She hoped the four agents outside weren’t freezing their butts off. At least she knew they had hot coffee; she’d taken them a huge thermos about ten o’clock.
She got to the end of the hall and paused for a moment, feeling the house warm around her, breathing in its comforting smells. It took a moment, but Sherlock realized that something was different.
It was quiet in a way she wasn’t used to. Too quiet. She realized that the alarm was off, the very low hum you could barely hear wasn’t there. Panic lurched up into her throat.
She turned to look down the beautifully carved oak staircase. She saw dim light pooling at the bottom from the glass arch above the front door, snowflakes drifting lazily down. She took one step, then another, when a hand hit her square in the middle of the back. She screamed, or at least she thought she did, as she went head over heels down the stairs. Someone passed by her as she lay there facedown on a thick Persian carpet, the breath knocked out of her, barely hanging on to consciousness. She’d struck her head, struck everything on her body, and she could hardly move.
She thought she heard a moan, and then the figure was gone. The front door opened as she stared at it, yes, she was sure it was open, now fully open, because she felt a slice of cold air reach her face, and she shivered.
The front door stayed open. Only an instant passed before she realized what had happened. Someone had shoved her down the stairs. Someone had just gone out through the front door.
She managed to stagger to her feet, fear swamping her. Tammy Tuttle, it had to be her, but how? How had she gotten past the agents and into the house? Why hadn’t Sherlock seen her?
She threw back her head and yelled, “Dillon! Oh God, Dillon, come quickly!”
Savich and Simon appeared at the top of the stairs at the same time, both wearing only boxer shorts. A light went on.
“Sherlock!”
Savich was beside her, holding her tightly against him, then gently pushing her down, afraid that he was hurting her.
Sherlock came back up, grabbed his arms. “No, no, Dillon, I’m okay. Tammy—she was here; she shoved me down the stairs. The alarm was off and I was just coming downstairs to check. I heard a woman’s moan. It wasn’t me. Where’s Lily? Dear God, check Lily!”
Simon was back up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. They heard him yell, “She’s gone!”
Dillon grabbed his cell phone to call the agents outside.
Simon turned on all the lights as Dillon was speaking to the agents. The front door was open and there was no sign of Lily. Somehow, Tammy had taken her out without Sherlock seeing anything.
Savich stood on his front porch in his boxer shorts, straining to see through the snow falling like a thin, white curtain in front of him, into the darkness beyond.
• Jimmy Maitland said as he sipped his coffee, so blessedly hot that it nearly burned his tongue, “What do the folk in Behavioral Sciences have to say?”
Savich said, “Jane Bitt is guessing, she freely admits it, but as far as she knows, no one has ever before encountered anything like Tammy Tuttle. She may have some sort of genetic gift, be able to project what she wants you to see. What’s amazing is the scope. She had everyone in that airport in Antigua believing she was a man, and this is what makes her so unique. Jane said that even given that, we shouldn’t focus exclusively on it—there’s just no percentage to it. She says there’s no beating her that way. We should focus on a woman with one arm who’s twenty-three years old. What would she do? If we can predict that, she’s vulnerable.”
“But we don’t know what she’ll do, where she’d take Lily,” Sherlock said.
“She was supposed to come after me here, not Lily—to tear my fucking head off,” Savich said slowly, staring at his hands, which were clasped tightly together around Sherlock’s waist.
Jimmy Maitland blinked. He had never heard Savich utter a profanity before, and then he realized he was quoting Tammy.
Simon was on his feet, pacing in front of the two of them. He was wearing only wrinkled black wool slacks, no shirt, even his feet were bare.
“Listen, Savich, you know she took Lily because she figured it was better revenge than just killing you. Now, think, dammit. Where would Tammy Tuttle take Lily?”
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning and snow was still falling lightly. No one said a word. Savich sat in his favorite chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock leaning against him.
Then Sherlock said very softly, “I think I know where she might have taken Lily.”