climbed into the Porsche, pressed the starter. He knew she’d bring the extra mozzarella cheese for the lasagna that was defrosting, and maybe some ice cream for the cherry pie she’d made the previous evening, one of Sean’s favorites. He thought of Sean’s birthday list and laughed. His boy, who’d just learned how to ride a bike without training wheels two months ago, had said what he really wanted was a Schwinn three-speed. Yeah, like that would happen. Fortunately, he also wanted Steph Curry sneakers. Did somebody make Steph Curry sneakers for little kids? Probably so.
He was buckling his seat belt when his cell belted out Gilbert Hillman’s “Shining on the Moon.”
“Savich here.”
“Agent Savich, this is Officer Ted Malone. There was a car accident. Your wife, Agent Sherlock, is in an ambulance on the way to Washington Memorial. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her status.” A slight pause. “It looked bad, sir. You need to hurry.”
His world shrank instantly to a single black point. He roared out of the gym parking lot, wove between startled drivers on Wisconsin, and quickly picked up two police cars, sirens blaring. Finally, a vicious left brought him to the hospital’s emergency room entrance. He slammed on the brakes and jumped out of his Porsche in front of the ER, his shield held high as officers jumped out of their patrol cars, their guns drawn, yelling at him.
“FBI,” he yelled, “car accident, my wife.” He threw the nearest officer his keys. “Please move my car.” Before they answered him he was through the doors.
The place was a madhouse, but that was no surprise, it usually was. Savich threaded his way through the crowd of humanity to the counter.
“My wife, Agent Sherlock, was brought in—a car accident. What can you tell me? I’m—”
Savich wasn’t aware he was sheet white, his hands shaking, but Nurse Nancy Baker was. She said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I know who you are, Agent Savich. I’ll take you to her. Come.”
“Is she hurt badly?”
Nancy paused, laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Agent Savich, I don’t know the particulars, but the doctor’s with her. She’ll tell you.” She wasn’t about to tell him his wife had been unconscious on a stretcher, her beautiful curly red hair soaked with blood, more blood streaking in rivulets down her face. She’d recognized Agent Sherlock immediately, she’d been in a number of times, not as a patient but as an FBI agent, usually with her husband. More than that, she was well known, the heroine who’d saved countless lives at the hands of a terrorist at JFK several months before.
Savich followed her, weaving through men, women, and several children, some upright, some in wheelchairs, some being comforted by relatives. They walked through swinging doors into a large space with curtained-off cubicles on each side, surrounding a central nursing station. Here it was a controlled chaos, the doctors, nurses, and techs moving fast, their faces intent and focused.
From behind the curtains, Savich heard moans, a cry, and low voices speaking urgently or trying to soothe, one voice nearing hysteria, another calm and deep, reassuring. A doctor.
The nurse pulled back the nearest curtain and stepped aside.
Two nurses and two doctors were bending over Sherlock. The female doctor looked up, frowning. “Who are you?”
Savich immediately held up his FBI creds. They always gave him instant access. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich. She’s Agent Sherlock. I’m her husband. Talk to me. What’s her status?”
The woman straightened, walked to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm just as the nurse had. “I’m Dr. Loomis. That’s Dr. Luther.” She nodded toward a young man who was bending over Sherlock, lightly palpating her belly. “He told me about who she is and that you’d be coming. We have some urgent tests to do now, but I can tell you she’s got a gash over her temple that will need stitches, multiple contusions on her arms and chest. Nothing appears broken, but we’ll need X-rays to be sure. There are no signs of internal bleeding, but again, we need tests to confirm.
“She was unconscious when she got to us, but she’s awake now, though still confused. She smiled up at me and said her head felt like it was kettledrumming. That’s a good sign, as you doubtless know. We’re about to take her for a CT brain scan and they’ll scan her chest, abdomen, and pelvis as well, our protocol for trauma of this sort. I’ll know more soon. Perhaps you’d like