There was another yelp.
“Four shots,” Savich said. “In the butt. She deserves all the jabs the doctor gives her. I wonder what that last one was for? Maybe part of her punishment.”
A few minutes later, Lacey came out of the small cubicle tucking in her blouse with one hand since her other arm was in a dark blue sling. “He’s a sadist,” she said to Savich before she saw the two cops. “He’s not trite, but he is a sadist. I think I might invite him to dinner just so I can poison his food.”
“You look pretty fit, Agent Sherlock,” Captain Dougherty told her, and patted her good shoulder with a beefy hand. “We thought maybe you guys wanted to come upstairs to see about Marlin Jones’s condition.”
“As of now I’m officially discharged and I wouldn’t miss it,” Lacey said, then looked up at Savich. “What about you, sir? Are you feeling better too? Not quite as violent as you were five minutes ago?”
He wanted to wrap his hands around her skinny neck and squeeze. But it would have to wait. “Allow me the courtesy of processing my violent thoughts without further comment from you, Sherlock. Trust me, it’s to your benefit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not going to collapse or anything, are you, Agent Sherlock?”
“No, Ralph, I promise. I’m just fine.” She lasted until they got to the OR waiting room. No one could tell them anything. Jones was still in surgery. They settled in, Savich sitting next to Sherlock. She crashed two minutes later.
“I think she’s out,” Savich said. “Tell you what, I’ll take her back to the hotel. Call me in the morning with Jones’s condition and when the doctors think we’ll be able to talk to him. Sherlock will be mad as hell to miss anything, but I doubt the dead could rouse her right now.”
Ralph Budnack reached back and lightly shook her shoulder. She fell more onto Savich.
“Yeah, she’s out like a light. Keep an eye on her, Savich. She scared the hell out of every cop in that warehouse, but she sure got the job done. Funny thing how her shooting him saved his life. If you hadn’t called a quick halt, the cops would have turned him into a pincushion. Hey, we’ll call tomorrow. Oh yeah, we got a lot on film.”
Savich carried her into the hotel, over one wimpy protest. At least it was late and only one old guy thought Savich was a pervert, from the way he was licking his chops. Because Savich was worried about leaving her alone, he took her to his room, pulled off her shoes, and tucked her into his bed. He turned the light on low over by the desk by the windows. He called Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, to tell him they’d caught the String Killer. He wasn’t about to tell his boss just yet that Agent Sherlock had nearly gotten herself killed because she’d lost all sense and turned into a cowboy, something the Bureau ferociously discouraged.
Lacey slept through the night. She came abruptly awake early the next morning. Her eyes flew open, she realized her arm felt on fire, and yelped.
“Good morning. You’re alive, I see.”
She frowned up at him, trying to piece things together. “Oh, I’m in your room.”
“No one should croak alone,” he said. “You look like hell. However, I got your clothes from your room. If you feel up to it, go bathe and change. When you come out, breakfast should be here. Lots of protein, lots of iron, lots of orange juice.”
“What’s the orange juice for?”
“To keep you from coming down with a cold.”
He watched her swing her legs over the side of the bed. That hair of hers had come loose from the clasp and was rioting around her face-red hair that wasn’t really a carrot red or an orange red or even the auburn he’d thought, but a mixture of this color and that. She had lots of hair. Actually-very beautiful hair. She looked totally different. He backed up a step. “I even put out some female stuff on the counter for you. If you need to shave your legs, forget it. I’ve only got one razor.”