Double Take

him, smiling and nodding, and then, slowly, she backed away, farther and farther, until there was only the still warm air, and his family.

    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    Savich walked out of Reagan Airport into bright late-morning sunlight that nearly blinded him. He slipped on his sunglasses, hefted his carry-on clothes bag and MAX, and looked toward the line of taxis.
    He couldn’t remember feeling this ground under or burned out, like he wanted to chuck it all and catch the next plane to— somewhere, didn’t matter. He was filled with frustration, his own and the cops’ in the Cleveland PD, and anger at failure. He’d helped them locate their suspect, but the guy had gotten through their net despite everyone’s best efforts.
    He sighed as he walked across the median. Nobody’s fault, just a really lucky murderer now in the wind, out of their reach, at least for a while. Joseph Pinkerton Painter had killed four people and could now be in Rio, basking in the sun. Savich thought he wouldn’t mind being with him he was so tired.
    He wasn’t more than a forty-five-minute taxi ride from Georgetown and home. Maybe he could nap a bit on the way so when he stepped through his front door, he could catch both Sherlock and Sean up against him, laugh and kiss them, and mean it.
    He stepped forward to claim the next taxi when a loud horn brought his head around.
    It was Sherlock in her steel-gray Volvo, waving wildly at him. Seeing her happy, welcoming smile, her wild red hair curling around her face, lifted at least ten pounds of weight off his shoulders. She screeched up beside him, much to the fury of two taxi drivers, both of whom yelled at her, one in Russian, one in Arabic, but doubtless yelling the same things.
    He threw his clothes bag in the backseat, carefully laid MAX on top, and climbed into the passenger seat.
    Amid all the shouting, the gimlet eye of an airport security guard coming toward them, he kissed her. She stroked his face, smoothed his hair behind his ear, and let her hand slip beneath his belt buckle, all while whispering into his mouth how much she’d missed him.
    “We’d best get ourselves out of here before the guard hauls our butts to the slammer. As for your hand, sweetheart, I’m so tired, I’m numb from the neck down.”
    Sherlock laughed as she refastened her seat belt. “We’ll see about that, but later. You don’t want to drive my baby?”
    “Pul-ease” was all he said.
    “I can’t believe how you despise my wheels, good solid wheels—”
    He rolled his eyes.
    She laughed. “All right. You look ready for an eight-hour nap—so why don’t you lower your flag to half-mast and close down until we get home?”
    Savich was asleep before Sherlock turned out of the airport exit.
    He felt something on his cheek, heard soft breathing, no wait, there was a slight hitch, then—it was kisses all over his face, warm, wet, smelling of honey. Honey? He opened his eyes, stared into his wife’s brilliant summer-blue eyes.
    He cupped her face in his hand. “We’re home? Already?”
    “Well, not exactly.” She kissed him again, this time a kiss with her tongue that brought him awake like nothing else could have.
    He paused a moment. “Not exactly what? We’re not home yet?”
    She shook her head, patted his cheek, and slithered away from him to open the driver’s-side door. “Come on, Dillon, time to get yourself together and face the world.”
    He didn’t want to face the world. Not for a long time. It was Saturday morning. He didn’t have to face any world at all until Monday. He wanted to sleep, to make love to Sherlock, play basketball with his boy. He yawned, finally taking in his surroundings.
    “What? This isn’t Georgetown?”
    “It sure enough isn’t, you’re right about that. Come on, Dillon, we’ve got some things to do.”
    He got out of the Volvo, started to get his gear out of the backseat, but she grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t need your stuff, just come with me. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
    A surprise? He stood up and looked around him. He was in the driveway of a big shingled house with a huge yard, trees creeping in on both sides, and it was familiar—
    “Why are we at the Maitlands’ house?”
    “You’ll see. Come on.”
    She took his hand and more or less pulled him up the flagstone walk, both sides bursting with more flowers than Savich had ever seen. They were Mrs. Maitland’s pride and joy.
    “But—”
    Suddenly the front door burst open and