Backfire
Page 7
Savich smiled, listening to Sherlock wail. “Oh, dear, Sean, how am I going to save myself this time? Atoc’s shoved me in a pit of purple-headed Amazonian hippo snakes. Ah, here’s what I’ll do,” and Sherlock walloped one of the writhing hippo snakes with a canoe paddle. Since she was the master Incan mathematician, Professor Pahuac, and rotten to the bone, she knew her end probably wouldn’t be a good one.
San Francisco
Friday, early afternoon
Lieutenant Vincent Delion of the SFPD, and a longtime friend, met them at airport baggage claim. He told them he’d talked Cheney into letting him come get them. He told them the San Francisco Feds didn’t know squat yet, and neither did the SFPD, and he told them about the task force Police Commissioner Montoya announced she’d like to form, just a couple of hours ago—with the FBI’s assistance, of course. He tossed Savich a copy of the Chronicle. “Read this.” Savich and Sherlock looked at the big block headline: JUDGE DREDD SHOT.
Delion soon pulled his Crown Vic into the heavy 101 traffic north to the city. “At least Ramsey is holding on. None of us wanted a murder case, particularly not his. I can’t imagine what would happen to Emma, Molly, and the twins if he died.” There was a punch of hard silence, then, “No, they won’t lose him, they can’t.”
Delion shook his head, lightly stroked big fingers over his pride and joy. He smiled, remembering Sean Savich telling him in grave confidence at the baggage carousel, “I think your mustache is shinier than Hercule Poirot’s.”
Delion told Sean he was a fine judge of mustachios and that his was particularly shiny this morning in honor of meeting the bigwigs from Washington, D.C., their kiddo included.
Delion plowed his hand through his hair. “I’m hoping Ramsey will be ready to speak to us soon at the hospital.”
Sherlock said, “How’s Molly?”
“She’s trying to show she’s solid for the kids’ sake.” He paused for a moment, then added, “After what happened to Emma years ago, they all try to watch out for each other.”
“Is Uncle Ramsey all right, Mama?”
They’d told Sean they were coming to San Francisco because Ramsey had been hurt, nothing more. “He will be all right, Sean. He’s injured, but he’s going to start getting better now.” Please, God, please, God.
“Is Emma okay?”
“She’s fine, Sean. She’s watching Cal and Gage.”
“No wonder,” her five-year-old said. “Cal and Gage are babies. They need all the watching they can get. I’ll help her.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “When we flew out here for Memorial Day weekend six months ago, Sean spent three hours with Emma and the boys, and announced to us he was going to marry Emma and help her teach Cal and Gage about life. I asked him about Marty Perry, his girlfriend next door, and the love of his life. I also asked him about Bowie Richards’s daughter, Georgie, also the love of his life, up in Connecticut. Sean just smiled, didn’t you, kiddo?”
Delion said to Sean, “I agree with you, Sean, Emma’s a champ. As for Marty and Georgie, they sound pretty cool, too. Hey, kid, the older you get the more you look like your old man.”
Sean considered that. “Mama says I’m more handsome than Papa, since I have her smile. She says that makes all the difference.”
Delion laughed.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Savich said, and Sherlock saw Sean repeating his father’s words to himself. She rolled her eyes. She leaned over and ruffled Sean’s thick black hair.
Sean said, sounding a bit worried, “I hope Emma didn’t forget she’s engaged to me.”
“Not a chance,” Savich said. “Do you think your mama could have ever forgotten she was engaged to me?”
“Not a chance,” Sean said.
When they passed by Candlestick Park, Sean said, “That’s where Dwight Clark made The Catch way back in the old days, right, Papa?”
Savich grinned. “It sure is.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “Can you believe he remembers that?”
Delion said, “Yeah, well, his hard drive works better because it isn’t as full as ours.”
All the adults realized any more discussion about Ramsey’s shooting had to wait. Delion was talking about the upcoming 49ers-Seahawks game when Sean said, “Marty asked me when I was going to have a sister because she’s going to have a new brother in March.”
Now, that was a conversation starter.
San Francisco General Hospital
San Francisco
Friday, early afternoon
Lieutenant Vincent Delion of the SFPD, and a longtime friend, met them at airport baggage claim. He told them he’d talked Cheney into letting him come get them. He told them the San Francisco Feds didn’t know squat yet, and neither did the SFPD, and he told them about the task force Police Commissioner Montoya announced she’d like to form, just a couple of hours ago—with the FBI’s assistance, of course. He tossed Savich a copy of the Chronicle. “Read this.” Savich and Sherlock looked at the big block headline: JUDGE DREDD SHOT.
Delion soon pulled his Crown Vic into the heavy 101 traffic north to the city. “At least Ramsey is holding on. None of us wanted a murder case, particularly not his. I can’t imagine what would happen to Emma, Molly, and the twins if he died.” There was a punch of hard silence, then, “No, they won’t lose him, they can’t.”
Delion shook his head, lightly stroked big fingers over his pride and joy. He smiled, remembering Sean Savich telling him in grave confidence at the baggage carousel, “I think your mustache is shinier than Hercule Poirot’s.”
Delion told Sean he was a fine judge of mustachios and that his was particularly shiny this morning in honor of meeting the bigwigs from Washington, D.C., their kiddo included.
Delion plowed his hand through his hair. “I’m hoping Ramsey will be ready to speak to us soon at the hospital.”
Sherlock said, “How’s Molly?”
“She’s trying to show she’s solid for the kids’ sake.” He paused for a moment, then added, “After what happened to Emma years ago, they all try to watch out for each other.”
“Is Uncle Ramsey all right, Mama?”
They’d told Sean they were coming to San Francisco because Ramsey had been hurt, nothing more. “He will be all right, Sean. He’s injured, but he’s going to start getting better now.” Please, God, please, God.
“Is Emma okay?”
“She’s fine, Sean. She’s watching Cal and Gage.”
“No wonder,” her five-year-old said. “Cal and Gage are babies. They need all the watching they can get. I’ll help her.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “When we flew out here for Memorial Day weekend six months ago, Sean spent three hours with Emma and the boys, and announced to us he was going to marry Emma and help her teach Cal and Gage about life. I asked him about Marty Perry, his girlfriend next door, and the love of his life. I also asked him about Bowie Richards’s daughter, Georgie, also the love of his life, up in Connecticut. Sean just smiled, didn’t you, kiddo?”
Delion said to Sean, “I agree with you, Sean, Emma’s a champ. As for Marty and Georgie, they sound pretty cool, too. Hey, kid, the older you get the more you look like your old man.”
Sean considered that. “Mama says I’m more handsome than Papa, since I have her smile. She says that makes all the difference.”
Delion laughed.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Savich said, and Sherlock saw Sean repeating his father’s words to himself. She rolled her eyes. She leaned over and ruffled Sean’s thick black hair.
Sean said, sounding a bit worried, “I hope Emma didn’t forget she’s engaged to me.”
“Not a chance,” Savich said. “Do you think your mama could have ever forgotten she was engaged to me?”
“Not a chance,” Sean said.
When they passed by Candlestick Park, Sean said, “That’s where Dwight Clark made The Catch way back in the old days, right, Papa?”
Savich grinned. “It sure is.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “Can you believe he remembers that?”
Delion said, “Yeah, well, his hard drive works better because it isn’t as full as ours.”
All the adults realized any more discussion about Ramsey’s shooting had to wait. Delion was talking about the upcoming 49ers-Seahawks game when Sean said, “Marty asked me when I was going to have a sister because she’s going to have a new brother in March.”
Now, that was a conversation starter.
San Francisco General Hospital
