Her grandfather was moving toward her again now, and she knew then that he would try to hold her here.
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She had a trump card, and she played it. She even smiled at the two old people who perhaps had loved her once, in their way. "The FBI is after me. They'll be here soon. You don't want the FBI to get me, do you, Grandfather?"
He stopped cold and looked at his wife, whose face had paled.
She said, "How could they possibly know you were coming here?"
"I know one of the agents. He's smarter than anyone has a right to be. He also has this gut instinct about things. I've seen him in action. Count on it. He'll be here soon now with his partner. If they find me here, they'll take
me back. Then everything will come out. I'll tell the world how my father-that larger-than-life, very rich lawyer- beat my mother and how you didn't care, how you ignored it, how you pretended everything was fine, happy to bask in the additional glory that such a successful son-in-law brought you."
"You're not a very nice girl, Susan," her grandmother said, two spots of bright red appearing on her very white cheeks. Anger, probably. "It's because you're ill, you know. You didn't used to be this way."
"Give me money and I'll be out of here in a flash. Keep talking, and the FBI will be here and haul me off."
Her grandfather didn't look at his wife this time. He pulled out his wallet. He didn't count the money, just took out all the bills, folded them, and thrust them toward her. He didn't want to touch her. She wondered about that again. Was he afraid he'd go nuts if he did?
"You should immediately drive back to Doctor Beadermeyer," he said to her, speaking slowly, as if she were an idiot. "He'll protect you. He'll keep you safe from the police and the FBI."
She stuffed the bills into her jeans pocket. It was a tight fit. "Good-bye, and thank you for the money."
She paused a moment, her hand on the doorknob. “What does either of you know about Doctor Beadermeyer?''
"He came highly recommended, dear. Go back to him. Do as your grandfather says. Go back."
"He's a horrible man. He held me prisoner there. He did terrible things to me. But then again, so did my father. Of course, you wouldn't believe that, would you? He's so wonderful-rather, he was so wonderful.
Doesn't it bother you that your son-in-law was murdered? That's rather low on the social ladder, isn't it?"
They just stared at her.
"Good-bye." But before she could leave the room, her grandmother called out, “Why are you saying things like this, Susan? I can't believe that you're doing this. Not just to us but to your poor mother as well. And what about your dear husband? You're not telling lies about him, are you?"
"Not a one," Sally said and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She grinned briefly.
Cecilia was standing there in the hall. She said, "I didn't call the cops. No one else is here. You don't have to worry. But hurry, Miss Susan, hurry."
"Do I know you?"
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“No, but my mama always took care of you when your parents brought you here every year. She said you were the brightest little bean and so sweet. She told me how you could write the greatest poems for birthday cards. I still have several cards she made me that have your poems on them. Good luck, Miss Susan."
"Thank you, Cecilia."
"I'm Agent Quinlan and this is Agent Savich. Are Mr. and Mrs. Harrison here?"
"Yes, sir. Come with me, please." Cecilia led them to the study, just as she'd led Sally Brainerd here thirty minutes before. She closed the door after they'd gone in. She thought the Harrisons were now watching the Home Shopping Network. Mr. Harrison liked to see how the clothes hawked there compared with his.
She smiled. She wasn't about to tell them that Sally Brainerd now had money, although she didn't know how much she'd gotten from that niggardly old man. Only as much as Mrs. Harrison allowed him to give her. She wished Sally good luck.
Sally stopped at an all-night convenience store and bought herself a ham sandwich and a Coke. She ate outside, well under the lights in front of the store. She waited until the last car had pulled out, then counted her money.
She laughed and laughed.
She had exactly three hundred dollars.
She was so tired she was weaving around like a drunk. The laughter was still bubbling out. She was getting hysterical.
A motel, that was what she needed, a nice, cheap motel. She needed to sleep a good eight hours, then she could go on.
She found one outside of Philadelphia-the Last Stop Motel. She paid cash and endured the look of the old man who really didn't want to let her stay but couldn't bring himself to turn away the money she was holding in her hand.
Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to buy some clothes. She'd do it on a credit card and only spend $49.99. Fifty dollars was the cutoff, wasn't it?
She wondered, as she finally fell asleep on a bed that was wonderfully firm, where James was.
"Where to now, Quinlan?"
"Let me stop thinking violent thoughts. Damn them. Sally was there. Why wouldn't they help us?"
"They love her and want to protect her?"
"Bullshit. I got cold when I got within three feet of them."
"It was interesting what Mrs. Harrison said," Dillon said as he turned on the ignition in the Porsche.
"About Sally being ill and she hoped soon she would be back with that nice Doctor Beadermeyer."
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"I'll bet you a week's salary that they called the good doctor the minute Sally was out of there. Wasn't it strange the way Mrs. Harrison tried to make Mr. Harrison look like the strong, firm one? I'd hate to go toe-to-toe with that old battle-ax. She's the scary one in that family. I wonder if they gave her any money."
"I hope so," James said. "It makes my belly knot up to think of her driving a clunker around without a dime to her name."
"She's got your credit cards. If they didn't give her any money, she'll have to use them."
"I'll bet you Sally is dead on her rear. Let's find a motel, and then we can take turns calling all the motels in the area."
They stayed at a Quality Inn, an approved lodging for FBI agents. Thirty minutes later, Quinlan was staring at the phone, just staring, so surprised he couldn't move.
"You found her? This fast?"
"She's not five miles from here, at a motel called the Last Stop. She didn't use her real name, but the old man thought she looked strange, what with that man's coat she was wearing and those tight clothes he said made her look like a hooker except he knew she wasn't, and that's why he let her stay. He said she looked scared and lost."
"Glory be," Dillon said. "I'm not all that tired anymore, Quinlan."
"Let's go."
18
SALLY TOOK OFF her clothes-peeled the jeans off, truth be told, because they were so tight-and lay on the bed in her full-cut girl's cotton panties that Dillon had bought for her. She didn't have a bra, which was why she had to keep James's coat on. The bra Dillon had bought-a training bra-she could have used when she was eleven years old.
The bed was wonderful, firm-well, all right, hard as a rock, but that was better than falling into a trough.
She closed her eyes.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Through the cheap drapes she could see an all-night flashing neon sign: HOT HARVEY'S TOPLESS GIRLS.
Great part of town she'd chosen.
She closed her eyes again, turned on her side, and wondered where James was. In Washington? She wondered what Noelle had said to him and Dillon. Why hadn't Noelle told her the truth about that night?
Maybe she would have if there'd been more time. Maybe. Had Noelle told her the truth, that both her father and her husband had conspired to put her in Beadermeyer's sanitarium? Both of them? And Noelle had bought it?