Hemlock Bay

with flight plans out of the country. It won’t be hard to find them.”
    “We’re already on that. I’ll call you when we get something. Ah, good luck in Bar Harbor.”
    “Thank you. Keep me posted.”
    “Yes, I will. Look, Savich, I’m sorry. Dammit, I was supposed to keep them covered, keep them safe. I’ll do everything I can with this. I’ll call you every hour.”
    “No, Hoyt, call me only if it’s an emergency for the next three hours. Otherwise, I’ll get back to you when I can.” Clark Hoyt didn’t know what nuts was, Savich thought, as he punched off his cell phone. He had to call Sherlock, tell her what was going on. Thank God she was home and safe. He didn’t want her to hear about Simon and Lily from Hoyt or Lieutenant Dobbs. He had two hours and forty minutes left to set up the operation. He walked over to Firefly Lane to the Bar Harbor Police Department. He knew he simply had to try to stop thinking about Lily and Simon now. He had to concentrate on killing Tammy Tuttle.
    He wanted to press his fingers against the pulse point in her neck and not feel a thing.

    • Lily heard moaning, then a series of gasping curses that seemed to go on forever. Those curses sounded strange, long and drawn out. Then she heard crying. Crying?
    No, she wasn’t crying. Nor was she cursing. She felt movement, but it wasn’t tossing her around; it was just there, all around her, subtle, faintly pulsing.
    Simon. Where was Simon?
    She opened her eyes slowly, not really wanting to because her head already hurt and she feared it would crack open when she opened her eyes.
    There was a woman moaning again. Crying, then more of those soft, slurred curses.
    It was Charlotte. Lily remembered now. She’d shot Charlotte, but she was still alive. And hurting. Lily at least felt some satisfaction. If her head hadn’t hurt quite so badly, she would have smiled. She hadn’t saved herself or Simon, but she had managed to inflict some damage.
    She moved her head a little bit. There was a brief whack of pain, but she could handle it. She saw that she was sprawled in a wide leather seat, some sort of belt strapping her in. It cut into her belly and didn’t hurt much, just a little tug, and that was a relief.
    She saw Simon was seated next to her. He was strapped in, too. She realized then that he was holding her hand on top of his leg. He was looking toward Charlotte.
    “Simon.”
    He made no sudden movement, just slowly turned his head to look down at her. He smiled, actually smiled, and said, “Shit, I knew I should have left you at home.”
    “And miss all this excitement? No way. I’m so glad you’re alive. Where are we?”
    “We’re about thirty thousand miles up, a private jet, I’d say. How are you doing, sweetie?”
    “I don’t feel much like a sweetie right now. We’re in an airplane? So that’s that funny feeling, like we’re in some sort of moving cocoon. Oh, dear, I guess maybe we’re on our way to Sweden?”
    “I guess it’s possible, but why did you say it like you already knew.”
    “When those guys were chasing me down the beach, they shouted to me. They’re foreign, very stilted English, Swedish, I think. I thought then that Mr. Olaf Jorgenson had gotten tired of waiting to have things done for him.”
    “You’re right about their being Swedish.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You said you were running down the beach to get away from them?”
    She told him what had happened, finding the trail back up, finding him unconscious, and then about Charlotte.
    “If Charlotte hadn’t been there, we would have gotten away and I would have moved us to the Eureka jail, no visitors allowed.”
    He picked up her hand and held it. “That crying and cursing—it’s Charlotte Frasier. The pilot, who also seems to be a medic, has been working on her. You shot her through her right arm. Pity, but she’ll be all right. Before you came awake, she was screaming that you were an ingrate, after all she’d done for you. She said she was going to kill you herself.” He didn’t add that she’d punctuated everything she said with the foulest language he’d heard in a long time.
    She was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, just a slight headache now. How’s your head?”
    “Hurts.”
    “Ah, they see we’re awake. Here comes Mr. Alpo Viljo. No, I’m not making it up, his name is Alpo. Sounds Swedish to me. He’s an enforcer, a bodyguard maybe.