Tail Spin

again.
    There was no answer.

SIXTY-THREE
    Rachael said, “There’s something I don’t understand. When you broke into my house, you weren’t there to kill me, were you? I mean, there was no reason any longer. You took a huge risk.”
    Stefanos said, “We needed to replace the forged will with the will the senator had made and told you about. When we believed you dead in Black Rock Lake, disappeared forever, it was all much simpler. The forged will was in place—with no mention of you. You know the rest of it. We had to salvage what we could. We had to protect ourselves. But it didn’t work out, did it? Why the hell did you scream? I was nowhere near you.”
    Rachael said, “I was having a drowning nightmare, thanks to all of you.”
    The ropes on Sherlock’s wrists split apart. Her wrists hurt, her hands were numb.
    She didn’t look at Rachael. It was all on her, no one else.
    Stefanos said, “All right, no more talk. Quincy, let’s get this over with. We’ll haul them out to the car. Don’t you move, Agent, or I’ll kill you here.” And he raised his .38.
    When he bent over to grab Sherlock’s feet, she kicked him hard in the chest. He couldn’t yell, he had no breath. He fell backward, grabbing his chest, and the .38 flew out of his hand. Sherlock flipped open her Swiss Army knife and sliced through the ropes on her ankles in a single motion.
    She heard the .38 hit the carpet but didn’t know where it landed. There wasn’t enough time. Quincy was on her, yelling, hitting her, then his hands were around her neck. She sent the back of her hand into his Adam’s apple. Quincy fell back, gagging, clutching his throat.
    Sherlock rolled over to Rachael, flicked the knife over the ropes tying her ankles, then sliced through the ropes on her wrists.
    Laurel was moving, fast, but Sherlock didn’t stop, she couldn’t stop.
    “That will be quite enough.”
    Rachael was finally free. They both looked to see Laurel holding Stefanos’s .38. Sherlock said right in Rachael’s face, “Get out of here. Now.” She rolled upright and threw her knife at Laurel.
    The knife went deep into Laurel’s shoulder and she screamed.
    “You bitch.” Tears streamed down her face as blood flowed down her chest. Laurel made a strange growling sound, and pulled the trigger.
    Sherlock felt the sharp punch of the bullet. She wanted to pull the knife out of Laurel’s shoulder and slam it into her black heart. But she knew she couldn’t do it. She was on her knees, couldn’t seem to stand. She stared at Laurel, and fell onto her side.
    Was that Rachael yelling? At Laurel? “You bloody bitch! That’s it, I’ve had it with you, do you hear me?” She heard a door slam in the distance, fast footsteps, heard a struggle, then Rachael screaming, “I’ve got the gun! Quincy, Stefanos, don’t you two move! No, wait, move —I want to wipe you off the face of the earth! You murdering bastards, you murdered my father!”
    Even though she couldn’t move, Sherlock heard the sound of men’s voices, then Quincy yelling. Why? Maybe to save himself from Rachael?
    Sherlock smiled. One of the men’s voices was Dillon’s. He’d taken his time, but he was here now. Finally he was here. She heard Rachael shouting, heard Dillon’s voice, quiet and close. Everything was all right now.
    She felt cold suddenly, but it didn’t matter. Dillon would see to things. She closed her eyes and let her brain shut down.

SIXTY-FOUR
    Savich lightly rubbed his fingers along her palm. He hated that her beautifulhand was limp, the flesh flaccid. But he’d put cream on her hands and they were soft. Two days, two whole days since that crazy woman shot you. Two days, but at least you’ll live. I’ve prayed so much I’ll bet God has closed down the switchboard. Do you know how close Laurel came to killing you? Jack was squeezing your side so tight you’re still bruised.
    Savich looked up to see Mr. Maitland standing quietly in the doorway.
    “The pain was pretty sharp so they gave her some more morphine,” Savich said. “She’s out. Before she closed her eyes, she asked me if she’d gotten Stefanos’s ribs. I told her three of them were busted, that he was hurting pretty bad. She said her aim with her Swiss Army knife wasn’t what you’d call real accurate—small wonder since it isn’t made for throwing. I told her Laurel wasn’t feeling too hot, either, and wasn’t it better that she’d stand trial and lose everything?
    “Then she