Sherlock snorted. Suzette, the waitress, ignored her.
Suzette was old enough to be his mother, Savich thought, and gave her a big smile. “Nah, I’m only dangerous when I don’t get my Cheerios for breakfast. May I please have some very hot tea . . . Suzette?”
“You can call me Suz,” she said, licking the tip of her pencil before writing down the order. “We only got tea bags, that all right?”
Savich nodded. He could already see the tea bag floating in the lukewarm water.
“I know it’s still early, but Tony just took his meatloaf out of the oven. Or, if you’re into healthy eats, I’ve got some fish sticks, nice and deep-fried.”
Savich ended up with scrambled eggs and wheat toast with some gooseberry jam Suz promised was the greatest. She nodded at Sherlock and Rachael. “Your two pretty ladies sure thought so.”
He looked up to see Rachael grinning at him. “Something tells me you don’t eat many deep-fried fish sticks, Agent Savich.”
“No, but our kid would eat them every day if we let him, between tacos and hot dogs.”
Rachael’s eyes flicked over them. “What’s your kid’s name again?”
“Sean’s our boy, big into computer games and football, wants to help the Redskins build a dynasty, though he doesn’t really know what that means.”
“Married FBI agents. I never imagined such a thing, and Sherlock tells me you work together.”
Savich nodded.
Sherlock turned to him. “When you came in, Dillon, Rachael was refusing to tell me what’s going on with her. You’d think what with sharing a lovely brunch that I offered to pay for, she’d have a bit more trust in me, would’t you?”
“It’s tough to trust someone, Sherlock,” he said slowly, “when you’re scared to your toes. I’ll tell you one thing, though, we can’t let her leave because she’s clearly a material witness.”
Sherlock looked straight at Rachael. “Who’s to say she wasn’t more directly involved in bringing down Jack’s plane? You know, the spotter on the ground?”
Rachael banged her fist on the table, making her spoon jump. How could they know so quickly that she was in trouble? It wasn’t fair. She was an idiot, dead for only two and a half days. If she wasn’t more careful, she wouldn’t make being dead to the end of the week. “What did you say? A material witness? I know more about the plane crash? Listen, you can’t hold me, I was only an innocent bystander, you can’t—”
Sherlock leaned forward to touch her ring finger. “Maybe you’re running away from your husband?”
Husband? She choked down a hysterical laugh and felt panic shoot through her. She grabbed her purse and duffel bag, slithered out of the booth, and was out of the café in under five seconds.
Suz, carrying Savich’s plate, the scrambled eggs steaming, stopped to stare after Rachael. “Isn’t this par for the course—a sexy guy with two girls—I’ll just bet the little redhead here threatened to whomp the blonde with that cute braid, right?”
“You’re very observant, Suz,” Savich said.
Sherlock rolled her eyes, tossed her napkin down over the one cold bacon strip left on her plate, and headed after Rachael.
“At least if there’s a catfight, it’ll be in the street and not in here. Tony would hate that, remind him too much of his mother-in-law.”
EIGHT
Sherlock caught up with Rachael at Bobolink’s Bakery on the corner of Old Squaw Lane, leaning against the display window, her old duffel beside her, staring down at her scuffed boots.
Sherlock lightly touched her shoulder. Rachael didn’t move. “You know,” Sherlock said, “when things get tough, it doesn’t mean you have to deal with everything alone. I’m a fed. I do tough really well. Dillon and Jack do tough well, too. That means it’s your lucky day since I figure we all owe you.”
Rachael said, “I don’t need tough, I don’t need help. All I need is to have my car fixed so I can leave. I’ve got to go—there are people expecting me. I want Agent Savich to tell me where he had my car towed.”
Sherlock smiled. “Well then, let’s go back to the café and ask him.”
“I couldn’t get away from you, could I? Maybe coldcock you?”
“Probably not. Dillon pulls his moves on females. I don’t.”
“Since I don’t have any transportation, I don’t have much choice but to go back with you.” She could walk to Slipper Hollow if she had to, but it’d be stupid not to have a means of escape—just in case. She prayed Agent Savich hadn’t cleaned off the license plate. He could run the plate and find out exactly who she was, probably in under a minute. She was worrying herself nuts over this when Sherlock asked, “Where were you headed, Rachael, when your car broke down?”
“Cleveland,” Rachael said brightly. “All the way to Cleveland.”
Sherlock thought, Another big whopping lie.
Monk’s Café was filling up with the early lunch crowd. Conversation stopped dead when they walked in. Sherlock had no doubt the gossip winds had blown directly into the café when the federal agents had arrived.
When they sat down opposite him, Savich said, “I spoke to Dr. Hallick at Franklin County Hospital. He said Dr. MacLean’s still not conscious. They have more tests to run before they can give a halfway decent prognosis. I asked Sheriff Hollyfield to send a couple of deputies to guard Dr. MacLean until federal agents arrive.”
Rachael raised her head at that. She wanted to pin him immediately, ask him where her damned car was, but what came out of her mouth was, “Jack—Agent Crowne—said something about a bomb, then he clammed up.”
“Could be. An expert will be arriving sometime today to see what brought down the plane. If it was a bomb, he’ll be able to tell us why the Cessna didn’t explode into a fireball when it detonated, not that it should have mattered, given the terrain.”
“Why would someone want to kill this Dr. MacLean?”
Why not? Sherlock thought. It wasn’t a state secret. After all, trust was a two-way street. “Well, let me just say that Dr. Timothy MacLean, psychiatrist, has lots of very high-profile people scared of what he might say about them.”
“You mean, he was breaking patient confidentiality? A shrink?”
“So it seems,” said Savich.
Rachael sat forward. “Agent Savich, truly, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and Agent Sherlock, but I must leave. Please tell me where you had my car towed.”
“I’ll take you over to the garage when we’re done here. But the thing is, Rachael, the way I’m figuring it is that we need you. You’re the only witness to Jack’s forced landing. You saw everything. You’ll remember more details, trust me. Are you willing to stay with us for a while?”
Rachael looked from her duffel bag to the two agents. For the time being, until her bloody car was repaired, she was stuck in Parlow, and all she could do was pray that no one recognized her. Secrets never stayed secrets, even in the boondocks. At least, she thought, she would be safe with a pack of FBI agents. “I’d planned on getting to where I was going by now. I don’t have much time left, or money.”
“Where do you need to go?”
“Like I told Agent Sherlock, I was driving to Cleveland, a job interview, family, you know the deal.”
Savich thought, Yeah right, and said easily, “A day or two then, if that’s all right with you. Now, Suz tells me there’s a fine B&B over on Canvasback Lane. The FBI will pick up the tab.”
As Suzette toted up their bill, Sherlock asked, “What’s with all the strange street names in Parlow?”
Rachael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. This was, after all, her first time in Parlow.
Suzette said, “Horace Bench, the rich guy who founded the town back in the thirties, he bred and raised ducks—hookbills, rouens, runners, calls—the calls are real small, I’m told, like toy ducks. He figured not many folks would recognize those names, so he threw in some common ones, as well, like canvasback, rosy bill, old squaw. He himself lived on Runners
Road, and his daughter, whom he didn’t like so it’s said, lived on Old Hooknose Lane.”
Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “Hooknose? I thought the duck was called a hookbill.”
“Yep, that’s right,” said Suz, and grinned.
“Where’d the name Parlow come from?” Sherlock asked.
“Parlow was an Indian chief back in the eighteenth century who sought out any settlers he could find to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his people every year. He always brought trout for the feast. Isn’t that a kick?”
“And where is the sheriff’s office?” Savich asked.
“Oh, that’s on the main drag, First Street, one block over. Sheriff Hollyfield, now he’s so honest you could put your money under his mattress. Smart, too.”
“Duck names,” Sherlock said as they walked out of Monk’s Café, Savich carrying Rachael’s duffel bag. “It always amazes me what strikes people’s fancy.”
The three of them were checked in by the manager, Mrs. Flint, thankfully not a longtime native who could recognize Rachael. She told them Greeb’s Pond was the best of Parlow’s upscale lodgings. It was also the name of the current owner’s grandfather’s favorite duck.
They found their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”
Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”
Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?”
Rachael maintained a stony silence.
“Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”
“Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.
Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”
“I’ll live.”
“And that’s the best news.”
“Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”
Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”
“She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher. These guys must know, Rachael.”
“There’s got to be another honest mechanic.”
“Well, all right, there is one, but he’s down with a bad back.” She watched Agent Savich shrug, the jerk. He continued without pause to Jack. “Dr. MacLean’s still out of it, so they don’t know yet what’s going on with him. They’re calling his condition guarded.
“Tommy Jerkins should be here anytime to check out the plane. Okay, Sherlock, if you come with me, I’ve got more calls to make from Sheriff Hollyfield’s office. I want to make sure, too, that his deputies have arrived at the hospital to do guard duty. You really are better, aren’t you?” he asked Jack.
Jack said, “Well, I don’t want to moan anymore, so that’s something.”
“Good. All right then, you can question Rachael, sift through more of her memories of the crash. Remember, Rachael, anything you might remember could be of great help. We’ll see you guys a bit later.”
What Savich had really meant was keep Rachael close, Jack thought. Once alone, he said, “You ready to tell me your last name?”
NINE
It’s Abercrombie.” Why had that ridiculous name popped into her head? “How’s your leg?”
“It will heal, thank you for asking. I can’t go to the gym for a week, then I’ve got to go easy for a while.” Jack buttoned his shirt, then threw back the single sheet before realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist. “Since my head isn’t going to explode, I’m ready to get up now. Dr. Post said it was okay as long as I don’t attempt a marathon,” and he smiled. “Would you hand me my pants, Rachael? They’re on the hook on the back of the door.”
She handed him his dirty, ripped pants and left the room, saying over her shoulder, “You’re going to look like the leftovers from a drug war.”
“Nice image.”
They left the Parlow Clinic with the nurse muttering under her breath about macho men with muscles in their heads, Jack clutching a prescription for pain pills in his hand.
She eyed the prescription and said, “First let’s go to Pea-body’s Pharmacy.”
“Nah, I don’t really need any more pain meds right now.”
“You will soon enough.”
“No, I think—”
“Shut up, Jack.” And so Jack shut up, cupped her elbow, as if afraid she’d bolt, knowing he couldn’t catch her.
“I think Agent Savich got you a room at the B&B where we’re all staying. If you’re wondering, everything is ducks around here. I was thinking Old Squaw Lane over there was a tacky insult, but no, it’s a duck.”
“Well, of course it is,” Jack said, aiming her toward Pea-body’s Pharmacy. Once he had a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and one in his mouth, they walked to the sheriff’s office at the top of First Street, next to the firehouse. “I wonder if the firefighters have lots of business—look at all these old wooden buildings.”
“Hey, are you the pilot of what’s left of the Cessna rescue plane?”
Jack smiled at the tall, fit fiftyish woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a drill sergeant’s voice. She stood right in front of them on the sidewalk by the big glass window of the sheriff’s office. “Yes,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m Dot—Dorothy Malone—silly name my parents fastened on me, but my daddy loved her, the actress, you know. I spent a little time looking over your plane. I’m thinking bomb, but the sucker didn’t do the trick, thank God.”
“Actually,” Rachael said, “thank God for Cudlow Valley.”
Dot nodded. “That’s for sure, but still, that must have been some flying you did.”
“Thank you.”
“Sheriff Hollyfield’s assigned a deputy to guard the wreckage.”
“Good thinking,” Jack said, shook her hand, and opened the door to the sheriff’s office. Jack knew Dot Malone was right. If the bomb had worked as expected, both he and Timothy would be memories. Fortunately, he’d had time to send the mayday and to spot Cudlow Valley stretching narrow and straight between that impossible mess of mountains.
There was no one at the front desk, so he and Rachael walked through a large room that held ten or so cubicles, three occupied by uniformed deputies who watched their every move. Jack nodd
ed to each of the men, no women, and continued to follow the sound of Savich’s voice to Sheriff Hollyfield’s sparse office. Jack saw Savich on the phone through the open door. Rachael shoved Jack into a chair, eyed him. “Here I thought you were well enough to make this little trek, but you’re not. You’re hurting again. Stay put and don’t you move. Give the pain med a chance to kick in.”
“Nah, I’m—”
“Be quiet. What you really need to do is crawl into bed for a while and sleep. Lean your head back, close your eyes, and rest your mouth.”
No sooner had Savich hung up than Tommy Jerkins poked his head in.
Things moved quickly. Savich and Sherlock and Sheriff Hollyfield went with Tommy out to the crash site. Even better, ten minutes later, after the blessed Vicodin was happily swimming in his bloodstream and Jack could see straight, he and Rachael walked over to Greeb’s Pond, the finest lodging in Parlow.
Rachael held him up while Mrs. Flint checked him into the last available room.
Mrs. Flint said, “You’re the federal agent whose plane was shot down and landed on the highway, right?”
“Close enough,” Jack said.
Rachael helped him up the stairs to the second door on the right. It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and windows overlooking Canvasback Lane.
It could have been a closet for all he cared. “More ducks,” Jack said as he eyed the duck border wallpaper and eased down onto the bed. “I feel fine now, Rachael. We can go out to the plane. Oh, man, this bed feels really nice and—”