Blindside

National Crime Information Center, the FBI’s national criminal database that could be accessed by local law enforcement. The late Beauregard Jones was a career hood who hailed from Denton, Texas, a three-time loser, with warrants that could have put him in jail for the rest of his miserable life, if it weren’t over already. She couldn’t find anything about kidnapping or about any family in or near Tennessee.
    She had no clue what Clancy’s last name was or how he’d gotten connected to Beau. She called Ossining, Beau’s place of residence until a couple of years ago. She left a message for the warden to call her as soon as possible. Clancy was the key, she just knew it.
    She shut down her laptop, unplugged the modem, and pulled the covers to her neck.
    She dreamed that Keely was calling to her, but when Katie got close to her daughter’s voice, all she saw was a long line of vans. She watched, horrified, as each of them blew up, one after the other. Then she saw Clancy stuffingKeely into a van that hadn’t blown up yet. She woke up, frightened and wheezing, her nightshirt sweated through.
    She couldn’t help herself. She checked on Keely, then on Sam and Miles. Sam was on his side, his face on his father’s shoulder, his father’s arm cuddling him close. Martin the frog was sprawled on top of Miles, Sam’s arm around him.
    She was still shaking from that wretched dream. Beau was dead. As for Clancy, she’d get him and throw his ass in jail.

13
    T he hospital was quiet at ten o’clock on Sunday morning. Katie, Miles, and the children trooped into Dillon Savich’s semi-private room that had only Savich in it.
    Leaning over him was a small woman in black slacks, black leather half-boots, and a black denim jacket over a red sweater. She had curly red hair that wasn’t really a red red, or an auburn, just a marvelous mix, and a very nice laugh. She looked up when she heard them coming.
    Her eyes lit up. “Hey, Sam, Dillon tells me you’re a hero.”
    Sam shouted as he ran to her, “I did it, Aunt Sherlock, I climbed out that window myself, and it was so skinny that my shoulders didn’t want to fit through, but I finally wiggled free and my butt fell right out. I landed on my face in the mud. That was yucky but I ran and ran and then Katie was there—and you know that she shot those bad men?”
    He finally took a breath. Sherlock grabbed him up in her arms and danced around the room with him. She kissed him all over his face as she danced.
    Sam asked her when she paused to take a breath, “Where’s Sean?”

    “He’s with his grandmother. I’d bet that right now he’s sitting in church.”
    “That could be bad,” Sam said to Katie. “Sean doesn’t like to sit still.”
    “You’re right about that,” Sherlock said, and kissed him one final time. “We bribe him with graham crackers.”
    Sam immediately turned to Savich. “You’re sitting up, Uncle Dillon. Are you better?”
    “I’m just fine, Sam, just a bit stiff.” Savich hugged Sam against him, doing his best not to wince when the boy’s hands brushed against the bandage over his back. “Sherlock’s going to spring me today, she promised. Did you and your dad sleep at the sheriff’s house last night?”
    “Yeah, Papa slept with me. I got hot, but he didn’t want to let go of me.”
    “I wouldn’t let go of you either,” Sherlock said. “Okay, what else do you have to tell me, Sam?”
    “When I woke up there was this strange frog on top of Papa.”
    “That was Marie,” Miles said to Sherlock. “A big green stuffed frog, on loan from Keely.”
    Sam was outraged. “He isn’t a girl frog. You said his name was Martin.”
    Miles said, “Hey, I thought you were so macho that it wouldn’t matter. Isn’t that right?”
    While Sam looked uncertain, Miles said, “I told Katie that you’d be here this morning, Sherlock. How’d you manage it?”
    Savich said, “She called Jimmy Maitland, our boss, told him I was in bad shape in Tennessee, and he sent her over in a Black Bell jet helicopter.”
    “Oh wow,” Sam said. “Katie, my papa makes parts for helicopters and he can fly them, too. Can we go home in a helicopter, Papa?”
    “Very doubtful,” Miles said, “particularly an FBI helicopter. Every taxpayer who didn’t get to ride in it wouldbe pretty upset. Isn’t the Cessna any good anymore, Sam?”
    While Sam was trying to explain how much cooler a helicopter was, Katie met Sherlock.
    Sherlock took her hands