THE MAZE by Catherine Counlter

He did. Soon the pain was nothing but an annoying throbbing that didn’t even touch his mind. “Good stuff,” he said.

“The best,” Quinlan said. “It’s from our favorite doctor.”

“Ah, Dr. Ned Breaker.”

“He said just give him a call if you need him to drive up and check you out.”

“Let’s call him,” Sally said. “Savich, you really don’t look so hot.”

“I’m feeling better by the minute,” Savich said. “Really. I’m not stupid. Everything’s okay.”

“You ready for something to eat? Marvin caught three bass, good-size suckers. I gutted them and Sally fried them.”

Savich thought he’d puke right there. The thought of anything fried went right to his belly and turned nasty.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lacey said, lightly cupping his cheek in her hand. “We’ll have the good stuff and Dillon here can have some soup. Got any chicken noodle, Sally?”

Lacey didn’t want to leave him alone. She slept beside the sofa on three blankets, close enough to hear him breathing.

The next morning, Lacey came into the house to see Dillon standing at the small bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He was drinking a cup of coffee. He needed to shave.

“You’re not dead.”

He grinned at her over the rim of his cup. “Nope, but I appreciate you sleeping guard beside me all night. You know what might be fun, Sherlock? We could strip naked and have a bruise-off contest. I just might be catching up with you. How’s your left side?”

“Hardly any bruising at all. How could Marlin Jones have rented the car, Dillon?”

“Obviously someone else did, using his name. You and I are going to California tomorrow, okay?”

“No, not until you’re back to your full strength. I’m not going to take any more chances with you.”

“That sounds nice.”

She walked to him, lightly kissed his mouth, then pulled up his shirt. “I’ll be objective. Now, I think my ribs looked more like the Italian flag than yours do.” He felt her fingers on his flesh, light, so light, not hurting him at all, just skimming over his flesh, and to his own blessed wonder, he got hard. He didn’t mean to say it, but the words just came right out of his mouth. “Do you think you could go a bit lower?”

Her fingers stopped cold. Then, she laughed, “Dillon, I’m going to have us fly First Class, all right?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be okay by day after tomorrow, I swear it. We’ll have a day to make some plans with Quinlan.” He sucked in his breath and stared at her.

Her fingers had gone beneath the waistband of his slacks, tangling in the hair at his groin. He didn’t know about this, didn’t know if he was going to start crying or shouting or just moaning, and not from any pain in his ribs. Her fingers touched him, then he was enclosed against her palm. He was going to die, lose it, be premature, the whole thing. But then it was academic. Marvin came into the house, singing at the top of his lungs.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said and kissed his ear. He sighed deeply. “Do you think maybe I did something really bad in a former lifetime?”

“You’re breathing awfully hard, Dillon.” “Hey, Chicky, what’d you do to our boy here?” “I was just checking him out. Just like you did, Marvin.” “I doubt that, Chicky. I surely doubt that. More like you tortured the poor man but good.”

27

LACEY STARED AT THE doorbell for a long time before she rang it. Savich didn’t say a word, just looked beyond the Art Deco three-story mansion to the incredible view of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and the stark Marin Headlands in the distance. The day was sharp and cool, so clear and vivid it made your eyes sting. There were dozens of sailboats on the Bay. The air was crisp and sharp.

A middle-aged black woman, plump, very pretty, her eyes bright with intelligence, opened the door, gasped, and grabbed Lacey into her arms. “My baby, it’s you, it’s really you. Thank God you’re home. They’ve been telling me for weeks that you’d come home and now you’re here. But I’d begun to believe that you’d finally turned your back.”