KnockOut (31 page)

SHERLOCK STOOD OVER
Victor Nesser, panting, very aware of the tugging ache where her spleen had once resided, the heel of her boot against his chest. She’d shot at him with the Lady Colt she carried in her ankle holster a good four or five times, missed because her Colt was good only at short range. Then she shot at his feet and hit him in the ankle. He’d stumbled, kept hurtling forward, and she’d tackled him from four feet back, her adrenaline pumping hard. Now he lay on his back, breathing heavy but not moving. His ankle had to hurt. She said, trying to catch her breath, “All over now, Victor. Don’t you think of twitching. Hey, we got you on both ends, head and toe.”

Victor didn’t move, just lay there and moaned. Sherlock yelled over her shoulder, “Cully, Bernie, I’ve got him. We’re good here. Victor isn’t going anywhere.”

Victor closed his eyes tight. He heard the woman’s voice, felt the weight of her foot against his chest and the god-awful pain in his shattered ankle, shooting up to his belly. He felt a sharp pain on the side of his head, licked his lips, and tasted blood. He was afraid to touch his ankle, afraid of what he’d feel. He’d rather walk around with half his head blown away than never be able to walk again. And there was nothing he could do about it. What was worse, he knew he couldn’t help Lissy.

Where was Lissy? Had she killed Savich? He didn’t think so; he didn’t think the guy could be killed. And this redheaded agent who’d shot him was his partner.

Who was Autumn? What had she done to him? He remembered rolling around on the ground, helpless, his body twitching and heaving. Autumn was a little girl? No, that wasn’t possible, there’d been no one there. It was all a lie, it was something Savich did, but what did he do, and how? He felt himself growing cold, felt fear nibble at the edges of his brain.

If only he’d shot Savich right away when he was stretched out and helpless beside Bernie, shot both of them, it would have been done, over with. And Lissy would know she could always count on him. Of course Lissy could have killed them herself, but she’d wanted to toy with them, toy with him too. It was a huge mistake, the biggest mistake they’d ever made. Their last mistake.

Victor remembered how it was before all of this, his years with his parents, his father knocking the crap out of his mother whenever the mood struck him, and then she’d gone back to Jordan with him to be knocked around some more. Was she even still alive? And Aunt Jennifer, the years that insane woman told him when to eat, when to brush his teeth, who he could speak to, and how she was going to kill him if he ever touched her precious thirteen-year-old daughter, the only human being he’d ever loved, spawned by that insane woman. He could still feel the edge of the butcher knife she’d held against his neck while she was screaming at him. Aunt Jennifer thought he was molesting Lissy. What a joke that was, but he hadn’t defended himself, hadn’t told her how it was Lissy with her newly budding breasts who came to his tiny bedroom under the eaves. Lissy had stopped her mother, grabbed away the knife, but still, not an hour later, Aunt Jennifer had struck him with a hammer even though she’d known it was Lissy—oh, yes, she’d known. He thought he was going to die then, but he didn’t.

Victor knew there was no future for him. He guessed he’d known that from the moment Lissy got in his bed. And now Lissy could be dead. There was no way she was going to walk away from the cops this time. It was over, all of it.

Tears streamed down through the rivulets of blood on his face, not from the horrible pain of his shattered ankle but because he’d never see Lissy again. He didn’t think he wanted a future. He opened his eyes and looked up at the agent standing over him, holding a small gun in her hand, aimed right at his bloody face.

Cully came up behind her, slowly lowered his weapon, and looked down at him. He said, his voice emotionless, “You remember me, Victor? I’m the guy you trussed up on your bedroom floor, the guy you wanted to blow to pieces? Do you even remember that mother and father you and Lissy shot down in their kitchen in Alexandria? You shot two people for a damned car. How many other people have you and Lissy shot for no good reason? You’re both rabid, Victor. You’re both crazy.”

Victor said, “I’m not crazy.”

“Yeah, right,” Cully said. “You going to blame it all on that teenager you’ve been screwing since she was thirteen?”

Sherlock lightly laid her palm against Cully’s shoulder, felt him shaking with rage.

“I never screwed Lissy! Do you hear me, it wasn’t ever like that. She needed me, only me. She always said she knew me, from the moment I came, she said she knew me to my soul. You’re trying to kill her! You want to see her dead!”

Cully kicked Victor in the side, but Victor didn’t even appear to notice. He shouted down at him, “Time for you to listen, punk. You’re lucky you didn’t kill Bernie or I’d kill you myself.”

Sherlock saw that Cully was still shaking with rage and she said calmly, “But since you didn’t kill Bernie or kill Agent Savich, Cully and I are going to take you to a hospital. We’ll even help you, since your ankle’s shot to pieces. You want a handkerchief to wipe the blood off your face? Ah, here’s Bernie. We’ve got him, Bernie, no problem.”

Bernie opened his mouth, but Cully overrode him. “I just wish I’d been the one to find you first,” Cully said, and kicked Victor again. “I bet Bernie wishes the same thing. Then you wouldn’t have gotten off with this puny foot wound.”

Victor looked at them through pain-dead eyes. “You should be dead. All of you would be dead if it wasn’t for that girl Autumn. Who is Autumn? There wasn’t any little girl up there.”

“You’re right, Autumn wasn’t nearby,” Sherlock said. “But it doesn’t really concern you now, Victor.”

Victor tried to rise, hissed in pain, and fell on his side. They heard him whisper, “Lissy wanted to go to Montana. I guess that’s not going to happen now.”

Cully and Bernie lifted him, each of them with a shoulder under his arms. He was crying and moaning, and he left a trail of blood on the rocky ground. Sherlock didn’t care what he said; she was too worried about Dillon. Lissy could still be out there, and it was Sherlock’s fault. She could have taken her down, should have, but she couldn’t bring herself to shoot that young girl in the back. She’d let her focus slip for that instant of time, and Lissy had been so fast, moved in a blur, all of it unexpected, and then Sherlock had fired at her, but only a wound, maybe not even a bad one. Dillon could be dead because—Sherlock shook her head. No excuses. She’d screwed up royally, put all of them in danger. She hadn’t done her job.

If it hadn’t been for Autumn, Victor would have killed Dillon.
“Autumn,” she whispered, vaguely aware that Victor was cursing and crying, both together, “thank you for our lives.”

“Sherlock, you guys all right?”

Savich came limping through the trees. He was almost whole. Good enough. She gave him a huge smile.

Victor stopped cold. He yelled, “Where’s Lissy? What did you do to Lissy?”

Savich looked at the young man’s ravaged face, at the soul-eating fear in his eyes. He said, “She’s gone, Victor.”

Victor raised his face to the darkening sky. “Lissy! Oh, God, Lissy, you can’t die, you can’t!” He wept like a lost soul from hell.

PEAS RIDGE, GEORGIA

Whistler looked down at her, and Ethan took his chance. He threw himself at Whistler, hurled him against the wall. His gun went skidding across the floor.

“Autumn, untie me!”

Autumn fell to her knees beside her mother and began to work at the knots. Joanna had to watch Ethan and Whistler trade blows until finally she pulled free. Joanna staggered to her feet and pushed Autumn behind her. She wanted to help Ethan, but she’d seen him fight. He didn’t need her.

Whistler was stronger than Ethan had thought, but he had no real chance. Ethan had rage on his side, rage so deep it resounded in the most primitive part of him. He wanted blood. He staggered Whistler with a kick to his chest and managed to grab his head between his hands. He pounded his head against the white wall. He didn’t stop even when he saw smudges of red against the stark white, heard Whistler moaning.

“No!” Theodore Backman stumbled off the high dais, fell to his knees. “No!” he yelled again and pointed a long finger toward the two men. He turned to look at his granddaughter, that precious little girl he had waited for to be the future of his family. He felt a searing pain in his chest, slowly fell onto his side. He sucked in air, trying to breathe.

Ethan smashed Whistler’s head a final time against the wall and released him. Whistler slid down the wall, leaving his blood to streak in bizarre patterns, as if painted on by smudged fingers.

Ethan stood over him, sucked in air, and tried to quiet his rage. He turned to see the old man lying on the beautiful rug, his legs drawn up. He was awake and staring at Ethan. “You killed Caldicot?”

“I doubt it.” He did not say whether he’d tried. Ethan turned to Autumn and Joanna. “Are you all right?”

Autumn nodded as Joanna hugged her close, smoothed her hand over her daughter’s hair. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay now. We’re all right, Ethan. You?”

Theodore Backman called out, sitting up on the floor now, his hands outstretched to Autumn. “Autumn! My precious grandchild, you will reach the stars with me, you will conquer the heavens. Come here, child, come to your grandfather.” He turned his head slowly toward the door. They stared at it, watched it open slowly.

There stood Blessed, his dark eyes burning bright with anger.

Theodore yelled, “Blessed, my son. Quickly, the sheriff and Joanna!”

But Ethan didn’t look at him. He kept his head down and bulled ahead at Blessed, throwing himself as hard as he could into his stomach, sending Blessed back through the open door and hard against the hallway wall. Blessed moaned with pain as the dressing on his shoulder turned red with blood. But he slammed his elbow into the back of Ethan’s head, sending him staggering to his knees.

Joanna flew at Blessed, knocked her own head into his chest just as Ethan had done. Blessed grabbed her neck and jerked her upright, but Joanna wouldn’t look at him. “It doesn’t matter.” Blessed struck her hard in the jaw. Joanna went down.

“No!”

Blessed came running back into the room just as Autumn landed against him. She screamed at him and pummeled her fists into his stomach. Blessed grabbed her, shook her.

Autumn looked up and stared at him. He whimpered, deep in his throat, and fell backward. He hit the wall behind him and slowly slipped to the floor, unmoving.

“Mama!” Autumn ran into the hall, fell to her knees, and shook her mother’s shoulders, lightly tapped her face, crying, begging her to wake up.

Ethan was at their side in an instant. He gathered Joanna up in his arms and rocked her. They turned as one to see Theodore Backman stagger toward them. He yelled, and his voice echoed in the small space, like Moses calling out from the mountaintop, “You have failed me, Autumn. You are not worthy to carry on my name. You are like your common mother, of no use at all. I disavow you as I disavowed your father!”

He raised his gun and fired.

The bullet struck Autumn in the chest.

PALMERTON COMMUNITY HOSPITAL

TWENTY MILES EAST OF PEAS RIDGE

It was a miracle she’d survived the transport, Joanna told Savich, but she had. She’d survived two hours of surgery and was still alive when Savich and Sherlock got to the hospital the next morning, Savich on crutches. He ignored the pull of the newly sewn stitches on his thigh, and he ignored the constant hurt too, now, in the face of Autumn’s dying.

Ethan had told the hospital staff he and Joanna were married, he’d explained to Savich on his cell when their FBI helicopter landed at Ricketts Field, only five miles from the hospital, so there would be no question he and Joanna could remain with Autumn in the ICU.

Ethan had called in a huge favor and gotten a medevac helicopter to pick them up in the clearing by the barn. He’d told Sherlock, his voice too calm—numb, really—that Peas Ridge Chief of Police Annie Parkes and all six of her deputies had arrived to deal with Theodore and Blessed Backman, and with Caldicot Whistler, all of them still alive, just as the medevac helicopter arrived. He’d told her about Kjell, about the people who’d stayed hidden when the violence had erupted, and about those who couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He told her to look for a fresh grave when it was light again.

Savich and Sherlock looked at Autumn through the open curtain of the ICU cubicle, her pale little face very still, both her impossibly small wrists tethered to IVs, an oxygen mask on her face. She looked terrifyingly fragile, and Savich hated it. He kept talking to her in his mind, telling her over and over that she would pull through this, that he’d introduce her to Sean and she could be his big sister and boss him around. He told her he wanted to see her smile, just for him, told her about Astro, how when she was well, she and Sean could throw a Frisbee for him, and how he’d lick her mouth if she wasn’t careful.

He never heard a whisper of her voice, never felt even a shadow of her. He prayed somehow she would hear him. He felt he had to keep talking, since there was nothing else he could do. And he wondered again and again how a small being like that could survive a bullet to her chest.

It was a good sign, an ICU nurse told them, that she was breathing on her own and didn’t need a respirator anymore.

Dr. Maddox, Autumn’s thoracic surgeon, fresh from a few hours’ precious sleep, followed Ethan and Joanna out of the cubicle. He said to them, “I won’t lie to you, like I told you, it was close, but she came through surgery like a champ”—a lie, but Dr. Maddox wasn’t about to tell her parents he’d nearly lost her. “She’s a strong little girl.”

A sheriff and two FBI agents, he thought.
At least he could leave it to them to sort out how it was that a seven-year-old girl got herself shot in the chest. He hadn’t paid much attention to all the wild talk he’d heard about it. There hadn’t been time for that. He touched his hand to Joanna’s arm, shook Ethan’s hand. “The two of you can stay, but I’ll have to ask the agents here to keep it short. We have an ICU to run. Try not to worry too much, either of you, it will do no one any good. She’s in good hands. I’ll be in the hospital if she needs me.”

“She’s so small,” Sherlock whispered. “She looks smaller than Sean.” She turned in to him. Savich stroked her back as she sucked in a light breath, holding back tears that stung his eyes. He swallowed. He remembered his father telling him everyone expected the man to be strong, no breaking down, and in his opinion that just sucked. The memory almost made him smile. He said to Joanna and Ethan, “I’ve called her more times than I can count. She’s—not there.”

Joanna’s voice was a thread. “Or maybe she’s just not feeling strong enough. That could be it—sure it could. One of the ICU nurses told me she’s got a long way to go to get well again….” Her voice fell away.

Joanna and Ethan went back into the cubicle, taking their place beside the narrow bed, Savich and Sherlock behind them, standing at the end of the bed. The same nurse, Elaine Amos, came in. They watched her take Autumn’s blood pressure. She paused, straightened, and said to them, “Look, I’ve seen people die, and I’ve seen some miracles too along the way, and with Autumn, I feel it here”—she touched her fingertips to her heart—“I know she’ll make it. All of us here want to bring her through this. What happened to your leg?”

Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “He got shot.” She saw Elaine’s eyes go wide, briefly, but she didn’t care. If this hospital was true to form, gossip was already rife now that two FBI agents had come running in, one of them on crutches.
If they only knew.
She wanted to touch Autumn’s face, to feel the warmth of that small child’s flesh, but Joanna’s head was close to her child’s, and she was lightly stroking her fingertips over Autumn’s cheek.

Elaine said, “Look, guys, give me a minute with her, all right?” A final kiss, a final touch, and the four of them left Autumn’s cubicle, Joanna looking over her shoulder at her daughter, her face so pale it looked bloodless.

Ethan said, “You should know, Savich, Theodore Backman died soon after he reached the hospital, a massive heart attack.” He slammed his fist against his palm. “It was too easy for that perverted old man. Blessed, last I heard, is unresponsive—catatonic, they called it. They’ve moved him to a secured psych ward, where we’ve got him isolated and under guard anyway. As for Mrs. Backman, she’s six rooms down the hall, raving and chanting, mad as a hatter. And Caldicot, that psycho is still in Chief Parkes’s jail at Peas Ridge.” He paused a moment, turned back, looking through the open curtains at the nurse bending over Autumn, fiddling with one of her IV lines. He said, his eyes never leaving Autumn’s face, “Chief Parkes found the fresh grave, fifty feet behind the barn. I’m glad they did. At least the two people they found can go home now.”

Savich’s cell phone played Eric Hummer’s “Milwaukee Blues.” What now, Sherlock wondered, and wished she could rip the phone out of Dillon’s hand and throw it out the window. But of course she couldn’t.
Damned duty,
she thought.

Savich flipped his cell closed after a couple of minutes. He motioned the three of them out of the ICU. “Ethan, Joanna, you know Sherlock and I flew here directly from North Carolina. We have to go back to Washington, D.C. Mr. Maitland says the media’s going nuts, he admits he’s got a truckload of questions for us himself, and Director Mueller, even though he understands the situation with Autumn, has asked us to come back until everything can be sorted out. I don’t want to leave—”

Ethan pulled Joanna to his side and squeezed. “We’ll be here. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Sherlock touched her fingers to his shoulder, then to Joanna’s.
Silent, praying,
Savich thought. He looked down at her face, at the pain in her eyes. He said, “Listen, all of you. Elaine told us she’ll make it. She promised us a miracle.”