stood quietly a moment in the open doorway, studying the woman’s back, playing the words over in her mind. She felt a sudden, sharp flash of pain in her head, like a blow from a hammer, then another, blinding pain, more agonizing than the pain she’d awakened with in the emergency room. She stumbled, pressed her palms to her temples, but the sharp battering pain kept digging into her. She felt the earth begin to spin, fast, then faster still. She grabbed at the front door, but it slipped out of her hand and seemed to move away, growing smaller and smaller until she was standing by herself in a vast space, weaving, dizzy, her head pounding so fiercely she couldn’t bear it. Was she dying? She gave a small cry and went down.
38
* * *
The walls of Quint Bodine’s home office were covered with glass-encased tribal masks, spears, and an elaborate ancient headdress. Savich walked quickly to a massive mahogany desk. Behind it were large French doors that gave onto a wide wooden deck with incredible views.
His pulse kicked up when he saw the top-of-the-line iMac. He pushed a jump drive into the USB port and kept his eye on the door as he booted up the computer. He watched the progress as the jump drive transferred its program to the computer’s hard drive. He quickly powered down, plucked the jump drive back out, and left the office, smiling. When the computer was powered up again, the program he’d tweaked himself would hide from view, search for the computer’s passwords, and allow him remote access. Unless Bodine took a great deal of care and was over-the-top paranoid, he would never know.
Done. He was past the bathroom when he heard Sherlock cry out. Then nothing.
He raced to the front entrance hall, his Glock at the ready. He saw the open front door swinging as if pushed by an unseen hand or the wind, only there wasn’t a wind. He saw Sherlock sprawled on her back outside on the porch.
He caught sight of Mrs. Cyndia Bodine on the deck, her back to them, leaning over the railing, staring toward the mountains, seemingly unaware. He ran to Sherlock, heart pounding, went down on his knees, found the pulse in her throat. Her pulse was there, slow and steady. Had she fainted? The trip had been too much for her. It was his fault. He touched his fingers to her face, cupped her chin, leaned down, kissed her, whispered, “Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes. Smile up at me.” He gathered her in his arms. She felt as boneless as a sleeping child, her head lolling back on his arm. He lightly slapped her face, bent close, whispered again, “Sherlock, come on, sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me. Call me an idiot for bringing you to Gaffer’s Ridge, for bringing you here to this cursed mountain.” He felt her move. He waited. He looked over at Mrs. Bodine, who still stood quietly on the deck, her back to them. Hadn’t she heard Sherlock scream? There was no sign of her sister. Where was she?
Sherlock moaned, but didn’t open her eyes. Her fingers clutched his arm. “Thank heaven you’re here. My head, it hurt so bad I thought I was going to die. It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get away from it, I couldn’t—” She swallowed.
“How is the pain now?”
She opened her eyes, blinked to clear her vision, and stared up into his hard, sculpted face, his cheekbones high and surely sharp enough to slash ice, and his eyes dark like night—“Are you the Prince of Darkness?”
That’s what she thought, looking at him? He shot another look toward Mrs. Bodine, who still hadn’t moved, and lightly stroked a fingertip over her cheek. “Do you want me to be?”
She raised her hand to touch his face, then dropped it. He caught her hand and laid it over her stomach. “I wish I knew who you were, really knew. I mean, everyone agrees you’re my husband, and that means you’ve seen me brush my teeth and paint my toenails. I guess you’ve seen a lot more, too, but I don’t remember any of that. You told me I don’t snore. Did you say that to make me feel better?”
She was beginning to sound like herself, a huge relief. He wanted to tell her he’d kissed the small birthmark on her left hip a good thousand times over the past six years. “Sometimes you make