Double Take

Sherlock tugged him inside. At least a zillion people mobbed him, yelling “Surprise,” all laughing and talking at once, telling him he looked like warmed-over toast. Everyone was on him, shaking his hands, both of them, slapping him on the back, the women kissing his cheeks, and finally there was Mr. Maitland, built like a bull, his small wife grinning up at him from beside her husband, flanked by the four Maitland boys, bruisers all of them. He hugged Mrs. Maitland, high-fived the rest of them.
    “Papa!”
    Sean ran full tilt at him and Savich scooped him up and held him high over his head, Sean yelling, “You’re not going to believe what Mama—”
    “Sean, no!”
    “Okay.” And Sean started telling him about his new goldfish and how his terrier Astro kept trying to put his head in the fish tank.
    Finally Savich managed to get a word in. “Sherlock, are you going to tell me what all this is about? What’s—”
    Mr. Maitland grabbed his arm. “Come this way, my friend. I’m going to give you a huge glass of iced tea and a disgusting cold pepper and olive sandwich Sherlock told my wife is your very favorite lunch.”
    “Well, I—”
    He was pushed and prodded toward the back of the house to a long line of French doors that gave onto the back patio and a long expanse of lawn and oak trees.
    The doors opened, and Ollie Hamish said in his ear, “Take a step outside, just one step, yes, that’s right. Sean, my man, come to your uncle Ollie.”
    Once his son was safe in Ollie’s arms and swung up onto his shoulders, Savich went down the three steps leading to the patio.
    “Dillon, look to your right!”
    That came from Ruth, and he grinned toward her, saw Dix and the boys, and slowly, not knowing what was going on, he turned and saw a truly beautiful thing—a brand-new shiny red Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet, sitting splendidly alone in the driveway, a huge red ribbon wrapped around it, a large red bow on the steering wheel.
    “Happy birthday, Dillon!”
    “It isn’t my birthday,” he said, not taking his eyes off the incredible machine.
    “No matter, it is now,” Mr. Maitland said, his hand on Savich’s shoulder. “Sherlock decided you’d been stoic long enough driving that Fort Knox Volvo of hers. She’s tired of all that crying in the dark hours of the night over your burned-out Porsche. Ain’t it a beauty, Savich?”
    But Savich wasn’t capable of talking. He stood staring, taking in the incredible fire-engine red convertible with its black leather interior. He heard Agent Ford MacDougal shout out, “I hear it goes from zero to sixty in under five seconds.”
    “Four point eight seconds actually,” Savich said, not looking up as he ran his hand lightly over the top of the driver’s-side door and then around to the back. Classic, clean lines. He rubbed his hand down the smooth sweep of the trunk.
    He heard laughter, mostly from the women, and one of them said, “So this is what guys need for transcendence?” Then he heard Mrs. Maitland say, “Four point eight seconds? What in heaven’s name is that sort of blastoff good for? Are you going to race to the grocery store?”
    Mr. Maitland said, “It’s the fact you can do it that counts.”
    “Dillon?”
    He turned slowly to his wife, who said, “As you can see, Mr. Savich, it sits on eighteen-inch alloy wheels. Not to mention the interior glows like a spaceship with everything lighted up—the dashboard, the communication system, the navigation system. It even displays entertainment info. Oh my, this baby’s goodies just don’t end—it’s got a fabric top, carbon-fiber interior trim, and a Bose surround-sound stereo.”
    “I know,” he said, grabbed her up, hugged her hard, and kissed her.
    “Papa, can I drive it?”
    Not for another twenty years or so, but he said, “Sure. Your legs have to grow a bit more so you can reach the brakes, though.”
    “I can sit on your lap!”
    Like that’ll ever happen, Savich thought, reached out and ruffled his son’s black hair. Sean looked as excited as his father, his eyes back on the Porsche.
    “Here are your keys. No, Sean, you can ride with your father next time. This first time, well, he has some bonding to do, it’s a man and his machine sort of thing.”
    Savich took the keys from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and without another word, grabbed the end of the huge red bow—exactly the same blast-off red as the Porsche—and pulled it loose. He threw it back over his