Blowout

door that was barely hanging onto its hinges, studied it, and accepted what he saw because there was simply no choice. He closed his eyes a moment, seeing the woman clearly in his mind’s eye, realizing how very pretty she’d been, not having noticed it at first because she’d been so frightened.
    He turned and walked back to the car.
    Sheriff Harms said as he turned on the engine, “Her name was Samantha Barrister. She was murdered here back in August of 1973.”
    “I want to see a photo of her,” Savich said.
    Sherlock took his hand, held it tight.
    T WO HOURS LATER , Sherlock awoke to find Dillon standing by the bedroom window, staring out at the falling snow.
    She got up and walked to him, and wrapped her arms around his back.
    “Did I wake you?”
    “No. You’re thinking about her, aren’t you, still trying to find logical reasons for what happened.”
    “There aren’t any. It’s driving me nuts. Even though I’ve been over and over it, I guess I can’t get around the fact that I’ve experienced something, well, I guess you’d have to call it otherworldly.”
    She kissed his shoulder. “Then perhaps it’s time to simply accept it.”
    “But the reasonable part of my brain doesn’t want to.” He turned and pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her hair.
    “There’s another thing, Sherlock, something I just remembered. I called you when I had the blowout. It wasn’t ten minutes later that she came running out of the woods. I insisted on calling for help, but I couldn’t get through on the cell phone. But then later, at the house, after she was gone, I called you and it worked just fine again.”
    She held him more tightly. “It’s possible the signal was better there.” She paused a moment, touched her fingertips to his jaw. “I just remembered something else, Dillon.”
    He wasn’t going to like this, he knew he wasn’t.
    “You called me at about eight o’clock.”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “The second time you called me, it was only about a quarter after eight.”
    He sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, “no, that’s just not possible. That would mean that all of what happened—no, that’s ridiculous. I spent a lot of time with her, even more time just searching that house. No, I can’t accept that all that happened in fifteen minutes.”
    “Maybe we’re both wrong about the time. That’s the most reasonable explanation.” She hugged him again, touched her fingertips to his cheek. “It’s very late. It’s snowing. Sean will be up and raring to go in less than four hours. We’ll have time to discuss this tomorrow; you can decide what to do then.
    “There’s a reason she came to you, Dillon. You’ll have to act. But sleep is the best thing for you now.”
    He came back to bed, held her close against him, and prepared to stew about it until morning. He knew he would have to investigate what happened to this woman, even if he never convinced himself that what had happened was real. But he didn’t lie there staring at the dark ceiling as he fully expected. He fell into a dreamless sleep in three minutes.
    A T SIX - THIRTY Saturday morning, Savich’s cell phone played the opening of Chariots of Fire. His first thoughts were of Samantha Barrister and the strange events she’d put him through.
    “Savich.” He listened a moment, then looked over at Sherlock, who whispered urgently, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
    Savich flipped off his cell phone, then turned on the bedside lamp. “Mr. Maitland is sending a helicopter to take us back to Washington.”
    Sherlock said, “Goodness, it’s something that big? Something so big we can’t even build one snowman with Sean?”
    “Yeah. You’re not going to believe this.”

CHAPTER
3
    S UPREME C OURT B UILDING
F IRST S TREET N.E. AND E AST C APITOL S TREET
W ASHINGTON , D.C.
L ATE F RIDAY NIGHT
    A SSOCIATE J USTICE Stewart Quinn Califano stepped out of the underground garage, bent his head against the cold wind blowing in his face, and walked around to the front of the Supreme Court Building. He paused to look up at the sixteen marble columns at the west entrance that supported the famous pediment and the words incised on the architrave above: Equal Justice Under Law. He loved the neoclassical style of this magnificent building, one that would be his home until he shucked off his mortal coil, or retired, something he couldn’t begin to imagine. Every time he entered, it was like walking