Tail Spin

their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”
    Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”
    Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?” Rachael maintained a stony silence.
    “Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”
    “Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.
    Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”
    “I’ll live.”
    “And that’s the best news.”
    “Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”
    Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”
    “Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”
    “I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”
    “She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher. These guys must know, Rachael.”
    “There’s got to be another honest mechanic.”
    “Well, all right, there is one, but he’s down with a bad back.” She watched Agent Savich shrug, the jerk. He continued without pause to Jack. “Dr. MacLean’s still out of it, so they don’t know yet what’s going on with him. They’re calling his condition guarded.
    “Tommy Jerkins should be here anytime to check out the plane. Okay, Sherlock, if you come with me, I’ve got more calls to make from Sheriff Hollyfield’s office. I want to make sure, too, that his deputies have arrived at the hospital to do guard duty. You really are better, aren’t you?” he asked Jack.
    Jack said, “Well, I don’t want to moan anymore, so that’s something.”
    “Good. All right then, you can question Rachael, sift through more of her memories of the crash. Remember, Rachael, anything you might remember could be of great help. We’ll see you guys a bit later.”
    What Savich had really meant was keep Rachael close, Jack thought. Once alone, he said, “You ready to tell me your last name?”

NINE
    It’s Abercrombie.” Why had that ridiculous name popped into her head? “How’s your leg?”
    “It will heal, thank you for asking. I can’t go to the gym for a week, then I’ve got to go easy for a while.” Jack buttoned his shirt, then threw back the single sheet before realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist. “Since my head isn’t going to explode, I’m ready to get up now. Dr. Post said it was okay as long as I don’t attempt a marathon,” and he smiled. “Would you hand me my pants, Rachael? They’re on the hook on the back of the door.”
    She handed him his dirty, ripped pants and left the room, saying over her shoulder, “You’re going to look like the leftovers from a drug war.”
    “Nice image.”
    They left