Power Play

What was that all about?

Savich said, “Since your dad’s in the middle of things, Nicholas, keep in touch with him for us.”

“Yes, certainly.” Nicholas checked his watch. “I’ve got exactly forty-nine minutes to get back to Quantico before they lock me in Hogan’s Alley’s jail.” He rose and shook hands with Davis, nodded toward Savich. “Call me if I can be useful. I’ll keep in touch with Scotland Yard.”

Savich said, “Friday night, Nicholas. Don’t forget you’re coming over to our place for dinner.”

“I hear from Dr. Hicks that your lasagna is about the best in Washington.”

“My dog, Astro, certainly thinks so. When it comes to food, that mutt is fast. You’ll have to judge for yourself.”

Davis was at his desk when he saw Sherlock back in Savich’s office, their heads together. There was a look on Savich’s face he’d never seen before. This wasn’t about Natalie Black, but what? He looked over at the newest agent in the unit, Griffin Hammersmith, a recent transfer from the San Francisco Field Office, and nodded toward Savich and Sherlock. “You know what’s going on in there, Griff?”

Griffin said, “No clue, but I’m wondering what’s got them so worked up.”

Good, Davis thought, he wasn’t the only one flapping in the wind. He said, “I gotta go. See what you can find out.” Davis shrugged into his jacket and took off to see about Perry at the Post.

Blessed Backman. She didn’t want to believe it. Something deep inside her wanted to deny it was possible. His name brought back too clearly the insane events of a year and a half before.

She remembered the night Joanna had shot him, trying to protect her little girl, Autumn, or thought she had. But she said the room had spun around her until she was nauseated, and she’d stumbled. The world simply stopped, she’d told them, her thoughts no longer her own, and all that was left was the sight of Blessed standing in front of her, his dark eyes reaching deep into her like fingers, wrapping around her very being. Even to protect her child, even though she hated him beyond reason, she was helpless; she couldn’t move, only stare back into his eyes. Until Savich had shot him.

That was his terrifying gift, and it had eventually destroyed him and his entire family, finally sending a raving-mad Shepherd Backman, his mother, to the State Mental Institution in Atlanta and Blessed to the same facility’s medical ward, sunk in a deep coma. She’d been surprised he’d survived.

Sherlock walked to the window, stared out at the mess of government buildings wreathed in chilly sunlight. She saw the Washington Monument, the powerful spire that made her feel proud and blessed, but it had no such effect today. She realized she was hugging herself, shivering. She felt cold, from the inside out. Then Dillon’s big hands were rubbing up and down her arms. It helped, but not much.

She felt his warm breath against her cheek. “Tell me how this happened.”

She wasn’t at all fooled by his calm voice. She turned to face him. “It’s Blessed Backman.”

“So he came out of the coma.” Savich didn’t want to say the words aloud; it made them true. He didn’t want to believe it, but he had no choice. He said slowly, “When?”

“Over a week ago! That’s how long it took the hospital administrators to notify us.”

“Okay, let’s go over it. Tell me what happened.”

“The doctor I spoke with, Dr. Nelson, told me the staff was surprised and happy when Blessed fully woke up again. Because he’d been under so long, in a vegetative state, he called it, Blessed wasn’t cuffed down to the bed. The doctor said Blessed seemed bewildered, frightened, when he awoke, needed medications to control his blood pressure, which they expected. After that, he went quiet. They did cuff him to the bed at that point, as per standing orders. They didn’t cover his eyes, though, even though the instruction was on his chart and in the admission note, in black capital letters and underscored. Blessed had been helpless for so long that no one believed it was necessary. Everyone thought the cuffs would be enough to hold him.”

Savich said, “We should have anticipated that, what with Blessed’s continuing coma, the passage of time, and the staff changing. Doctors, especially, find it hard to believe what Blessed is capable of. Remember Dr. Truitt had to see what Blessed could do for himself before he believed it?”

“I remember I wanted to punch him out,” Sherlock said, “the idiot. It was the same with the staff in Atlanta. Dr. Nelson finally admitted both he and his staff still find it hard to take seriously that anyone, especially Blessed, has the ability to look at someone and tell them to do anything he wishes, including taking his handcuffs off, and they do it without hesitation. Even now, after Blessed escaped, the good doctor informed me hypnosis doesn’t work like that. They thought the story was one of the classic urban legends, nothing more. They saw him as a toothless old hound, not a threat to anyone.