Tailspin

  He moved quickly, a small derringer in his hand, and grabbed Sherlock. But Savich was faster. He shot the man in the forearm of his gun hand.

  The man screamed, the derringer went flying, and he dropped like a stone at Sherlock’s feet. He wasn’t unconscious, but his breathing was hard and strained. He was moaning, holding his forearm. He’d tied a dirty oil rag around his other arm. Savich picked up the derringer. “You were fast.”

  “But not fast enough,” Sherlock said, and kicked him in the ribs.

  “Bitch,” the man whispered.

  “Yeah, that’s what all you losers say,” Sherlock said and went down on her knees to handcuff his wrists in front of him. She gave him a handkerchief. “Here, put some pressure on your forearm. You okay, Dillon?”

  “No problem.” He wasn’t about to tell her his heart had dropped to his heels when the guy pulled out that derringer.

  Sherlock said, “I can’t wait to find out who this idiot is. Hey, buddy, you got a name for us?”

  He mumbled something, still enough anger and venom in him to hear in his words.

  “I don’t think that’s anatomically possible,” Sherlock said, and gave him another light kick with the toe of her boot.

  Savich said, “Who trained you? You have been trained. You’re for hire, right?”

  The man didn’t say anything, only moaned and pressed the handkerchief against his forearm. Savich dug into the man’s pockets but only came up with half a pack of sugarless gum and a Swiss Army knife.

  Sherlock said, “You were afraid we’d catch you so you tossed out your wallet, didn’t you? Well, that’s the only thing you got right today. I bet you stole this truck, too, didn’t you? But you know, jerkface, I’ll bet you’ve got priors, so you’re in the system. We’ll know all about you in no time at all.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the man was in surgery at Franklin County Hospital, two floors down from where Dr. Timothy MacLean lay in a coma.

  Sherlock called Sheriff Hollyfield’s office, spoke to Jack, told him to keep Rachael close. She and Savich met Dr. Hallick in Dr. MacLean’s room.

  Savich and Sherlock had never met Dr. Timothy MacLean, had only seen photos of him. Jack had spoken of his kindness, his wit, his extraordinary insights, his empathy. MacLean and Jack’s dad were friends from way back, and the families had always known each other. MacLean had once played a mean game of tennis, and had one grandchild by his second daughter. They both looked down silently at his waxy gray face. With all the tubes that tethered him to life, they wondered if there was any way he could pull through. He looked withered, a decade older than his forty-nine years.

  Dr. Hallick listened to Dr. MacLean’s heart, took his pulse, then straightened. “We almost had to put him on a respirator when his breathing became erratic. Strange thing is, there is no obvious trauma to his brain on the MRI, except perhaps some slight edema. Bottom line, we don’t know why Dr. MacLean isn’t awake. The fact is, the brain is still something of a mystery to us.

  “What we did notice was atrophy—shrinkage—of the front lobes of his brain. Your colleague Agent Crowne called me and helped us get in touch with his doctors at Duke University. Unfortunately for Dr. MacLean, they’d concluded he has frontal lobe dementia, even before this happened. It’s a hell of a thing, a man as distinguished as Dr. MacLean, losing his mind so early.”

  Sherlock said, “Yes, we were aware of that, Doctor. Could Dr. MacLean’s frontal lobe dementia be contributing to his not waking up?”

  “Unlikely, but according to Dr. Kelly, our neurologist, there’s very little experience with that question.” He shrugged. “Nothing more to be done except to wait and see. He’s got two broken ribs and a gash on his chest we’ve sutured and will need to keep an eye on.”

  As for their shooter, he was still in surgery. They’d taken his fingerprints before he’d gone in and they’d find out soon who he was. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had a doubt he was in the database.

  When they walked out of Dr. MacLean’s room, they saw Sheriff Hollyfield leaning against the opposite wall. He’d changed out of his bib overalls and into black slacks, a white shirt, a wool jacket, and boots. He was a slender man, fit, with a pleasant face and dark eyes that had the awareness and intensity shared by most cops. “What do they say about Dr. MacLean? Is he going to make it?”

  “It’s complicated,” Savich said. “Hey, I miss your other duds.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Jack said. Listen, Agent Savich, I do complicated real good. Why don’t you call me Dougie?”

  Savich looked at him. “I can’t.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield grinned. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “But Dougie went real well with the bib overalls,” Sherlock said.

  “Yeah, yeah, why don’t we have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and you can tell me what’s going on with this guy. Jack and Rachael are both okay, so don’t worry about them. I had to leave them in Parlow since Jack still wasn’t looking too hot. I got the impression, though, that he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. They went back to the B&B.”

  While Savich sipped his tea, the sheriff said, “Before I left Jack and Rachael to drive up here, Tommy Jerkins, your FBI expert, reported in. He found remnants of an explosive—Semtex, he thinks—but the detonator malfunctioned, didn’t set off all the plastic explosive.

  “After the wheels hit the ground, the fuel exploded the rest of the Semtex. Tommy said Jack is a very lucky man. Even without the bomb detonating, the Cessna was disabled enough to send him right into the mountains.

  “Given how inaccessible the mountains are, even if the bomb had blown them out of the sky, the chances are Search and Rescue wouldn’t have found enough of either of them or the wreckage to determine anything. It probably would have been deemed pilot error.

  “Jack said he was going to miss that plane,” the sheriff continued. “He told me she’s gotten him out of a few tight spots. I told him a wreath might help.”

  Sherlock said, “The person behind this murder attempt will come after Dr. MacLean again. This was his third try, no reason he’ll stop now.

  “Maybe he’ll come after Jack, as well, if he assumes Dr. MacLean told Jack about a patient’s illegal activities, maybe even where to find proof.”

  Savich said, “Our lab will examine what’s left of the bomb and the Semtex, see if they can tell where it’s from. Our people in Lexington are all over the private section of the airport, questioning everyone. Somebody had to see something.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Jack said Dr. MacLean didn’t tell him any specifics like that. And that’s when Jack said he wasn’t capable. I asked him how that was possible, and he said Dr. MacLean didn’t remember.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield looked suddenly very tough. “Anyone going to explain this to me?”

  Sharp and clean, Savich thought, that was Sheriff Hollyfield’s brain. He looked over at Sherlock. She nodded. Savich said, “Dr. MacLean has an increasingly debilitating brain disorder called frontal lobe dementia. The prognosis for anyone who’s unlucky enough to get it isn’t good.”

  “Dementia? But this man isn’t old.”

  “No, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “Frontal lobe dementia can strike middle-aged people.”

  “What are his symptoms?”

  Savich said, “The disease reduces his inhibitions, makes him say and do uncharacteristic things—like telling the minister after church services that he’s a sanctimonious prig, telling a woman she looks fat, attacking a guy for eyeing his wife—social gaffes like that. Sometimes he remembers saying these things, sometimes he doesn’t. If he does remember, he tends to dismiss them, doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with saying them.

  “As his disease has progressed, Dr. MacLean has started telling tales about his famous patients, even to his tennis partner. Privileged doctor/patient exchanges. Again, he doesn’t necessarily remember what he’s divulged, and if he does remember, he doesn’t think it’s any big deal.

  ??
?As you can imagine, Sheriff Hollyfield, this is not good since many of his patients are very famous and very powerful. And since he’s in Washington, we’re talking lots of politicians, some corporate bigwigs.”

  Sherlock said, “Dr. MacLean has a huge reputation, he’s known for his bone-deep discretion before this disease struck him.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield said, frowning at a dustpan propped against the wall in the corner of the cafeteria, “Thank you for filling in the blanks. That makes it all very straightforward. Someone decided to take him out to protect himself.”

  Savich nodded. “Depending on what Dr. MacLean divulged, and to whom, it could ruin patients’ reputations and careers, even send them to prison.

  “One person we know for certain Dr. MacLean talked to was, as I already told you, his longtime tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, who died two Fridays ago, after driving off the road and over a cliff near Morristown, New Jersey. The case is still open, but the local cops are leaning toward an accident. The FBI began questioning MacLean’s family and friends. He did indeed speak to several friends, revealed juicy tidbits. However, he didn’t give out any patient names to those particular people.”

  Sherlock said, “But still, whoever is behind this was worried Arthur Dolan would spill out names sooner or later, so he or she killed him.”

  “A preemptive strike,” said the sheriff, “and that bespeaks a powerful motive, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” said Savich.

  The sheriff said, “Did Dr. MacLean remember enough of what he’d said to his tennis partner to be frightened?”

  Savich said, “No, but Dr. MacLean’s wife Molly doesn’t believe for a minute it was an accident. She knew, you see, what Timothy was doing, and was frantic. She called his family, in Lexington, told them what was going on. Then someone tried to run him down in Washington, near their house. They flew him back to Lexington, then traveled to Durham to get him diagnosed by a physician at Duke University. After an attempt on his life in Lexington, Mrs. MacLean called Jack to ask for help. The FBI cleared it, and Jack flew out to get him. Then this happened.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Is Dr. MacLean now on any medication? Something to control the symptoms?”

  Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, there isn’t any treatment for this disease. It will continue to progress until he dies.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, excused himself, and went off to find a hospital phone to use.

  He was back in five minutes. “That was Jack. He said Rachael is threatening to go down to Roy Bob’s and steal one of his cars. He said he’s not really feeling up to chasing her down and tying her to a chair so he wants you guys to come back and talk her into telling us the truth.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield looked from one face to the other. “I don’t think you guys are going to sleep for a good while yet. Let’s go back to Parlow and have Rachael tell us why someone walked into Roy Bob’s garage and tried to shoot her.” He paused for a moment. “Why wouldn’t she want to level with you? I mean, she’s Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t she?”

  TWELVE

  Jack said to Sherlock as she walked into the sheriff’s office, Savich and the sheriff following her, “I think she wants to hotwire a car. I’ve threatened to lock her in a cell, but I really don’t want to since she saved my neck. I need reinforcements.”

  Savich said, “If she hotwires a car, that’d be okay, then we could arrest her.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield took the chair behind his desk, motioned for them to sit down. He looked at each of them, shaking his head. “I never knew the feds could be so much fun.”

  Rachael was wringing her hands. She noticed it and wanted to kick herself. How had she fallen so low so quickly? She looked at the expectant faces surrounding her. “I don’t know how to hotwire a car,” she said.

  Sheriff Hollyfield said, “I’m the sheriff of Parlow, Ms. Abercrombie. I would like you to tell me why this yahoo who is currently residing in the Franklin County Hospital tried to kill you.”

  Rachael knew anyone in this office could run her license plate, find out who she was in a flash. What with the shooting, she had no doubt that now they’d do it if she didn’t level with them. Well, obviously Quincy and Laurel already knew she was alive, since they’d already tried to kill her again.

  She supposed if she had to trust someone, it might as well be three FBI agents and a sheriff.

  She nodded slowly, looking at each of them. “There’s no reason to keep my mouth shut now. I don’t know what you can do, but maybe you can help me. If there are FBI leaks, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They know I’m not dead. I’m sort of like Dr. MacLean, I guess you could say. The people after me aren’t about to stop until I am.”

  “Well then, Rachael Whatever Your Name Is, tell us everything,” Jack said.

  “Last Friday night when I got home I found a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table. To be honest here, I was depressed, tired, and I think I would have downed the whole bottle if I hadn’t had a roaring headache. Lucky for me I only had one drink, because the wine was drugged.

  “The effects of the drug were wearing off while they were carrying me out on a dock. There were two of them, one carrying me under my arms, the other, my feet. They hadn’t tied my wrists together, simply tied my arms down to my sides. But they had tied my ankles together. I guess right before they threw me into the lake, they must have attached the rope to a block of concrete, though I don’t remember that specifically.

  “They threw me into the water as far as they could. When the block hit, it dragged me down to the bottom.” Her voice started shaking, her whole body was shaking. “I’m sorry.”

  Sherlock stuck a cup of water in her hand. “Drink, take deep breaths.”

  Rachael drank. “I’m okay, sorry. I had the brains to keep quiet so they didn’t realize I’d woken up. I sucked in a lot of air before going under, instinct, I guess. I didn’t want to die. They obviously didn’t know I’d been a big-time swimmer in college, and I had great breath control. I managed to get my arms free, then get my ankles untied and swim to the surface.”

  She heard Jack curse and looked at him. She didn’t think she’d ever seen naked rage before, but now she did and she recognized it for what it was. It warmed her, gave her balance.

  Savich said matter-of-factly, “You’re quite amazing, Rachael, I hope you realize that. You didn’t panic and drown. No, you got yourself free. You survived.”

  “I was terrified, truth be told, but I didn’t want to die. I made it back up, yes, managed to clear the surface because I knew they’d still be standing on the dock, looking down for any sign that I was still alive, you know, bubbles. I swam underwater to the pilings and hid there. I heard them talking, but I couldn’t tell you if they were male, female, or both. I heard them leave. I saw the taillights drive off into the distance. I walked to a little diner in Oranack, Maryland, and from there got a taxi home.

  “I got out of there as fast as I could. I drove only at night, took two and a half days to get here because . . . Well, truth is I was scared. I wanted to get lost on the back roads. I wanted to know in my gut that it was over, that they believed me dead and weren’t like some bogeyman ready to jump out and kill me.

  “I was wrong. They found out—how, I don’t know.”

  Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Someone saw you. Did you see anybody at all when you arrived back at your house, or when you left?”

  Rachael shook her head. “No, but I was focused on packing my stuff and getting out of there. You’re right, Sherlock, that makes more sense than diving into the lake to see if the block and I were still together. Whatever happened, they found out I was still breathing and figured out where I was heading. They moved very fast.”

  She paused, looked at each of them now. “Do you believe me?”

  “Oh yes,” Sherlock said, “oh yes.”

  Savich said, “Would there be anyone who would report you missing?”
>
  Rachael shook her head. “The man who tried to kill me in Roy Bob’s garage, do you know who he is yet?”

  Sherlock pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket, glanced at it and said, “Our shooter’s name is Roderick Lloyd, thirty-nine years old, a supposed freelance journalist—har har—not married, lives in an apartment in Falls Church. He started his bad ways early—juvenile record for ag assaults, multiple car thefts, robbing a convenience store, you get the idea. His mother cut him loose at sixteen. She remarried and moved to Oregon, smart woman.

  “It was the attempted murder of a DEA agent during a drug bust that finally nailed him. He spent a measly eight years in our fine facility outside Detroit—not enough, but the prosecutors cut him a deal, netted two bigger drug dealers.

  “Mr. Maitland is getting a warrant as we speak and our people will go over his apartment with tweezers. Dillon has MAX checking on possible employers, property tax records, offshore accounts, whatever.

  “The staff at Franklin County Hospital said when he came out of recovery, all he did was moan and demand a lawyer. So that was it.

  “He’ll leave the hospital in two or three days—and be accompanied by our people back to Washington. His photo should be coming through your fax, Sheriff, any minute.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “Good work. For what it’s worth, I checked on Roy Bob because of his gambling issues. Nothing there. Dr. Post stitched up his arm. He’s okay. Ah, here’s the fax with Roderick Lloyd’s photo.” He handed it to Rachael.

  Rachael said, “This man, Roderick Lloyd, I have no idea who he is. I don’t know his name.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life. For heaven’s sake, sit down before you fall over, Jack. You should have stayed in bed, you idiot.”

  “Me? An idiot?”

  “Yes, you. Your head’s beginning to hammer again, I can tell. You need another pain pill.” Jack wasn’t overly surprised when Sherlock tapped his arm and handed him a cup of water, but he didn’t want any more pain meds. They fuzzed his brain.