“What makes you think there isn’t more than one set of copies?”
“If there is and I find out, I’ll come back and kill him.”
“From behind bars?” Maudie said, laughing.
Pearl clicked off the safety. Her dark eyes were cold, her face as pale and hard as stone. Was this how she looked across the blackjack table, dealing out a crooked hand, taking the players’ money? Pearl glanced down at the gun, lifting it slightly so it was aimed at Maudie’s throat.
“There’s only one set of copies,” Maudie said, resigned. “In my safe-deposit box.”
“And the bonds?”
“And the bonds.” It was the middle of the night, they’d have hours to wait before the bank opened. Maybe this would give the searchers time to find Benny, maybe time to find and arrest Pearl? In that moment, she knew she should have made another copy. She’d thought about it, but had decided the pages would be safe enough, locked in the bank vault.
“We’ll be at the bank when it opens,” Pearl said. “You’ll give me the pages plus whatever cash you keep in the box, and sign over the bonds. You always kept cash in your safe-deposit box.” She smiled. “You didn’t know I knew that.”
All Maudie could think was, she wanted Pearl dead. Beneath the dish towel, her hand was so close to her pocket. Could she be quick enough? Shove her hand in, shoot through her pocket, never revealing the gun? But Pearl stood so close to her, still with the safety off the automatic. She was trying to think how to do this and not die herself when she heard a man’s voice from somewhere above them. Startled, she glanced toward the ceiling. Pearl stiffened but didn’t look up, didn’t take her eyes from Maudie.
There was no one upstairs, Maudie knew that. Unless that officer down the street had seen Pearl slip in and had followed her? Maybe he’d come to the kitchen window and seen Pearl holding a gun on her? Maybe he’d somehow gotten in upstairs. Not likely, that portly cop climbing on the fence or up a tree. She wondered if the construction ladder was still outside, lying beside the garage wall. Maybe he’d called a second cop and they were ready to come down the stairs behind Pearl? Except, they wouldn’t be talking, knowing they’d be heard in the kitchen below.
But then, when the voice spoke again, it seemed to come not from the rooms above at all, but from over the garage. Or maybe from someone out on the street, maybe it was one of her neighbors, his voice deflected by the house walls. She shifted the towel, rubbing her hand with it as she eased toward her pocket.
But what if she killed Pearl, and Benny was badly hurt somewhere, and the tracking dog didn’t find him? What if help didn’t come in time, if they found him too late because she’d killed the only person who knew where he was?
How badly had Pearl hurt him? Pearl’s face and hand were bleeding; what was that about? Had Benny fought hard enough to injure her like that, to make that deep wound down Pearl’s cheek? What would Pearl have done to him in retribution? Maudie’s heart pounded with fear for her grandson, far more fear, even, than the storm of hatred that she felt for Pearl. As Pearl gestured with the gun, quietly Maudie laid down the dish towel and slid into a chair at the table. Prepared to wait for morning, to wait for the bank to open. Prepared to do as Pearl ordered—praying that, one way or another, Benny would be safe and unhurt.
42
PEARL WATCHED MAUDIE sitting so patiently at the table, snuggled cozily in her robe as if she weren’t afraid of the gun, as if Maudie didn’t believe she’d kill her. Certainly she wouldn’t kill her until morning, until she had the ledger copies and the bonds and hopefully some cash. Then she’d decide what to do.
Getting rid of Maudie’s body would take time. It might be easier just to leave her tied up somewhere and give herself the chance to get away, change her looks again so she could travel unnoticed. Maybe she’d dye her hair red this time, straighten it to a sleek bob. Her distinctive bone structure was a hindrance. Even her long, pale hands were too easily recognizable—a dealer’s hands, swift and clever. But ruined now, her hands bleeding and ugly from the cuts and bruises. She winced, looking at her pretty hands so cut up; she’d always taken care of her hands, babied them, had regular manicures, carefully selected polish. Hands were important, men watched your hands at the card table, trying to catch you up or thinking how those silky hands would feel on their bodies.
It would take the abrasions a long time to heal, the ugly, broken nails a long time to grow out and be perfect again. There was blood on her face, too, she could feel it pulling as the wound began to dry. That frightened her. She didn’t want a scar marring her face, her smooth white skin; she didn’t want to come out of this ugly, she depended on her looks.
Well, the damned car was a loss, that was sure. It was while she was climbing out that she’d cut her hands so badly. And all the while, the driver of the other car wailing and carrying on, loud enough to be heard blocks away. He’d been drunk, she could smell the liquor, the whole thing was his fault. There’d been no witness to report the crash, but she supposed by now someone had come along the road and called the cops and the place would be crawling with them. Maybe they wouldn’t find the kid, though, the way he was hidden.
Him whining and crawling into the bushes, that had bought her some time. She’d dragged him a long way but at last had left him, making her way back to Arlie’s place. She knew that was foolish, but cops or not, she had to have a car. Why were the cops there? Had they caught Arlie, arrested him? She’d fled the house the minute she spotted a second cop car coming up the street, had gotten out of there fast, but she knew they had Arlie, he couldn’t have gotten away. Were they now watching for her? Or for Kent? They wouldn’t be looking for Jared, she thought, smiling. He’d been safe with Maudie, pretending to have just awakened. Though he’d planned to leave Maudie’s before she found the kid gone. He didn’t want to be pressed into searching for him, didn’t want any part of that.
After the wreck, she’d wanted to clean up at Arlie’s and change her clothes. She’d already checked out of the motel, of course, but could check into another, the town was crawling with motels. But going in looking the way she did, bloody and her clothes torn and without luggage, and in the middle of the night, even the dumbest desk clerk would call the cops.
When she’d gotten back to Arlie’s place, staying in the shadows, the cop cars were gone. Easing around a corner, she’d stood in the blackness across the street beside a sheltered porch, watching and fingering the keys in her pocket, keys to the house and to his car. She’d stood there a long time, but saw no dark uniform standing in the bushes or in a doorway, even as far as several blocks away. When she felt sure the cops had given up and moved on, she’d slipped into the house, easing quietly through the dark rooms, calling out softly to Arlie so if he was there, maybe sitting in the dark, she wouldn’t surprise him. The house seemed strange, didn’t seem right. He hadn’t lived there long, but had taken great care with the placement of every piece of furniture, he was so damned picky. A living room chair was out of place so she nearly fell over it, a window shade crooked, a closet door had been left open. Prowling with her gun drawn, she’d found Arlie’s flashlight in the kitchen drawer and had gone through the place again shielding the light. Several pieces of furniture had been moved, papers on the desk were in disarray, not the way he kept them. The cops had been there, all right. Or someone had. Quickly she’d retrieved her bag, didn’t look to see if someone had rummaged through her clothes but had headed for the garage.