Tail Spin

asleep stretched out on top of him, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, her hair against his mouth. He didn’t feel it tickle, though, because his was the sleep of the dead.
    When his cell phone belted out the Monday Night Football theme, he came instantly awake and looked with loathing at his cell phone half hanging out of his pants pocket on the floor beside the bed. Sherlock was stirring against him. He didn’t want to move her, but a phone call late on a Friday night couldn’t be good.
    He managed to stretch out and grab his cell. “Yeah.”
    He listened as he leaned back to rub Sherlock’s belly. She didn’t want to pull away from that big warm hand of his, but she did. She managed to sit up, saying, “What’s wrong, Dillon? What happened?”
    “Someone just tried to kill Dr. MacLean.”
    They left a sleeping Sean with Lily and Simon, and arrived at the hospital sixteen minutes later.
    He’d found hospitals to be eerily quiet at the witching hour, and truth be told, he hadn’t expected excitement there on the main floor, but he heard some raised voices, saw two security people dashing up the stairs. To their surprise, the elevator was empty. When they reached MacLean’s floor, they had to dodge a gurney then two wheelchairs being pushed out of the way, and a good half-dozen hospital personnel, running, yelling, or silent with shock. He saw several patients standing in doorways, one older man holding up his IV bag in his right hand, an orderly trying to talk him back into bed, but he wasn’t buying it.
    “Agent Tomlin,” Sherlock said, grabbing one of the nurses. “Where is Agent Tomlin?”
    “They’re working on him. Someone walked up to him and shoved a syringe into his neck, but he didn’t go all the way out and Louise noticed something was wrong—you know, he was kind of jerking in his chair, and she called out, but he didn’t answer.” The nurse was nearly hyperventilating. “Louise ran toward him. I don’t know what happened—Louise was gone and there was a gunshot. I didn’t know it would be so loud. It was like an explosion, and everyone was yelling and screaming.”
    Sherlock closed her eyes and prayed hard. Please, God, let Tom Tomlin be okay. She was right behind Savich when he shoved open MacLean’s door.
    There were half a dozen people around MacLean’s bed, all talking, gesturing, some on cell phones, one security woman talking loudly on a crackling walkie-talkie.
    When Savich shoved his way through, he saw MacLean lying on his back, the bed cranked up, his head on a pillow, and he was smiling impartially at everyone, the patriarch surrounded by his family. Hospital security was two deep.
    “Timothy,” Savich said, studying him even as he took his hand. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m in fine fettle.” MacLean grinned maniacally. “What with all the excitement, I’m ready for some fast music so I can do a victory dance with Louise here. Hot damn, can she ever move. You should have seen her, Savich. Runs in and BAM! Shoots the guy in the arm.”
    “Which arm, Timothy?” Savich asked.
    “Hmmm, now, which was it? The right, that’s it; it was his right arm. He dropped the needle.”
    “You’re Agent Savich? I’m chief of security, William Hayward. I called you.”
    Savich quickly shook his hand. “Thank you for calling me.” Hayward was a small fine-boned older man with a good build, nicely pressed pants, and smart eyes. Savich pegged him as a retired cop. “Hell of a business,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I’m thinking I should check into the nurses’ training curriculum—can you believe one of our nurses shot the guy?”
    Savich then turned to MacLean. He heard Sherlock introduce herself to Hayward, heard his quiet voice telling her what they were doing.
    Savich said, “Tell me what happened, Timothy.”
    “Well, the thing is, I was asleep. Then there was a sliver of light, right in my eyes. The door had opened, and the light was from the hallway. This guy walks in, a guy I’ve never seen before. He just strolls in like he belongs, smiles at me when he sees I’m awake, says he’s sorry to disturb me, but he’s a neurosurgeon and my doctor asked him to see me, and sure enough, he’s all dressed in green scrubs, a mask over his face, a stethoscope around his neck, those paper booties on his feet. I’ll admit, at first I simply accepted what he said, so many white coats and green scrubs all over, in and out of here, like Grand