A fillet of sole sat in the center of a hospital plate, with half a lemon on the side, and vegetables. Who wanted vegetables when you felt down and out? When you could have been dead, your head shot off? No, you wanted ice cream, and a birthday cake, not runny chocolate pudding. She said to Ramsey, who sat in his bed eight feet from hers, “How are you surviving on the hospital food?”
He smiled, having seen the limp fish on her tray. “Since I’m Judge Dredd, one of the nurses asks me every day what I would like for dinner. The chef either makes it himself or picks it up on his way in to the hospital.”
“That’s not fair. Nobody asked me what I wanted to eat. What did you get for dinner?” Despite the hot wire slicing through her head, she leaned up. “I see now, it’s a big steak, medium. And a baked potato. This isn’t fair, it’s not right. Can I have a bite?”
Ramsey looked at the steak left on his plate, looked over at her, and said, “Nah, I’m far more in need of red meat than you are, Sherlock. I’ve got to build up my strength. Getting shot in the chest trumps a little head wound any day. Eat your fish and leave the real patients to chow down the meat and potatoes.”
Deputy Morales said from the window, a hamburger halfway to his mouth, “We were nice as could be to the nurse, but she kissed us off, said we had a per diem, and we should order in what we wanted for ourselves.”
Savich appeared in the doorway, carrying two big pizza boxes. “Ramsey told me you’d try to steal his dinner, so here you go, sweetheart, enough for you and your guards and maybe one slice for Ramsey, if he’s still hungry.” He studied her face. She was still pale, but she was sitting up, with the bandage wrapped around her hair, looking faintly ridiculous. Today he liked ridiculous; it was a great look.
Soon there were four guards standing around the two patients, all chowing down on pizza, including Savich’s vegetarian pie. Savich stood at the foot of the bed knowing he should eat, but his thoughts of what had happened wouldn’t let go of his brain. He couldn’t imagine eating, and so he stood there, watching her, listening to their chatter and laughter fill the room. Everyone was distracted, and that was a good thing.
The pizza tasted wonderful and settled nicely in Sherlock’s stomach, despite her headache. She saw Dillon wasn’t eating, and she wanted to tell him she was all right. He leaned down to kiss her, and she saw the fear lurking behind his smile as he said, “I’ll be back after I’ve tucked Sean in for the night.”
She took his hand. “Will you bring my birthday cake?”
“So you remember that, do you?”
She smiled at him. “Don’t forget the butter-pecan ice cream.”
There was a knock on the door. A young cop none of them had ever seen said, “Agent Savich? I’m Officer Holt. I found a folded piece of paper on the sidewalk where Agent Sherlock was shot. I took it immediately to Lieutenant Trolley. After she read it and dusted for prints, she told me to bring it to you right away.” He handed Savich the paper. “You can see it has your name printed on it, nothing more. No one has any idea who left it.”
Officer Holt looked over at Sherlock. “Hello, Agent Sherlock. I’m glad you’re okay.” He looked then at Ramsey and swallowed. “Sir, all of us are glad you’re going to be all right,” and he swallowed again.
Without thought, Sherlock turned her head to see how Ramsey was reacting to this show of adoration, and froze at the jolt of pain in her head. She managed to smile at him when Ramsey thanked Officer Holt for his concern, but her focus was on Savich as he unfolded the piece of paper.
“What’s in the note, Dillon?”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. “Remember last Thursday, that note delivered to me at the Hoover Building?”
Sherlock said, “For what you did you deserve this. What about it?”
He handed her the note.
It was quiet, the light dim in the hospital room. Sherlock and Ramsey lay quietly, waiting for the sleeping pills the nurse had just given them to pull them into sleep. The guards by the windows were reading by shrouded reading lights. Savich hadn’t returned yet from tucking Sean in. They’d brought in a cot for Savich.
Sherlock said, “Ramsey, I was going to wait until Dillon got back, but I don’t think we should put it off. We need to talk about this other person in the mix, this man who shot me—he was already here in San Francisco, waiting, I suppose until he had the setting he wanted. Shooting me—it was revenge, Ramsey. It’s got to be revenge. Against Dillon.”