In Pursuit of Justice (34 page)

“No.”

“Anyone on the street—someone who might have been watching the building?”

“No,” Sloan repeated hoarsely, opening her eyes and bracing her forearms on the table, staring at the speckled gray surface, trying not to see the spreading pool of Michael’s blood. “Nothing. No one.”

“Okay.” Rebecca curled her fingers around the rigid arm and squeezed firmly. “Thanks.”

For now, that would have to be enough. Tomorrow, she would ask Sloan again. Right now, the woman was clearly numb with shock and fear. When the horror had receded just a bit, she might remember more.

“It was supposed to have been me,” Sloan said dully.
It should have been me. I wish to God it had been. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry…

“That’s my read on it, too,” Rebecca said, knowing that only the truth would help ease Sloan’s guilt. “The timing is too damned coincidental for this to be anything else. Who knows about the operation tomorrow night besides you and Jason?”

“No one.” Sloan’s face hardened, and anger began to dispel the mind-numbing dread. “Michael…Michael left town before the whole thing came down, and I didn’t tell her when I spoke to her on the phone.”
I didn’t want her to come home early. Didn’t want her to worry.

“What about Jason?”

Sloan shook her head. “Jason may have told Sarah; you can ask him. But Sarah’s ex–State Department. She’d never say anything to anyone.”

“I’ll double-check with him just to be sure,” Rebecca commented, but she was inclined to agree that the leak hadn’t come from the three of them.

Suddenly, Sloan stiffened. “Clark. Clark called this morning…uh, Saturday—yesterday morning—and I told him we had something. That we expected an operation to go off before the end of the weekend.”

Rebecca was silent, considering Sloan’s information. Clearly, their plans had been revealed to someone who felt that Sloan, as the person most likely to uncover someone via the computer traces, was the biggest threat. The choices for the source of the leak were limited. Besides Sloan and Jason, Mitchell and Catherine knew of the upcoming meet. Neither of them had the right kind of contacts, even if they
had
slipped and mentioned the plans, which she doubted.

She herself had told Captain Henry when she’d briefed him about the warrant. Recalling Trish Mark’s observation that after Captain Henry and the chief of detectives had met with her boss, the investigation into Jeff Cruz’s and Jimmy Hogan’s murders had been dropped, Rebecca considered that it might have been him. It was hard for her to believe that John Henry was on the payroll of the organized crime syndicate—or dirty in any way, for that matter, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

Then there was Avery Clark, who had come out of nowhere and put together an elite but highly unusual team. Their small group resembled the black-ops units that worked undercover, often employing less than sanctioned avenues of investigation—just like Sloan had been doing, and as Clark must have known she would. And just as with those covert units, if something went wrong, the government would be largely unaccountable. Clark remained a cipher, as did his true motives, and that made him a very good suspect.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this, Sloan. You have my word,” Rebecca said stonily. “For now, we have to assume that no one is above suspicion.”

Ali Torveau slid the CAT scan onto the view box and pointed. “Linear nondisplaced skull fracture, right here in the occipital area. Big scalp laceration over it—lot of blood loss from that. Brain looks okay, although I’m sure there’s a significant contusion.”

Catherine studied the scan, nodding. “What about systemic injuries?”

“In addition to the head injury? Bilateral pulmonary effusions, fractured left renal pelvis, and a hemarthrosis of the left knee. Basically, she got bounced around big time, but most of the major organ systems were spared long-term damage.”

“What about the kidney injury? Is it going to require surgery?”

“Probably not,” the trauma surgeon said. “We’ll repeat the CAT scan in six hours and follow her hemoglobins, but the perirenal space is so tight, hemorrhage usually stops on its own. Fortunately, her pulmonary status is stable right now, too, and I just took out the endotracheal tube. There’s always a possibility that she could develop acute respiratory distress syndrome, but we’ll cross that road when we come to it.”

“What about the intracranial injury?” Catherine inquired. “Any idea what to expect in terms of her regaining consciousness?”

“She’s likely to have increased brain edema over the next few hours—maybe days.” Again, Torveau shrugged. “She’ll wake up when her neurons recover from being shaken all to hell. I can ask neurology to come and see her, but you know damn well they’re going to say they can’t tell us anything.”

Catherine smiled. She was well aware that surgeons had little regard for medical specialists who generally were unable to give a hard and fast prognosis. “If you’re confident that there’s no surgical problem, I’m sure her family will be, too. Can I see her for a minute before I talk to her partner? I just want to be able to prepare her before she sees Michael.”

“Sure,” Torveau said. “She’s in trauma bay one. Bring her partner in whenever you want. I’ve got to go; there’s a spleen that wants to be liberated waiting for me upstairs in the OR. The family can catch me later if they have questions.”

“Go ahead, and thanks for letting me take up your time.”

“No problem.” And then she pushed through the double doors and was gone.

Catherine walked through the treatment area to one of the cubicles where stabilized patients awaited transfer to regular hospital rooms. Nodding to a nurse who was busy charting the events of the resuscitation, Catherine approached the bed where Michael lay. On the far side of the small room, a rack of monitors gave continuous readouts of her status while IV poles hung with resuscitation fluids stood silent sentinel.

“Michael,” Catherine said softly, bending down close to her. It was impossible to tell what an unconscious person heard or stored in their memory to be recalled weeks, months, or even years later. She always assumed they were listening, and she always spoke to them as if they would remember. “My name is Catherine Rawlings. I’m a friend of Sloan’s.”

To her surprise, Michael’s eyelids fluttered and her left hand twitched. Reaching for her hand, Catherine cradled the slender fingers in hers. “Michael?”

Michael opened her eyes, her pupils wide and unfocused. “Slo…an?”

“She’s outside. She’s just fine.”

Catherine thought she saw a flicker of a smile before the other woman drifted away again. “And she’ll be much, much better now,” she whispered, gently releasing Michael’s hand.

*

Rebecca and Sloan walked out of the consultation room, and the first person they saw was Avery Clark. Rebecca wasn’t even aware of Sloan moving, but in the next instant, the security expert had the federal agent up against the wall with her hands fisted in the folds of his jacket.

“It’s about time you told us what the fuck is going on,” Sloan snarled, inches from his face. “Justice is famous for keeping secrets, and one of your secrets almost got my lover killed.” She punctuated each word with a shove that bounced him against the wall.

For an instant, Clark looked stunned, and then Rebecca saw his hand move under his jacket in the direction of his weapon. In all likelihood, it was an automatic response to Sloan’s unexpected attack, but Rebecca wasn’t about to let weapons come out.

“Sloan,” she barked, “let him go.”

Sloan appeared not to hear as she pushed Clark’s body hard against the wall again. Rebecca moved to separate them, grasping Sloan’s left shoulder with her right hand and wedging herself between them.

“Back off, Sloan.”

This time, Sloan might have heard, because she appeared to loosen her grip on Clark’s jacket. Apparently, that had been the opening Clark was waiting for, because he brought both arms forcefully up between Sloan’s, breaking her grip and shoving her back at the same time. The force of his blow deflected off Sloan’s arms as she let go, and his swinging fists caught Rebecca in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Rebecca rocked back on her heels, pain exploding in her chest.

By that time, they had drawn a crowd. Jason jumped between Clark and Sloan, and the two men began shouting. Sarah grasped Sloan’s side, gently but firmly pulling her away. Rebecca sagged against the wall, one hand pressed to her chest, struggling to get her breath and trying to see through a red-hot wave of pain.

“For God’s sake!” Catherine exclaimed, having seen the last of the altercation as she hurried down the hall toward them. “Have you
all
lost your minds? Sarah, take Sloan back to the waiting room. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She was nearly running by the time she reached Rebecca, her heart in her throat. Agony was carved into every line of the detective’s body, and for one terrifying second, Catherine flashed back to Rebecca as she had seen her the night in Sandy’s apartment—gasping for breath, one lung down, on the brink of full arrest.
Oh no, not again.

“Rebecca!”

Rebecca forced herself to focus and took a slow, shallow breath. “I’m okay,” she managed, reading the panic in Catherine’s face. After taking another shaky breath, she repeated, “I’m okay. He just…surprised…me, that’s all.”

“You need to sit down,” Catherine said in a voice that she hoped sounded calmer than she felt.

“Okay, right. Just…give me a minute,” Rebecca said, uncertain that she could actually make it across the room. Still sagged against the wall, she looked around, putting together the events of the last few furious minutes. “Where’s Sloan?”

“Sarah has her. Rebecca, please,” Catherine said, slipping her arm around Rebecca’s waist. “Come on, darling.”

“What about Clark?” Rebecca said through gritted teeth.
Christ, my chest hurts.

“With Jason, I think.” Catherine gave up trying to keep her lover quiet and simply guided her slowly across the room to the row of orange plastic molded seats. “Sit. I mean it.”

Rebecca sank down willingly and leaned her head back against the institutional tan wall. “What a fuck-up.”

“I’ll be right back,” Catherine murmured. Returning a second later with a stethoscope borrowed from one of the trauma nurses, she leaned down, unbuttoned Rebecca’s shirt, and slipped the bell under the material. “Breathe.”

Rebecca took a breath, and then another. It hurt, but she was getting air. “I’m…okay.”

“Shh,” Catherine admonished, moving the stethoscope over both sides of Rebecca’s chest. Finally satisfied, she sat beside her and slipped the instrument from around her neck. “You sound okay. We should probably get a chest x-ray just to be sure.”

For a moment, Rebecca looked as if she might protest, then she nodded. “Can it wait until I get everybody settled down here?”

Catherine didn’t want to negotiate where Rebecca’s well-being was concerned, but she recognized the attempt at compromise. Inwardly, she was still trembling, but Rebecca was trying to meet her halfway, and she needed to try, also. “All right, that’s a deal. But not more than an hour.”

“Good enough,” Rebecca said, bracing one hand on the back of the plastic seat and getting just a bit shakily to her feet. “I’ll find you before then, and we can get the x-ray.”

“Promise?”

Gently, Rebecca brushed the wisps of hair back from Catherine’s temple. There had been too much fear for one evening. For one lifetime. And she couldn’t swear it wouldn’t happen again. But this she could do.

“Yes. I promise.”

*

Down the hall, Sloan approached the narrow steel stretcher with her stomach roiling. Michael looked so frail attached by a myriad of lines and wires and tubes to machines that metered out her life in an impersonal series of beeps and flashing readouts. Swallowing hard against the rise of acid in her throat, Sloan took the slender hand that rested motionless on the white sheets between both of hers.

Leaning down, she whispered, “Hey, baby…it’s me.” She kissed the unconscious woman’s forehead. “Catherine says you’ll be okay.”

Michael’s chest rose and fell steadily, but she gave no sign of recognition. Sloan’s head grew light, and for an instant, panic surged through her.
Oh God, Michael, you have to be okay. I’m not gonna make it if you aren’t. I need you, baby. Please…

In the midst of her terror, Catherine’s words came back to her.

She’s seriously injured, but nothing that won’t heal. She’s young and strong, and she has everything to live for. She has you, Sloan. Just be there for her. That’s all she needs.