The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [232]
“Thank you. I think.”
“Agent Sherlock. I’m Dr. Breaker.”
He shined a penlight in her eyes, felt the bumps on her head, and said over his shoulder to Dillon, “She’s not going to need any stitches, just some of my magic tape. Scalp wounds tend to really bleed.”
“They bleed like stink.”
“Yes, that’s right. Interesting way of saying it.”
“It’s what the man said. And he said it in a southern way. He drawled out stink into two syllables.”
She’d already told him that, but he said, “That’s good, Sherlock. Anything else?”
“Not just yet, Savich. Hold off a bit. Let me clean her up, then you can talk her ear off.” He cleared his throat. “She wasn’t raped, was she?”
“No, I wasn’t. I’m not dead, Dr. Breaker. You can speak to me.”
“Well, you see, Agent, I owe everything to Savich here and nothing at all to you. If he wants me to report to him, he’s got it.”
“I report to him. You report to him. Soon the president will report to him. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. My head hurts.”
“I’ll just bet it does. Lie still now. When you first came in, we did a CT scan. Not to worry, it was normal. We always do a CT scan when there’s a head injury, to check for evidence of bleeding. You didn’t have any. What happened to your arm? What’s this sling for?”
“A knife wound,” Savich said. “It’s nearly well now. Happened a couple of weeks ago.”
“Why don’t you let her heal before you send her into the arena with the monsters again?”
She laughed. There was nothing else to do.
The next time she heard anything, it was a strange man speaking.
“When you roared out of the club like a bat out of its belfry, I thought Sally was going to have Marvin tackle you. You scared us, Dillon. This is Sherlock?”
“Yes, that’s her in all her glory.”
“She looks like a little mummy only her skin isn’t leather.”
“Thanks,” Lacey said, not opening her eyes. She realized then that there was a huge bandage over the cut in her scalp. She raised her hand to touch it, but to her disgust, she didn’t have the strength. Dr. Breaker was right. It wasn’t fair that she had to be hurt again before she’d healed completely from the other time. Her hand fell, only again Dillon caught it and laid it gently at her side.
“You alive, Sherlock?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m tired of this, sir. At least last time in that Boston hospital I was sitting up the whole time.”
“Don’t whine. You’ll live.”
“She calls you ‘sir’? My God, Dillon, do you require that all your people call you sir?”
“No, just the women. It makes me feel powerful.”
“He’s lying,” she said, cracking open her eyes. To her relief, the light in the room was dim. “He takes all the women to the gym and stomps them into the floor. The ‘sir’ stuff is my idea. I hope it makes him feel responsible, and guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty. I walked you home. You want me to believe that I should have taken you inside? Checked all your closets and looked under the bed? Well, maybe from now on I will. You attract trouble, Sherlock, too much of it.” But he sounded guilty, really guilty. She wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, but he said quickly, “This is Special Agent James Quinlan. We go way back together.”
“You make it sound like we’re nearly to retirement, Dillon. Hi, Ms. Sherlock.” He took her hand in his.
“You call him Dillon too.” His hand was strong, and there were calluses on his thumbs. She’d seen a web of scars on Dillon’s fingers and hands: fine, pale white scars. He’d told her he whittled. Whittled what?
“Yeah, I always thought Savich sounded too tough, too macho, so to spare my manhood I never called him that. Besides, I’m tougher than he is. Hey, what’s in a name?”
“He was with you at that place called the Cove?”
“Nah, he just came in on the deal when most of the fun was over.”
“That’s a lie. I saved Sally.”
“That’s true, he did help. A little bit. Dillon’s always