Power Play
Page 37They watched him tell her to bring his clothes, watched her bring them to him—again, no hesitation.
Dr. Hicks paused the video again. “We were watching the feed in the next room. We waited to see what would happen to be sure Blessed Backman’s primary physician, Dr. Truitt, would not accuse us of manufacturing a performance. So we waited. You can see he’s in pain. See his pallor, the sweat on his forehead? But he’s still functioning; amazing. Now she’s helping him dress, and now he tells her to bring in the deputy from outside in the hall.”
Savich stepped up. “That’s when we had to act. We didn’t want to take a chance that someone could be hurt.” Hicks started the video again.
They watched Savich walk past Nurse Maybeck into the room as Blessed was reaching for his watch.
“You!”
“Yeah, it’s me, your worst nightmare, Blessed. Go ahead, give me your best look, come on, give it a try. Sorry, not going to happen. Party’s over. That was some performance you gave us.”
Savich forced the restraints back on his wrists and blindfolded him again. And then it was over.
Dr. Hicks said, “I’ll tell you, it was the most incredible psychic phenomenon I’ve ever seen.”
“This man is more dangerous than I can say. You’ve seen a little of what he can do.”
Dane Carver said, “But he didn’t seem to affect you, Savich. Why is that?”
Savich shrugged. “It appears some people are immune to him. There’s only one other person I know who isn’t affected by him, and that’s his niece, Autumn, who’s safe from him now, believe me.”
“Why did he try to kill Sherlock?”
Sherlock said, “Because he knows I’m the easier target. He won’t go after Dillon until—” Her throat went dry. She shook her head.
“He’ll fail,” Savich said. “And if any of you run into him, don’t look him in the eye. Let me say it again: don’t look him in the eye.”
L’Aubergine restaurant
Wednesday evening
Yo, Perry. What’s up? Where are you?”
“Hang on a moment.” Perry smiled over at Day Abbott across the table, a bite of lobster dripping butter on the end of his fork. “Excuse me a minute, Day, it’s business and I’ve got to take this,” and she pushed back her chair before the waiter could rush to her side. She stepped into a wainscoted plush alcove of L’Aubergine.
“Where am I? Well, I’ll give you a clue. I’m wearing high heels, a slinky black dress, a touch of gold at the ears and throat, and I was daintily forking down braised shrimp in some sort of coconut sauce until you interrupted me. Why are you calling?”
Davis said, “I myself am wearing a Redskins sweatshirt and jeans. My neighbor’s shaggy dog, Smack, is sleeping on my feet.”
“Sounds cozy. Was there anything else you would like to talk about, Davis, besides our wardrobe choices?”
“I’ll bet the dress is too tight for you to run, right?”
Davis was still picturing her in the black dress and the nasty high heels. “You’re on a date? Is this bozo you’re having dinner with going to protect you if you get in trouble?”
“I’m with Day Abbott at a lovely continental restaurant in Foggy Bottom. You met him, remember? I believe it was only last night. We’ve been friends since we were children. He’s filled out well, actually very good-looking, I’d say.”
“It’s more of a chummy dinner, then. Good. Because speaking as a special agent of the FBI, I advise you to keep it that way. Who does he lobby for?”
“The coal industry. Enough busting around, Davis. Why’d you call?”
“To give you follow-up about your graffiti artist at the Post. We talked to an old doll who’s a big flirt, has teased orange hair, a big cat brooch pinned on her blouse—I forget her name—”
“Her name’s Angela Porthworthy, a society reporter. She’s been at the Post so long she covered JFK’s wedding back in the Camelot days. What’d Angela say?”
“She said she saw a young teenage boy she didn’t know walk nonchalantly into the men’s restroom. He came out a couple minutes later and headed for the stairs.”