Free Tail Spin by Catherine Coulter Page A

losers say,” Sherlock said and went down on her knees to handcuff his wrists in front of him. She gave him a handkerchief. “Here, put some pressure on your forearm. You okay, Dillon?”
    “No problem.” He wasn’t about to tell her his heart had dropped to his heels when the guy pulled out that derringer.
    Sherlock said, “I can’t wait to find out who this moron is. Hey, buddy, you got a name for us?”
    He mumbled something, still enough anger and venom in him to hear in his words.
    “I don’t think that’s anatomically possible,” Sherlock said, and gave him another light kick with the toe of her boot.
    Savich said, “Who trained you? You have been trained. You’re for hire, right?”
    The man didn’t say anything, only moaned and pressed the handkerchief against his forearm. Savich dug into the man’s pockets but only came up with half a pack of sugarless gum and a Swiss Army knife.
    Sherlock said, “You were afraid we’d catch you so you tossed out your wallet, didn’t you? Well, that’s the only thing you got right today. I bet you stole this truck, too, didn’t you? But you know, jerk-face, I’ll bet you’ve got priors, so you’re in the system. We’ll know all about you in no time at all.”
    Forty-five minutes later, the man was in surgery at Franklin County Hospital, two floors down from where Dr. Timothy MacLean lay in a coma.
    Sherlock called Sheriff Hollyfield’s office, spoke to Jack, told him to keep Rachael close. She and Savich met Dr. Hallick in Dr. MacLean’s room.
    Savich and Sherlock had never met Dr. Timothy MacLean, had only seen photos of him. Jack had spoken of his kindness, his wit, his extraordinary insights, his empathy. MacLean and Jack’s dad were friends from way back, and the families had always known each other. MacLean had once played a mean game of tennis, and had one grandchild by his second daughter. They both looked down silently at his waxy gray face. With all the tubes that tethered him to life, they wondered if there was any way he could pull through. He looked withered, a decade older than his forty-nine years.
    Dr. Hallick listened to Dr. MacLean’s heart, took his pulse, then straightened. “We almost had to put him on a respirator when his breathing became erratic. Strange thing is, there is no obvious trauma to his brain on the MRI, except perhaps some slight edema. Bottom line, we don’t know why Dr. MacLean isn’t awake. The fact is, the brain is still something of a mystery to us.
    “What we did notice was atrophy—shrinkage—of the front lobes of his brain. Your colleague Agent Crowne called me and helped us get in touch with his doctors at Duke University Unfortunately for Dr. MacLean, they’d concluded he has frontal lobe dementia, even before this happened. It’s a hell of a thing, a man as distinguished as Dr. MacLean, losing his mind so early.”
    Sherlock said, “Yes, we were aware of that, Doctor. Could Dr. MacLean’s frontal lobe dementia be contributing to his not waking up?”
    “Unlikely, but according to Dr. Kelly, our neurologist, there’s very little experience with that question.” He shrugged. “Nothing more to be done except to wait and see. He’s got two broken ribs and a gash on his chest we’ve sutured and will need to keep an eye on.”
    As for their shooter, he was still in surgery. They’d taken his fingerprints before he’d gone in and they’d find out soon who he was. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had a doubt he was in the database.
    When they walked out of Dr. MacLean’s room, they saw Sheriff Hollyfield leaning against the opposite wall. He’d changed out of his bib overalls and into black slacks, a white shirt, a wool jacket, and boots. He was a slender man, fit, with a pleasant face and dark eyes that had the awareness and intensity shared by most cops. “What do they say about Dr. MacLean? Is he going to make it?”
    “It’s complicated,” Savich said. “Hey, I miss your other duds.”
    “Yeah,