THE MAZE by Catherine Counlter

The sergeant was all over Marlin. The door burst open again, and three cops surged in. She wondered why they didn’t just shoot him. It would save the taxpayers millions of dollars. But they didn’t shoot him. She wanted to yell at them that he was filth, that he’d probably go to an institution and maybe get out in twenty years and begin it all again. She managed to keep her rage to herself.

“They’d send me to jail for sure if I did,” Dillon said close to her ear. “Sorry but I can’t, Sherlock.” It was then she realized that she’d just whispered what she was thinking. Only Dillon had heard her, thank God. No one was paying any attention to her at all. They were all over Marlin, dragging him out of the room. She heard someone yell out, “Get a goddamn ambulance in here! The guy cracked his own lawyer’s head!”

Marlin turned very slightly and smiled back at her. “She was good, Marty, really good. That punk husband of hers was a monster, not me. I cared about them, cared about their souls. But he was real bad. She wanted me, Marty, not the other way around, I swear. You know something? I miss Belinda.”

And then he was gone, surrounded by cops, shuffling forward, the leg shackles clanking against the linoleum of the hallway.

“What the hell is going on here?” Savich said, his hand tightly around her wrist.

“Nothing makes any sense, nothing.” They walked out of the station. She remained silent for three blocks, then stopped and said, “He was playing with me, Dillon. The minute I said Belinda’s name, he began his game. You heard all those questions I asked. I was just trying to learn the truth, but now things are muddier than ever.”

“That’s why Big John let you go on and on with Marlin with just a bit of his famous bluster. He wanted to muddy the waters.”

“He succeeded. Do you think Marlin was intimate with Belinda?”

Savich frowned at her, then shook his head.

That evening, on Newbury Street, coming out of Fien Nang Mandarin Restaurant with its red paper lanterns swinging in the evening breeze, Savich was speaking to Sherlock, his hand raised to flag down a taxi. He never saw the car that came around the corner, skidding loudly on two tires, heading right toward them, until it was too late.

He threw her to the sidewalk just before the car struck him, flinging him onto the hood of an old Buick Riviera.

“No doctor, Sherlock. No hospital, no paramedics. Forget it. We can’t afford the time. No, it’s just not the time. Just imagine the police reports, the investigation, the questions, it would take too long. No doctor.”

He was right, but she worried. He was holding his arm, limping slightly. She knew every step hurt him. The elevator door opened onto their floor. He leaned on her heavily. “No, don’t say anything. I’m all right. I’ve had enough injuries over my thirty-four years to know when it’s serious and when I’m just banged up. You promise me you’re okay? I threw you pretty hard.”

“I’m just a little bruised on my left side, nothing more.”

She unlocked the hotel room door. “If I’d been the one struck by the car, what would you have done?”

He stopped in the middle of the room. He had the audacity to grin at her. “You’d be strapped to a gurney on your way to the Emergency Room.”

She shut the door very quietly and locked it. She slid the chain home.

“I see. But you, the big he-man, can take anything anybody dishes out.”

“Yep, that’s about the size of it. Now, I need to make a phone call.”

She got ice and wrapped it in a towel. He was on the phone when she handed it to him. He lifted his shirt and pressed it against his ribs. So, it was his ribs, not his arm.

“Quinlan? I need your help. Yeah, some ugly-ass trouble here in Boston. Can Sherlock and I visit your parents’ cabin on Louise Lynn Lake for a couple of days? No, I’m just not at my best at the moment. A car got me, but I just need a few days to get myself together again. No, nothing to Maitland. He’s not expecting anything in any case. That gives me a little leeway. Yeah, all right.”

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