rubbing lightly up and down her back, holding her shaking shoulders. At last she whispered, “I’m okay now.”
Savich handed her a bottle of water, watched her drink, then spit it out. She handed him back the water bottle.
“Thank you. I think it was all the curves in the highway, made me nauseous. I’m all right now, but I think I could nap.”
He handed her a Kleenex, then worried. Should he turn around and take her back to the hospital? Should he have brought her in the first place? “Do you still feel nauseated? We can stop at the hospital in Lexington, let them take a look at you.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but reached out her hand. Instead of touching his hand, her palm landed on his thigh. She jerked her hand away. He said nothing, only took her hand in his and gently squeezed. After a moment, her hand lay quiescent in his. Finally, she said, “No more hospitals, Dillon, I’ll be fine. It was the oddest thing. When you were speaking, it seemed all the words were mixing themselves up. It was like I was dyslexic, even though I was listening, not reading, and I couldn’t understand you. Really, I’m okay now. Don’t worry. It’s the concussion, it’s messing me up a little bit, but you know there’s nothing to be done. Time and rest. And maybe some distraction, but only after I wake up.” She tried to smile at him.
“All right, take a nap, Sherlock. I’ll wake you when we get to Gaffer’s Ridge.” He watched her lean her head against the door, close her eyes. He knew a hospital wasn’t the answer, that keeping her with him was best. No way could he have left her with strangers. What was going on in Gaffer’s Ridge would engage her, and he’d make sure she got her rest. He’d tell her stories about cases they’d had, people they knew. He eased the Porsche back onto the highway and prayed. He heard her breathing slow as she fell asleep. He wished he had a pillow or a cover for her, but he didn’t, hadn’t thought of it. He kept driving, slowly, heading toward the west and into the distant mountains.
30
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE
RAFER BODINE'S HOUSE
THURSDAY, NOON
Sherlock awoke as Dillon entered Gaffer’s Ridge, assured him she felt fine, which was mostly true. She looked around at the lovely little town with its hills and dips as Savich slowly drove the Porsche down Winchester Street toward Berger Lane, where the forensic team from the Richmond Field Office was processing Rafer Bodine’s house. Griffin and Dr. DeSilva would meet them there.
Savich pulled the Porsche behind the FBI forensic van in the driveway. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, and that was good. “Any headache, any nausea, anything wonky, you tell me, you promise?”
She smiled at him, a real smile, and nodded. “I promise.”
“Stay put.”
She waited until he opened the door for her, gave her his hand to help her out. She stood quietly a moment, taking everything in. “An old house, more a cottage,” she said, looking around, “but there’s charm here, or there could be, if someone did something with the yard, planted some colorful flowers. I guess Mr. Bodine isn’t much for regular yard maintenance.” She didn’t realize she was studying the scene like a trained investigator, but Savich did. They turned to a black Range Rover pulling in behind the Porsche. Sherlock said, “Is that Griffin Hammersmith? And the woman?”
“Yes, that’s Griffin. I would assume the woman with him is Dr. DeSilva.”
The two of them got out of the car and headed over. The man waved. Sherlock said, “Would you look at those two. I’ve gotta say, they’re close to being the most beautiful duo I’ve ever seen. They should be on a red carpet.”
Savich grinned. “Even women FBI agents stop and stare at Griffin in the Hoover Building. Worse, the word’s out he and his fiancée are no longer together, so he’s fair game. I heard he had half a dozen invitations to lunch last week. Not to mention to dinner, the movies, to see etchings, whatever.
“He and Ruth—Agent Ruth Noble—finished a hairy case in Arkansas a couple days ago so I gave them both time off. So that’s Dr. Carson DeSilva. You’re right, she’s a looker, too.”
She said suddenly, “Griffin has a cat named Exxie.” She blinked, turned to shake her head at him. “I remember his fricking cat’s name, go figure.”
“Alas, his ex-fiancée, Anna, is Exxie’s mother, so