"I promise," she nodded.
"But only if you promise not to leave me again." "I promise. Now get undressed for a bath." I picked her up and basically threw her in the bath before she had time to think.
"Do you wash your own hair or get somebody to do it?" I asked. I didn't have a clue.
She looked like she was going to cry.
I said, "Do you want me to wash it for you?"
"Yes, please." I wondered what was going on in that little mind of hers.
I got out the shampoo and started in; she moaned about the soap in her eyes and that the suds were tickling her ears, but I could tell she loved the attention. I couldn't blame her; she hadn't had much lately. Her world had been turned upside down, and she didn't even know it yet.
"You stink!" Kelly made a face as she caught the smell of Lance White's bladder on my clothes.
"These clothes are a bit old," I said.
"Make sure you get all the shampoo out of your hair, and wash yourself with soap."
She looked as if she was having fun. I was glad somebody was. Walking into the bedroom, I called behind me, "Then I want you to put some clean clothes on. There're knickers and an undershirt on the bed."
"What're knickers?"
"These." I picked them up and walked back to show her.
"They're not, they're panties!"
Kelly was a water baby. That was great for me; the longer she was in the bath, the less time I had to spend dealing with her. I was finding it quite tiring, having to clean, dress, talk, answer questions. I left her splashing around for another half an hour, then dragged her out and told her to go dry herself.
I got in the shower, shaved, and got changed, bundling all my old clothes and Kelly's into a plastic laundry bag and stowing it inside the duffel. I'd get rid of it at the first opportunity.
We were both in the bedroom. She was dressed. Her shirt buttons were in the wrong holes; while I was undoing them and sorting them out, I realized she was looking disapprovingly at me.
"What's the problem?"
"Those jeans. They're for losers. You should get 501s like Daddy."
On top of everything else, I had the fashion police after me. She went on, "You can't get 501s in my size. That's what Mommy says anyway. She doesn't wear jeans; she's like Aida--she likes dresses and skirts."
In my mind's eye I saw Marsha kneeling by her bed. I turned away for a moment so she couldn't see my face. I sat on the bed and said, "Kelly, do you know your dad's code number for his phone? I don't--I've tried it loads of times-I've pressed one-one-one-one, two-two-two-two, I've pressed them all and I still don't know. Have you got any idea?"
She stared at me for a few moments, then nodded.
"Right! What are the numbers then?"
She didn't say anything. She seemed to be working something out in her mind. Maybe she wondered if she'd be betraying her daddy by telling me.
I pulled the phone from my pocket, turned it on, and said, "Look! What does it say? PIN number! Do you know what numbers your daddy puts in?"
She nodded, and I said, "Come on, you show me then." She pressed the buttons, and I watched her fingers.
"One-nine-nine-oh?" I said.
"Nineteen-ninety, the year I was born," she beamed.
We were in business. I fetched the Yellow Pages from one of the drawers and sat on the edge of the bed.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"A restaurant called Good Fellas," I said. I found the address.
"We're going to go there and look for Pat."
I thought about phoning the place and asking about him, but they'd probably just blow me off. In any case, that could trigger a series of events I'd know nothing about until we were both suddenly lifted. It would be better to go there.
I put my glasses on and she giggled. I got her coat and held it for her to put on. As she turned around I noticed she still had the label dangling off her jeans; I ripped that off, then checked that nothing else looked out of place just like any other unfashionable dad taking his daughter out for the day.
I put my jacket on, checked for the mags and phone, and said, "Do you remember Pat?"
"No. Who is she?"
"It's a him; he's a man called Patrick. Maybe you've seen him with Daddy?"
"Is Pat going to take me home?"
"You will be going home soon, Kelly. But only when Daddy is better and if you're a good girl and do what I say."
Her face went moody and sullen.
"Will I be home by Saturday? I'm going to Melissa's party. She's having a sleepover."
I carried on. There was nothing else I could do. I didn't have the skills to coax her out other mood.
"Pat came around to your house. Surely you remember Pat?"
"And I got to buy her a present. I've made her some friend ship bracelets, but I want to get something else."
"Well, we're going to try to find Pat today because he's going to help us get you home. Maybe we'll have time to do your shopping, OK?"
"Where is Pat?"
"I think he might be in the restaurant. But you've got to be really quiet when we get there, OK, and not talk to anyone. If anybody talks to you, I want you just to nod your head or shake it, OK? We've got to be really careful, otherwise they won't tell me where Pat is, and then we might get into trouble."
I knew she'd be all right on the dumb act. She'd done what I'd said by the bins. I felt bad talking about her going home, but I couldn't think of a better way of controlling her behavior and anyway, with any luck I wouldn't be there when she was finally told the truth.
There were a couple of other jobs to do before we left the room. I took the bottom left-hand corner of the blanket on my bed and folded it in a neat, diagonal pleat. Then I took a matchstick from the book I'd picked up in reception and wedged it between the wall and the long, low chest of drawers that the TV rested on. I put a pen mark the size of a pinhead on the wall and covered it with the match head Finally I placed the paper clip in one of the drawers under the TV and turned the volume up a shade.
I had a quick look around the room to make sure we hadn't left anything compromising lying around; I even put the Yellow Pages back in the drawer. The pistol was still in the toilet tank, but there were no problems with that; there was no reason for a cleaner to come in, let alone the cops with a search warrant.
I picked up a couple of apples and candy bars and put them in the pocket of my brand-new three-quarter-length blue coat.
Then I closed the door, checked the do not disturb sign, and off we went.
We took a taxi to Georgetown. It would have conserved funds if we'd taken a bus, but this way meant less exposure to commuters or pedestrians. The driver was Nigerian. The map of the city on the front passenger seat didn't instill much confidence, and he could just about speak English. He used what few words he had to ask me where Georgetown was. It was like a London cabbie not knowing Chelsea. I patiently pointed on the map. By my guess it was about thirty minutes away.
It was spitting with rain, not enough to keep the wipers on but enough to make him give them a flick every minute or so.
Kelly munched on a candy bar and I kept an eye out for other motels. We'd have to move again soon.
We sat in silence for a few minutes until it occurred to me that the driver would expect to hear us talking.
"When I was your age I hadn't been in a taxi," I said.
"I don't think I went in one until I was about fifteen."
Kelly looked at me, still chewing on the candy.
"Didn't you like taxis?"
"No, it's just we didn't have much money. My stepfather couldn't find a job."
She looked puzzled. She looked at me for a long time, then turned her head and looked out the window again.