Sure, she had to keep an eye on all her other patients, but most of them were with family, chowing down on turkey and dressing if they could. Even her elderly patient with Alzheimer’s was with his daughter, who was snacking on turkey and stuffing while she kept vigil. No one was alone today.

It baffled and angered Natalie that someone would want to kill Judge Ramsey Hunt. He was genuinely nice, a treat to the eyes, and, like everyone else taking care of him, she was thankful today of all days that Judge Dredd was doing so well. Another three or four days, she thought, and he should be well enough to go home. Home, maybe, but not back to his normal life. Not while there was a killer who might try for him again. She couldn’t imagine living with that, couldn’t imagine what his family was going through, knowing that a madman was still out there, waiting for another chance.

At first the TV news had showed a picture of a man, Joe Keats, who’d escaped from the Fairmont a couple of days ago, as the man who’d shot Judge Hunt. And today they were showing the picture of a woman instead, who was supposed to be the shooter. She looked, Natalie thought, a bit like her own mother.

Would there be another picture tomorrow? The news didn’t seem to have any idea why she tried to murder Judge Hunt and the FBI agent, but she knew that by the end of the day there would be talking heads arguing over every detail on TV and plastering the Internet with so many opinions even the mullahs in Iran would see them. She could already recite the words: “Anyone with any information about the whereabouts of either of these people—”

SFPD Officer Gavin Hendricks waved his hand in front of her face. “You look a million miles away. Another slice of turkey?”

She shook her head at him, smiling. He’d been guarding Judge Hunt for the past three days. He was a tall black man with a pitiful excuse for a goatee, she’d told him, and he’d laughed and said it was his father’s fault. She said, “If I eat any more I might pop a button, and that wouldn’t be cool at all. What if an emergency turns up? What if a patient sees me with my pants button popped open? It wouldn’t inspire much confidence.”

“You’re sure, Natalie?” Molly Hunt called out. “We’ve got lots.”

“Thank you, Molly, but if I ate another bite, I’d have to find a bench to sit on because my butt would be too big for a chair.”

Gavin laughed. Natalie saw Molly turn to her husband and touch his arm and then his cheek. She did that every few minutes. A lioness always watching.

The room should have been pandemonium with all the visitors—four guards, Judge Hunt’s family, three kids, and a slew of FBI agents. They’d wheeled out the second bed and taken advantage of the largest patient room in the hospital to set up several folding tables provided by the cafeteria, spread a tablecloth over them, and crammed in a dozen chairs. It was a wonder to see in a hospital room, Natalie thought. The table looked like a family dinner, with everyone in fine spirits, except that many of them were wearing guns and darting their eyes to the door if anyone approached.

Agent Sherlock, the FBI agent who’d been her patient just yesterday, was forking down some of the incredible sausage stuffing, laughing at something her husband said to her. Lucky, lucky woman, Natalie thought. Did she realize how near she’d come to death?

Not the time for grim thoughts, Natalie told herself. She looked back over at Officer Hendricks. He was coming her way, two slices of pumpkin pie on small Thanksgiving paper plates, with whipped cream on top. “I’ve decided both of us will trust our buttons not to pop,” he said, and held a slice of pie out to her.

She considered turning it down, but naturally, she didn’t. “Thank you, Officer Hendricks.”

“Make that Gavin, ma’am.”

“And you can call me Natalie.”

He sat down beside her, and they ate pumpkin pie and chatted about nothing in particular until the football game came on. Gavin forked down another bite of pie, closed his eyes, and hummed. “Oh, man, that is fine. I hear Emma Hunt made the pie. Emma’s a whiz on the piano and a good cook. I’d say the kid’s got it made.”

They looked over to where Emma sat beside her father, her small white hand on his forearm.

Her two little brothers, Cal and Gage, seriously cute identical twins, sat at the large table, currently hemmed in by three large adults and another little boy, Sean Savich. He would grow up to be as handsome as his dad, Natalie thought, looking from him to his father, Agent Dillon Savich.

“Emma Hunt’s playing with the San Francisco Symphony next Wednesday,” Gavin continued, took another big bite of his pumpkin pie, and shook his head. “Hard to believe. Look at those small hands. What is she, eleven, twelve?”