Whiplash

your medical and your car."
    Erin sighed. "Bowie said he'd help me find a new Hummer, but even if it's pale blue, it just won't be the same thing."
    "Dillon's Porsche got blown up a while back, just like your Hummer. He's got a new one, looks exactly the same, but sometimes I see him looking at it, all sorts of wistful, and I wonder if he's thinking about his old baby. When I asked him about it, he said time heals all wounds."
    "I sure hope he's right," Erin said.
    Sherlock stood back while Bowie stepped close, pen and notebook in hand, to take down all the insurance information Erin remembered. As she looked at Erin's vague drugged eyes, she realized the suspicions she'd had were inescapable, all the seemingly random points connecting right up. Had Bowie made any connections from everything Erin had let drop?
    She smiled at him when he left the room to deal with hospital administration.
    "You've got the neatest hair, Sherlock. Bowie's right, it's glorious. The color is like the Olympic flame."
    "Thank you."
    Erin grinned. "All those curls, I'll bet Dillon thinks you're edible."
    "Edible? Hmm, now that sounds interesting. Erin, as much as I like hearing Ms. Morphine pay me compliments, it's time we talked." Sherlock pulled a chair close to the bed and said very quietly not three inches from Erin's nose, "I know you're right in the middle of this, Erin. The fact that someone tried to kill you today clinches it. It's time for the truth. I don't want to give whoever is behind this another chance to kill you."
    Erin felt the velvet fist behind the words. She whispered, "You can't know-can you?"
    Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "You've dropped lots of things since we've met. You also tend to speak before you think. With you, if one really listens, everything is right up front."
    Erin shut her eyes. "It's true, I have the biggest mouth. I always have. My dad would say my big mouth was fine by him, I couldn't get away with anything."
    "Does Georgie beat you at poker since everything you're thinking troops right across your face?"
    "Haven't tried poker with her yet. You know, I lied once to a boyfriend in college, and you know what he did? The jerk laughed at me. It was so depressing."
    Sherlock waited.
    Erin felt fatigue wash over her, both fatigue and an overwhelming sense of failure. "I can't tell you, Sherlock, since he's a client. It's confidential. I'll have to speak to him first, see what he says."
    "Since you were nearly murdered, it seems to me this client's answer should be obvious unless he's in this mess up to his eyeballs, unless he knows who's behind the attempt on your life, or unless he's the one who tried to kill you."
    "He's a very nice man, but it's all very complicated. I'm in so bloody deep. I'll probably go to jail."
    Sherlock lightly stroked her fingers over Erin's pale cheek. "Don't be dramatic, it'll be okay. Believe me, nothing's simpler than the truth. Spit it out. We'll deal with it, trust me."
    "No, Sherlock, I simply can't, not until-"
    "Until you speak to your client who's a professor at Yale University?"
    "See? A fine example of my big mouth, but you've got to let me talk to him myself."
    "You really should tell me now, Erin, so we can clean this mess up without your getting killed in the process."
    Erin wished the morphine would knock her out again, but it didn't. She was even feeling some mild throbbing in her back. It wasn't fair. "Can I have more morphine?"
    "Yes," Sherlock said, and left her to speak to the nurse.
    Half an hour later, Sherlock and Bowie were sitting side by side watching Erin sleep the peaceful sleep of the drugged.
    "Well, damn and blast," Bowie said. "She'll have to tell us soon, Sherlock."
    "When she wakes up, I'll get it out of her. I'd rather have the truth when she's alert and willing."
    But what could Erin possibly know? Nothing important, he was sure of that. "Are you going to tell me what you think she knows?"
    "No, let's wait."

36

    MERRITT PARKWAY REST STOP
    Thursday afternoon

    Caskie Royal zipped up his pants, walked to the rusted sink with its dulled mirror, and stared at a face he hardly recognized. In only four days, fear had leached the color from his skin, and his jowls looked pale and saggy. He looked ill, terminally ill. That thought brought a ghastly smile to his face.
    He was afraid, more afraid than he'd believed possible ever since that woman had broken into his office on Sunday night. He'd asked himself over and over how she'd known about the