suppose you remember the Alcott family? Griffin and I dealt with them while you were keeping watch on the JFK terrorist?”
Terrorist? She saw a flash of a man in a security line holding a grenade—and then he was gone, behind the white door, as she was starting to think of it. “I think I just saw him, I mean I saw the terrorist. What was his name?”
“Nasim Conklin. Maybe in bed tonight, I’ll tell you about him. That’s why people recognize you, and they do—you were on TV. You’re the heroine of JFK.”
She could only stare at him, then she grinned. “A pity I didn’t save the president.”
He reached over and grabbed her hand, felt her still, and released her. It didn’t matter. He grinned at her. “While you were worrying about terrorists, I was meeting the Alcotts. One of them had some scary abilities of her own, well, not more than Autumn Backman, but different.”
The solid white door opened again and Sherlock saw a pale little girl lying motionless on a hospital bed. She drew in her breath. “I saw her for a moment. Did she die?”
“No, she woke up, her gift thankfully intact.”
“Her gift? What could she do?”
“She helped me take down some very bad people.” There was much more, of course, but he stopped. Sherlock had enough on her plate, he didn’t want her wondering if she should call the people with the straitjackets.
She said, “I’m glad she didn’t die. Why don’t you call me Lacey? That’s what my first name is.”
“You’ve always preferred Sherlock, like your father—the federal judge in San Francisco. He says it scares the criminals.”
She nodded. “Yes, you told me. It’s a cool name.” She’d spoken to her parents, reassured them she was fine, deciding not to mention she wouldn’t know them if she passed them on the street.
“Don’t you like Sherlock any longer?”
“Yes, I do. It’s different. I was only wondering.” Act normal, no choice, but nothing was normal. She watched him punch a number into his cell phone, put it on speaker: “Griffin. Talk to me. You’re on speaker.”
They both listened as Griffin filled them in on what he’d been doing. In an emotionless voice, Savich assured him Sherlock was all right and they’d be in Gaffer’s Ridge in an hour.
Savich punched off, and said now, his voice matter-of-fact, “We’re going to need your excellent eye, your assessment of the people we meet in Gaffer’s Ridge. We’re going to need you with us as a federal agent, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” She looked at his profile: straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, and swarthy complexion, his hands on the steering wheel. He wore a wedding band that matched hers, and, of all things, a Mickey Mouse watch strapped around his wrist. He had big strong hands. She cleared her throat. “You said you’d tell me all about the JFK incident—tonight in bed. What did you mean exactly?”
Ah, there it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the car, wedged between them. He gave her a quick look. “Give me your hand, Sherlock.”
She didn’t want to, he knew it, but he was patient. His right hand remained open, waiting. Finally, he felt her cool palm against his, felt her fingers lightly touch his. He squeezed. “We’re married, I know your body as well as I know my own. I also realize I’m a stranger to you, and you can’t imagine climbing into bed with me. I want you to know I have no intention of stripping in front of you, no intention of jumping you. But we will sleep together, Sherlock. I don’t snore, usually, and neither do you. You usually sleep with your head on my shoulder, or we spoon. I like both. You do, too. But that’s up to you.” He turned to see her staring at him, her face pale, a bit of alarm in her eyes.
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was barely above a whisper, not because she was at all afraid of him, but because her head was aching something fierce, and the highway was weaving back and forth in wide, dizzying loops. She felt drunk and nauseous, closed her eyes, swallowed. She didn’t want to throw up, she wouldn’t. She heard him speaking again, but his words didn’t make sense, they were jumbled, moving and changing, like the road. “Stop the car!”
He pulled over onto the shoulder.
She opened the door and threw up. She’d eaten so little there wasn’t much, mostly dry heaves. She felt his hands