The Maze

drank some water, she said, "I think the FBI pays you too much money. You could open this place to the public and charge admission."

    "I'm poor, Sherlock. I inherited this house and a bit on the side from my grandmother. She was an artist-watercolors and acrylics."

    "Was she a professional? What was her name?"

    "Sarah Elliott."

    She just stared at him, one eyebrow arched, chewing another saltine cracker. "You're kidding," she said finally. "You're telling me that the Sarah Elliott was your grandmother?"

    "Yes. She was my mother's mom. A great old lady. She died five years ago when she was eighty-four. I remember she told me that it was time for her to go because the arthritis had gotten really bad in her hands. She couldn't hold her paintbrushes anymore. I told her that her talent wasn't in her hands, it was in her mind. I told her to stop bitching and to hold the paintbrushes between her teeth." He paused a moment, smiling toward a painting of an orchid just beginning to bloom. "I thought at first that she would slug me, then she started laughing. She had this really deep, full laugh. She lived for another year, holding the paintbrushes between her dentures." He would never forget the first time he'd seen her with that paintbrush sticking out of her mouth, smiling when she saw him, nearly dropping the brush. It had been one of the happiest moments of his life.

    "And you were Sarah Elliott's favorite grandchild? That's why she left you this beautiful house in the middle of Georgetown?"

    "Well, she was worried since I'd chosen the FBI and computer shenanigans for a career."

    "Shenanigans? I like that. But what exactly was she worried about?" She pulled the afghan higher up on her chest. A headache was slowly building behind her left ear. She hated it. Even her arm ached where Marlin Jones had knifed her weeks before.

    "She was afraid that my artistic side would stultify, what with the demands of my job and with my constant computer fiddling."

    "Ah, so this place is to inspire you? Get you in touch with your artistic genes?"

    "Yes. You look green, Sherlock. I think it's time you took a nap. Do you have to puke?"

    "Living here still hasn't kicked in your artistic genes enough. Puke is a dreadful word. May I just stay here for a while? It's very comfortable. I'm just a bit on the thready side."

    "No wonder," he said, and watched her head loll to the side. She was out. The chair was oversized, so he wasn't worried that she'd wake up stiff as a pretzel. He unfolded another afghan over her, one his mother had knitted, this one so soft it spilled through the fingers. He stroked it as he gently tucked it around her shoulders. She'd French-braided her hair, but it really wasn't long enough, and so auburn spikes stuck up here and there. Several strands of hair fell about her face, curling around just a bit. The big Band-Aid looked absurd plastered over the shaved spot on her temple, faintly pathetic really, since she was so pale.

    All she needed was a little rest. She'd be just fine. He lightly stroked his fingertips over her eyebrows.

    He saw she had a spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

    She didn't have any freckles anywhere else. And he'd looked. He hadn't meant to, but he had. He really liked the freckles on her nose.

    No doubt about it. He was in deep shit.

    She woke up to the smell of garlic, onion, and tomatoes. Her mouth started watering even before her brain fully registered food. Her stomach growled. She felt just fine, no more nausea.

    "Good, you're awake."

    "What are you cooking?"

    "Penne pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, pesto, onions, and garlic. And some garlic toast. You're drooling, Sherlock. You've got an appetite, I hope."

    "I could eat this afghan."

    "Not that one, please. It's my favorite. The nurses told me you hadn't eaten much all day. Time to stuff yourself. First, here's a couple of pills for you to take."

    She took them without asking what they were.

    "No wine. How about some cider?" He put a tray over her legs and watched her take her first bite of Savich pesto pasta. She closed her eyes as she slowly, very slowly, chewed, and chewed some more until there was nothing left in her mouth but the lingering burst of pesto and garlic. She licked her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes, stared at him for a very long time, then said, "You'll make a fantastic husband, Dillon. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life."

    "It's my mom's recipe. She taught me how to make