The Edge

sock. There was dark bruising but no broken skin. "I have Sherlock to thank for these thick wool socks. It's good to get that thing off me." He sounded like himself, which was a big relief.

    We had no choice but to wait for Molinas to come to his senses. There was a bucket of water on a rickety table in the corner. Laura threw it on him.

    Savich pulled Sherlock up against him. "Sherlock. Come on, love, wake up. You can do it. Wake up." I watched Savich lightly slap her cheeks. "Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes. Hey, I'll let you throw me the next time we're in the gym, but you've got to wake up for me now."

    Finally, she did open her eyes and look up at him. She looked drugged, strung out, and when she whispered, "Dillon?" her voice was slurred.

    "She recognizes you," Laura said. "That's a good start."

    "It's me, Sherlock. It's all right now. Mac and Laura are here. We're leaving."

    "He's here, Dillon," she whispered, rubbing her fingers against her temple. "He's tucked right behind my left ear. He's laughing. He won't leave me alone, and he's still laughing. He won't stop. Please, Dillon, please make him stop." She closed her eyes again and slumped back against Savich's arm.

    "Is she talking about Marlin Jones?" I asked, kicking Molinas lightly in the ribs. He was still trying to catch a breath.

    "Yes," Savich said, never looking away from Sher-lock's chalky face. "The drug they've been giving her brought him back, planted him in her mind and magnified him, made him into even more of a monster than he really was, and that's saying something. He's there in her head, as real as you are."

    "It did the same thing to me," I said slowly, "but it just happened once. I relived the car bomb in Tunisia. You're right. It was worse remembering it than when it actually happened. Paul said the drug was supposed to lessen the power of a bad memory."

    Molinas struggled to sit up. "Yes, the drug is supposed to relieve the physical symptoms. They promised me it would. But there's something wrong. The drug shouldn't bring the memory to the forefront.

    "It's like you said, the drug is supposed to dissipate the physical symptoms, and with repeated doses finally remove the horror of the memory. But it doesn't work. I tried different doses and even different additives to see if I couldn't fix the drug. But it doesn't work."

    I went down on my haunches in front of Molinas. "What happened to your daughter?"

    "She was raped three years ago right on campus at her private school. She was only fifteen years old. Four older boys raped her. It destroyed her. They promised me the drug would help her, that's the only reason I got involved with Alyssum and Del Cabrizo in the first place, to help my daughter.

    "That's why I gave her the drug. I injected her myself. But it hasn't worked. Her memories of that night have grown worse, not better. The drug is killing her!"

    "So you gave Sherlock an even larger dose and mixed in other drugs?" I asked.

    Molinas stared into Savich's eyes and saw his own death there. He quickly leaned over and vomited on the wooden floor.

    Savich carried Sherlock in his arms. She was conscious now, but her eyes were heavy and vague. He'd wrapped her in all the blankets that were in that cell. She was disturbingly silent, quiescent. That really worried me. My mouthy Sherlock, who usually ordered everyone around, including her husband, was lying like a ghost, not really there. Laura walked behind them, carrying two AK-47s. I marched Molinas in front of me, the Bren Ten pressed against the small of his back, another AK-47 slung over my left shoulder.

    "Take me to Jilly," I said to Molinas. "Now. I want to see my sister. She's coming out with us."

    "Your sister isn't here," Molinas said. I could tell it hurt him to speak.

    I smiled at him. "I don't believe you. She came to me. She spoke to me, she warned me."

    He said slowly, "It must have been the drug. Your sister was never here. Never. I have no reason to lie to you about that. It was the drag. It's unpredictable. But I have never heard of it doing that before."

    Was that possible? Jilly had been standing over me, clear as day. She'd been with me, speaking to me, dammit.

    "She's never been here," Molinas repeated.

    "But you know her?" Laura said.

    "I know who she is," Molinas said carefully. We stopped and kept silent. There were men speaking not fifteen feet away. About three minutes later their boot steps faded down the long wooden corridor.

    We