THE MAZE by Catherine Counlter

She smiled up at Savich. “I sure hope he bites the big one. If he doesn’t die, he’ll prove he’s mad, which he is, and if he gets a liberal judge and easy shrinks then he could be pronounced cured and let out to do it all again in another seven years and then he-You pulled that knife out of me. It sort of hurts really bad now. Goodness, look at all that blood.”

Her eyes simply drifted closed, her head lolling to the side.

“Damnation,” Savich said, and pressed harder on the wound.

He heard two men and a woman calling out, “Let us through. Paramedics! Let us through!”

Savich took the Lady Colt from her slack fingers, stared down at the little gun that could so easily kill a human being, shook his head, and pocketed it. He didn’t touch the bloody knife.

15

SHE WOKE UP IN THE ambulance, flat on her back, an IV dripping into her arm, two blankets pulled up to her chin. A female paramedic was sitting at her feet. Savich was sitting beside her, his face an inch from hers.

He said the moment her eyes opened, “It’s all right, Sher-lock. Mrs. Jameson here redid the bandage on your arm, applied a little pressure, and the wound is only bleeding lightly. You’re going to have to be checked for any arterial damage, then have some stitches when we get to the hospital, and antibiotics, but you deserve it. I’m going to tell the doctor not to anesthetize you at all and use a big needle. The IV in your arm is just water and some salts, nothing for you to worry about. I told you, the knife just nicked you, no big deal.”

Her arm burned so hot she was vaguely surprised that it didn’t burst into flame. She managed to smile. “So I’m not to whine?”

“Right.”

Mrs. Jameson said, “You’ve got great veins. How do you feel, Agent Sherlock?”

“Really good actually,” she said and nearly groaned.

“She’s lying. It hurts like hell. Listen to me, Sherlock. When Marlin threw the knife at you, if you hadn’t already been moving away, it would have gone right through your heart and none of us would have been able to stop it. What you did really makes me mad. I never should have trusted you, never. I was sure you knew what you were doing, but you didn’t. You turned those green eyes of yours on me and that super-sincere FBI voice, and I bought everything you told me. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did, so it’s my fault too. Damn you, you lost it with that murdering bastard and you didn’t even care. You pushed him and pushed him. He could have forgotten all about his act. He could have just killed you without following his script. That was stupid. That really pisses me off, Sherlock.”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Jameson, drawing Savich off. “But I can’t give you any pain medication. We’ll have to let the doctor decide on that. Your blood pressure’s just fine. Now, just hang in there. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

At that moment, when she thought her arm would burn off her body, she said, “I’m sorry, Dillon, but I had to.”

“Why did you shoot him in the gut? Why didn’t you go for his chest?”

Her eyes were vague, filled with blurred shadows, but she knew there were no more ghosts to weave in and out of her mind, tormenting her. No, everything was all right now. His voice seemed farther away than just an instant before. What had Dillon wanted to know? Oh yes. She licked her lips, and whispered, “I wanted him to suffer. Through the heart would have been too easy on him.”

“Finish it, Sherlock.”

“All right, the truth. He hasn’t told us everything. If I could have gotten all of it out of him, then I would have shot him clean. Well, maybe. Yes, we have to get him to tell us everything, then I’ll shoot him in the chest, I promise.”

She was utterly serious. On the other hand, she was woozy from pain and shock. He said slowly, smiling at her, “Actually, if you hadn’t shot him at all, if the bullet hadn’t thrown him a good three feet backward in the same instant, he would have had at least thirty rounds pumped into him. So, Sherlock, the bottom line is that you really saved his life.”