Hemlock Bay

“The question is,” Sherlock said, chewing on a chip that she’d liberally dipped in salsa, her right hand near her glass of iced tea, “who found him, got him up to speed and moving so fast? You told Tennyson just last night that you were leaving him. Talk about fast action—that really surprises me. Tennyson, his father, whoever else is involved in this—they’re not pros, yet they got this guy after you very quickly. He must have been watching the B-and-B, then followed you to the art supply shop, got ahead of you and on the bus at the next stop. It was well planned, well executed, except, thank God, he failed.”

“Yeah, they didn’t know what Dillon had taught me.” She actually rubbed her hands together, realized she’d gotten salsa all over herself, and laughed. “Can we have another basket of chips?” she called out to the young Mexican waitress, then, “I saved myself, Dillon, and it felt really good.”

Savich understood then, of course. Her life had been out of control for so very long, but no longer. He patted her back. “I wonder if it would help to check hospitals. Did you hurt him that bad?”

“Maybe. Good idea, I didn’t think of that.”

“He’s paid to think of things like that,” Sherlock said and got out her cell phone. She looked up at them after a moment, “We’ve got a lot of possibilities here.”

Savich said, “You know, I was going to call the cops. But now that I think about it, I don’t think the local constabulary is what we need just yet. What I want is Clark Hoyt from the FBI field office right here in Eureka. If he knows the local cops, thinks they could help with this, then we can bring them into it. But for the time being, let’s use our own guys.”

Sherlock said, as she dialed information, “Great idea, Dillon. I’m sure glad they opened up this field office last year. The one in Portland wouldn’t be able to help us with much. Clark can get all the hospitals checked in no time. Now, Lily, tell me where you hit this guy. Be as specific as you can.”

“Yeah, I can do that, and then hand me a napkin so I can draw the guy for you.”

10

Eureka, California The Mermaid’s Tail

Savich flipped open his cell phone, which was softly beeping the theme song from The Lion King, listened, and said, “Simon Russo? Is this the knucklehead who shot himself in the foot with my SIG Sauer?” Then he laughed and listened some more. Then he talked. Savich realized quickly enough that Simon didn’t like what he had been hearing, didn’t like it at all. What the hell was going on here? He listened as Simon said slowly, “Listen, Savich, just get your grandmother’s paintings safely back to Washington. Do it right away, don’t dither or let the museum curator put you off. Don’t take any shortcuts with their safety, but move quickly. I’ll be down to Washington as soon as the paintings get there. I want to see them. It’s very important that I see them. Don’t take any chances.”

Savich frowned into his cell phone. What was this all about? “I know you like my grandmother’s paintings, Simon. She gave you your favorite when you graduated from MIT, but you don’t have to come down to Washington to see them right away.”

“Yes,” Simon said, “trust me on this, I do.” And he hung up.

Sherlock was standing on the far side of the bedroom, her own cell phone dangling from her hand. “Sweetheart,” he called out to her, “strangest thing. Simon is all hot under the collar to see Lily’s eight Sarah Elliott paintings. He’s being mysterious, won’t tell me a thing, just insists he has to see the paintings as soon as they arrive in Washington.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Savich felt a sharp point of fear. Jesus, she looked shell-shocked, no, beyond that. She looked drop-dead frightened, her pupils dilated, her skin as pale as ice. He was at her side in an instant. He gathered her against him, felt that she was as cold as ice as well, and held on to her tightly. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong. It’s Sean, isn’t it? Oh God, something’s happened to our boy?”

She shook her head hard, but still no words.

He pulled back, saw the shock of fear still deep in her eyes, and shook her lightly. “Please tell me, Sherlock, talk to me. What’s going on? What happened?”

She swallowed, and managed finally to get the words out. “Sean’s all right. I checked in at the office. I heard Ollie yell in the background that he had to speak to us. Oh, God, Dillon, Ollie said that Tammy Tuttle just up and walked out of the jail wing of Patterson-Wright Hospital.”