I said, "You've been watching TV, ma'am. In real life, guns are often more damn trouble than they're worth, particularly in a foreign country with pretty strict import laws. If I did have a pistol here, it would be illegal, and if I were to shoot somebody with it, even an escaped murderer, I'd have a lot of explaining to do." I hefted my club experimentally. "Don't worry about it, ma'am. One good man with a stick can handle half a dozen bad men with knives."
She said dryly, "I always did like modest people. Well, I hope you're as good as you think."
"Remember, one of them is almost sure to have a blade at Penny's throat," I said. "It's the obvious precaution. Wave a firearm at him and he's apt to get nervous. He might even do something hasty. But if I show myself practically unarmed…" I shrugged. "If you have a better idea, let's hear it."
She hesitated. "Well, there's the obvious suggestion. I'm surprised you haven't made it."
"What's that?"
"We left some husky members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police back there on the highway. The Mounties always get their man, don't they? Or men."
I said, "If you want them, why didn't you ask them for help when they stopped you?"
"I don't want them. You know perfectly well I can't afford to get mixed up with the police."
I glanced at her. "Not even to save your child's life, ma'am?"
She flushed, and defended herself quickly: "They'd be more concerned with catching their criminals. Penny would be just an afterthought to them. You're the one who's supposed to be hired to protect her. That's why I came to you."
I said, "I wish you'd make up your mind. Last I heard, you weren't falling for my private-eye act at all. Now you've got me all confused."
"That," she said grimly, "makes two of us."
"And if you don't want the police, why drag them into the conversation?"
She was watching me thoughtfully. "I was just wondering why you don't want them, Mr. Clevenger. Under the circumstances, wouldn't a respectable private detective charged with responsibility for a young girl's life insist on notifying the authorities?"
It was a good question, but she'd left me an out and I took it: "The adjective is yours, ma'am. I can't recall ever having claimed to be respectable, if that means liking cops. I've been a private investigator too long to want to get mixed up with them. Back home I've got to cooperate with them if I'm to stay in business. I've got to take their lip and keep smiling politely. That's back home. Up here, to hell with them. I've lost no damn Canadian policemen and I'm not about to find any I don't have to. Okay?"
She was still studying my face. "You've got an answer to everything, haven't you? So you're going to tackle two desperate, armed hoodlums single-handed, with nothing but a little pine stick. You're either a brave man or a damn phony, Mr. Clevenger. I wish I knew which."
I said, "There's an easy way to find out."
She regarded me a moment longer, shrugged minutely, and turned away toward the truck and trailer waiting nearby on the little dirt track through the woods. I noted that she had an easy, almost sexless way of walking: the way of a self-confident woman who felt no need to do tricks with her hips to call attention to her femininity.
I called after her: "Mrs. Drilling."
She stopped and glanced back. "Yes?"
"What was your maiden name?" I already knew, of course, but for some reason I wanted to make it official.
"O'Brien," she said after a momentary pause. "Why?"
"Nothing," I said. "I was just curious. Lead on, Jenny O'Brien."
She started to speak, maybe to protest the familiarity, but then she laughed instead, and climbed into the pickup. I tested my sticky club once more, glanced at the Volkswagen more or less hidden among the trees, and went over and climbed into the trailer and closed the door. I heard the big truck engine start, up forward, and we were off.
It was a rough ride in the swaying, bouncing house trailer. Some plastic dishes almost clobbered me, spilling out of a high cabinet above me; and I could hear various foods and spices rubbing elbows behind the little doors that remained closed. It occurred to me to wonder if there might not be a nasty chemical reagent in there, somewhere, perhaps disguised as cooking oil or pancake syrup. The empty acid bottle I'd seen in Elaine's room wasn't proof that the entire supply had been used up. If there had been some left over, after Greg's treatment, it could have been poured off and stored in a different container..
It didn't take me long to find it, since the container had to be a rather special one-the stuff would go right through metal or plastic. A nice little salad-dressing jug with a glass stopper caught my eye almost at once. A drop of the contents on my finger sent me hurrying to the sink to wash it off; it wasn't olive oil.
I looked at the deceptive little bottle grimly. I guess I was kind of disillusioned. Somehow I'd got to thinking that Genevieve Drilling might possibly be just a nice, misunderstood lady after all. I considered pouring the stuff out and replacing it with water, just in case it might be used against me some time, but that's the kind of tricky protective maneuver that's apt to backfire, warning the subject that you're hep at just the moment when you're finally getting somewhere.
I also considered just diluting the reagent so it wouldn't be quite so powerful, but my chemistry is sketchy. I did remember that if you went about mixing it with water the wrong way it would spatter all over you, but I couldn't remember which was the right way, so finally I just stuck the bottle back among the groceries where I'd found it, the way I'd found it. I had just got the cupboard doors closed when our motion stopped.
Cautiously, I peeked out the side window, between the slats of the venetian blind, and saw a blue lake lined with pines and firs. We seemed to be parked in a meadow that ran down to the shore. My pretty, freckled, truck-driving, acid lady had cut the switch, and the engine was silent. In accordance with my instructions, she didn't come back to keep me company, which was just as well. I might not have been able to resist the temptation to ask her to make me up a salad with her special dressing.
We just waited for visitors in our separate compartments, out there by the lake in the still Canadian forest, and after a while they came.
"In the truck, there! Hey, lady, wake up!" It was half a shout, half a hoarse, secretive whisper, from the edge of the nearby woods. I didn't risk showing myself at the window again. I just crouched near the trailer door, waiting. "All right, lady, now open both cab doors and get out so we can see what you've got in there… That's right. Just stand right there. One false move and the girl gets this knife right in the kidney. Okay, Mousie, go check the trailer."
I heard Genevieve's voice, with a nice edge of panic. "There isn't anybody in the trailer."
"There'd better not be. Go on, Mousie."
"Wait!" She sounded terrified. She was doing swell. I reminded myself that, where deceit was concerned, she'd had a professional instructor named Ruyter, and some practice along the way. "Wait!" she cried. "There is somebody! It's that private detective. I had to bring him! I couldn't help it. He stopped me and demanded to know where… where Penny was. I had to tell him. He was going to the police if I didn't tell him. He promised he wouldn't do anything to harm you as long as she was all right."
"He promised!" sneered the voice from the woods. "Now isn't that sweet!"
"You don't understand! He's just a private investigator, he doesn't care about you. He says the Canadian authorities can look after their own damn fugitives; he isn't being paid to do anything but look after Penny. Let him come out; let him talk to you. Don't hurt her just because… I couldn't help it, I tell you. I had to bring him. It was either him or the police."