. That couldn’t happen. He had to get to Sherlock. She was alive, she’d managed to beat Xu, or Harry had, Savich knew it to his gut. He felt her, strong and whole. He saw Sean, so tickled he was going to Yosemite, his arms around his neck, giving him a big wet sloppy kiss before pulling away to go to his grandfather to begin his excellent adventure. El Capitan were the last words he’d heard Sean say.

He saw her glance at her watch again. The explosion had to be overdue. How long would it be before she realized it?

Sherlock threw open the hallway door on the seventh floor.

“Hey, who are you? You’ve got a gun!”

“FBI! It’s all right,” she called to the young man who, after seeing her SIG, stood stock-still. “Did anyone go up to the roof?”

“Yes, another FBI guy and some sort of tech. The roof door’s right there.”

She ran to the door and pulled it open. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, unlatched the roof door, and forced herself to lift it slowly. She saw Charlene, wearing a blond wig and dressed like a tech standing not a foot from Dillon, her gun aimed at his chest. He was too close to the edge.

He’s alive; thank you, God.

Sherlock climbed out onto the roof, trying not to make any noise. She quietly eased the roof door back down, keeping low. The wind was strong up here, but she could hear Charlene saying, “I can put a bullet in your face and push you over if you’d prefer. Which way do you want it, Agent Savich?”

Dillon said, “Would you like me to tell you who murdered your son, Charlene?”

“Whether it was you or it was Judge Hunt, it doesn’t matter. You’re both murderers, and you should both be dead, and you will be—” She shook her head, and in that moment, Savich saw Sherlock, fell and rolled as Sherlock yelled, “Charlene!”

Charlene whirled around and fired, but Sherlock had already dropped to the graveled roof behind a ventilation shaft. Sherlock fired three fast shots, and one struck Charlene in her side. She yelled and leapt back.

Savich was on her. He kicked her in the stomach, sending her wheeling backward, but she didn’t let go of her gun. She was wheezing and couldn’t catch her breath, but somehow she managed to raise her gun and twist around to fire again at Sherlock.

Sherlock fired. She didn’t miss.

Charlene Cartwright fell onto her back, breath huffing out of her mouth, blood splattering from her chest, spewing out around her.

Savich came down on his knees over her. “Judge Hunt didn’t kill Sonny. Neither did I.”

Charlene stared up at him. “Is Joe dead?”

Sherlock said, “No, he’s not, but I imagine he’ll end up on death row where he belongs. He’s not the man you think he is, Charlene.”

“He should have been my son,” Charlene said, and she stopped breathing.

Savich said slowly, “When they do the autopsy, I’m thinking they’ll find a brain tumor. She wasn’t right, Sherlock.” He rose, gave her a hand, and pulled her up hard against him. “I knew you were okay, I knew I would have known it if you weren’t. Harry’s all right?”

“Yes.” She began feeling his chest, his arms, dropped to her knees and felt his legs, saying, “I had to get to you. The nurse on Ramsey’s floor said you and another guy had gone into the stairwell. I came up as fast as I could.”

“I’m all right. Thank you for coming in time.” He pulled her to her feet.

Sherlock lightly laid her palm against his cheek and looked at his beloved face. “You would have saved yourself.”

Would he? He didn’t know. Savich held her for a very long time until the cold wind chilled them.

EPILOGUE

The following Wednesday night

Davies Hall

San Francisco

Molly looked out over the packed hall of beautifully dressed people, the orchestra in their formal black and white, and the conductor, the tall and aristocratic Giovanni Rossini, a charming rooster tail of silver hair rising straight up off his head, lustrous as a new coin under the glittering lights. She watched him raise his baton and listened to the opening chords of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 fill the vast hall. She couldn’t take her eyes off the shining nine-foot ebony Steinway on stage, waiting there for Emma.

She had wanted to be backstage with her daughter, but Emma had clasped her hands between hers and said, “You know it makes me nervous when you’re here, Mama. I know you don’t understand that, but it’s true. Please, you need to be with Dad tonight. He’s really tense, and I know his chest hurts. It’s the Christmas season, Mama, Dad is here, and everything is wonderful.” And Emma had hugged her tight and smiled up at her.

My incredible daughter, Molly thought. She knew at that moment she needn’t be worried for Emma. Her piano teacher, Mrs. Mayhew, would be there in any case to keep her calm and grounded. She kissed her daughter, held her small face a moment between her palms, kissed her again and made her way back up to the box to the right of the stage with its perfect view. She knew she had to suffer through a Dvorak and a Mahler before Emma played, and dug her fingernails into her palm. At least she didn’t have to worry about the twins, who were at the Sherlocks’ house, stuffing themselves with kettle corn and hot chocolate. As for Ramsey, he looked stoic, but she knew his stomach was roiling with nerves, and she could see the low hum of pain he still felt on his face. He looked thin, she thought, but still a sex god, she’d told him when she’d stood back and looked at him in his formal tux. Both Savich and Harry had helped him dress, a slow, laborious process, with Molly standing in the corner of the bedroom watching, trying not to show how terrified it made her that he was still hurting.

She squeezed his hand. He grinned at her, whispered, “Emma will be superb, you know it.” Molly knew he was saying that as much for himself as for her. She forced out a smile and for a moment leaned her face against his shoulder.

The orchestra finished the Tchaikovsky, and Rossini turned to bow and accept applause. Molly turned to smile at Dillon, who had Sean on his lap, and Sherlock and Eve and Harry sitting next to him, and they nodded back at her. She whispered to Ramsey, “We’ve never had such perfect seats in the hall. It was nice of the Vincents to lend us their box so all six of us could sit together.”

Ramsey nodded, knowing the Vincents were in Paris, where they would most like to be, despite the cold December nights. He remembered squeezing into Notre Dame with them one Christmas Eve years ago along with thousands of other people, and then walking along the Seine to the Pont Neuf, where they’d stopped to buy a bag of chestnuts roasting on an open grill. Perhaps his family could do that together next year.

Rossini’s baton came down, and Dvorak’s incredible Symphony No. 9, “From the New World,” filled the hall. Ramsey settled himself in to listen. He would have a next year now, to go to Paris if he wished. He was so grateful to be alive, here in Davies Hall ready to hear Emma play that he wanted to shout with it.

Molly was fidgeting. Ramsey whispered, “Stop worrying. Emma’s a pro, she’ll be great.”

Molly drew in a deep breath. “You’re here, that’s all that’s really important to Emma, and to me.”