"No," I said, "but Penny did. When her eyes got wide enough, I knew it was time to turn."
She laughed, quite unconvinced. "You always have an answer, don't you. Well, don't waste your ingenuity on me any longer. It was a cruel and vicious deception, Mr. Clevenger. I suppose sooner or later we'll hear of the real convicts being captured in Labrador or British Columbia. Come on, darling, let's go."
She started to take Penny's arm. Then, as an afterthought she swung back, snatched the kitchen knife from her hand, tossed it into the trailer, and slammed the door shut. I suppose I could have made sounds of protest, but I could see it would be a waste of time. She'd convinced herself it was all a fraud. Perhaps she'd wanted to convince herself, since it relieved her of the burden of gratitude. Some people can always find good reasons for not honoring their debts, I reflected sourly, as I watched mother and daughter march to the truck and drive away.
I had to admit, however, that I was hardly in a position to scrutinize other people's motives too closely. I'd saved the kid from a pair of perfectly genuine thugs, but my reasons could hardly be called straightforward and honest. The thought didn't comfort me greatly. It was a long hike through the woods back to the Volkswagen. When I got there, Johnston was sitting on the fender smoking a big cigar.
"The Drillings drove by half an hour ago, looking smug and self-righteous," he said as I limped up. "Larry's on their tail, if he hasn't got lost. I suppose somebody's got to break in the awkward ones, but why does it always have to be me? If I get this one back in one piece, it will be a miracle." He frowned as if he'd said too much, and went on quickly: "I figured I'd better be the one to talk to you, since you and my partner don't seem to take to each other. Don't want you hauling out that little knife again. Well, what happened to you? What's been going on back in there?"
"Go to hell," I said.
He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at me bleakly. "Look, Clevenger, I've got one man on this job I have to baby, but I sure as hell don't have to baby you. Don't give me any trouble or I'll lower the boom, and don't think I can't. Now tell me what this monkey business is all about."
I told him, and after I'd convinced him I hadn't made it up, he thought it was very funny. Well, I guess it was. After a day or two I found myself able to laugh at it, too, but that still didn't get me the trusting relationship with Genevieve Drilling and her friend Ruyter that I was under strict orders to establish.
Not that Ruyter gave any further indication of his presence as we made our way east to Lake Superior and then drove about the Great Lakes by the northern route that runs far up into the big woods. Hans was probably piloting his fancy Mercedes fast along the shorter lake-shore route, I reflected as I followed the shiny silver trailer endlessly along the tree-lined highway. He'd want to get east before Drilling to make any getaway preparations that might be necessary. I hoped he'd do a good job so I wouldn't have to.
It was a long, dull drive. There's a lot of country up there, but you can't see it for the trees. The highway hardly ever climbed out of the dense green stuff to give you a real view of it. There wasn't even a moose to break the monotony of the interminable evergreen forest, although there were plenty of signs telling us to watch out for the big beasts-like deer-crossing signs back home.
Averaging some three hundred miles a day, camping at night, we crossed the province of Ontario and entered the province of Quebec. Here we hit French signs and road markers, and gas station attendants who could barely communicate in English. I'd been out of the United States for the better part of a week by this time, but only now did I begin to feel that I'd entered a foreign country.
There was even that hint of tension you often find abroad these days. There were occasional phrases chalked or painted on shacks and barns along the highway indicating that somebody thought it would be nice if the English-speaking usurpers went away and left the French-speaking true owners of the soil in peace. It wasn't my fight, but I couldn't help thinking this might seem kind of funny to a red-skinned gent brought up speaking, say, one of the Algonquian tongues that had once been current in the neighborhood. Contrary to popular opinion, Indians have a real sharp sense of humor.
It was raining again as we approached Montreaclass="underline" we'd been playing tag with the same storm clear across the country. Having been brought up in the arid southwest, I tire of precipitation very quickly. This is particularly true when I have to spend more than a night or two in soggy blankets in a leaky tent. I guess I've spent enough time being uncomfortable outdoors that I no longer feel I'm accomplishing anything praiseworthy by proving I can take it.
Apparently Mrs. Drilling and daughter, although better equipped, felt much the same way, because they stopped at a trailer park on the outskirts of the city, made arrangements to desert their rolling home for the night, and drove in to register at the fanciest hotel in town. At least that was one possible explanation for their action. I didn't dismiss the possibility, however, that Mrs. Drilling might have other reasons for staying at the Queen Mary than just the desire to soak in a real tub and eat a meal she hadn't cooked herself.
Whatever her motives, I was glad for the chance to clean up in civilized surroundings, after spending too many mornings shaving out of a saucepan with mosquitoes chewing at my neck and ears. By paying for more accommodations than I really needed-well, Uncle Sam would get the bill eventually-I managed to get a room right down the hall from the Drilling menage. It would have been pleasant to have a leisurely drink and then spend plenty of time in the tiled bath, as Mrs. Drilling was probably doing, but I reminded myself that duty came before luxury, and made myself respectable as fast as possible. I guess I had a hunch that there might be some action, now that we'd put the great northern wilderness behind us.
It came almost before I'd finished buttoning my only white shirt and tying a conservative knot in my only necktie-I hadn't figured on needing much formal attire on the Black Hills job. The knock on the door had a timid sound, but I took the usual precautions answering it, remembering that both Elaine and Greg had been careless with doors. But the kid in the doorway had nothing in her hands. She looked up at me through her hornrimmed glasses, and showed me a mouthful of stainless steel in what was obviously meant to be a pretty smile.
"I hope you don't mind I means may I come in?" she said.
The first thing I noticed, after stepping back to let her enter, was that she'd finally got everything off her head except the hair. It was the first time since we'd met that I'd seen her without either curlers or some sort of patent covering of net or plastic or both. Unveiled and liberated, the hair hardly seemed worthy of all this protective concern. It didn't glow like neon, or spell out messages in Urdu, or dance the Twist around her scalp.