Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [237]
He’d used his right hand when he’d shot that officer.
Savich had shot Tammy Tuttle through her right arm in that barn in Maryland, near the Plum River.
At the hospital, they’d amputated her right arm.
He wondered if they were all going mad.
No, no, there was an explanation.
Somehow a man had gotten into the airport, killed Virginia Cosgrove, and grabbed Marilyn. And no one had seen him until he had Marilyn by the neck and was dragging her away.
No one much wanted to talk. Everyone who had been in the airport appeared confused and looked, strangely, hungover.
Savich and his team went back to the security room. Sherlock was still unconscious, covered with blankets, a local physician sitting on the floor beside her.
No one had much to say. Jimmy Maitland was sitting in a chair near Sherlock.
Savich picked up his wife, carried her to a chair, and sat down with her in his arms. He rocked her, never looking away from her face.
“It’s as if she’s asleep,” the physician said, standing now beside him. “Just asleep. She should wake up soon and tell us what happened.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “We’ve put out an island-wide alert for Timmy Tuttle, with description, and Marilyn Warluski, with description. The three agents with Sherlock didn’t see a single blessed thing. Nada.”
Savich nodded, touched his wife’s hair. He didn’t think he’d be surprised by anything ever again.
A few minutes later, Sherlock opened her eyes. She looked up and, surprisingly, smiled. “You’re holding me, Dillon. Why? What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” He spoke very slowly, the words not really wanting to speak themselves, probably because he didn’t want an answer.
She closed her eyes for a moment, frowned, then said, “I remember I ran into this room, three other agents behind me. No one was here.” She frowned. “No, I’m not sure. There was something—a light maybe—something. I can’t remember.”
“When I came in, you were standing perfectly still, staring out that big window. The other agents were searching the room. But you didn’t move, didn’t twitch or anything, and then you just fell over.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Did you see anything of Timmy Tuttle or Marilyn?”
Sherlock said, “Timmy Tuttle—yes, that crazy-looking guy who was as pale as an apocalypse horseman—yes, I remember. He was holding Marilyn around her neck—a knife, yes, he had a knife. I was terrified when I saw Dillon go in after him into that conference room.”
“You saw Timmy go into the conference room?”
“I think so. But that can’t be right. Didn’t he come in here?”
“We don’t know. None of the agents saw him in here,” Savich said. “No, Sherlock, that’s okay. You rest now. You’ll probably remember more once you get yourself together. Does your head ache?”
“A bit, why?”
“You feel maybe a bit like you’re hungover?”
“Well, yes, that’s right.”
Savich looked up at Jimmy Maitland and nodded. “Everyone I’ve spoken to, agents and civilians alike, everyone feels like that.”
“Sherlock,” Maitland said, crouching down beside her. “Why was it you who collapsed? You must have seen something.”
“I’m thinking, sir, as hard as I can.”
Dillon slowly eased her up until she was sitting on his lap. She started shaking. Savich nearly lost it. He pulled her hard against him, protecting her, from what, he didn’t know. He didn’t want her hurt, no more hurt, no more monsters from the unknown.
Then she said, pulling away from him, her voice firm and steady, “Dillon, I’m all right. I promise. I’ve got stuff to think about. Something really weird happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s there, in the back of my brain, and I’ll get it out.”
TWENTY
Eureka, California
Morrie Jones stared at the young woman who had taken him down, hurt him, curse her eyes, before he could get away from her. He couldn’t believe it. She was skinny, looked like a damned little debutante with her blond hair and blue eyes and innocent face, like the prototypical little WASP. That