“It’s pretty,” Betsy said, pressing her face up against the window. “Are we staying here now?” There was something about the question that implied she was growing used to expecting another temporary home. I glanced at Julie and saw her grimace slightly. She didn’t answer.
“You might stay here for a little while,” I said. “Not long, though.”
I pulled the Contour to a stop, and we got out. Joe was standing on the deck, watching us. He’d been inside, but he still had his jacket on, which meant he was wearing a gun. He looked tired.
“Good to see you,” he told me when I led the way up the steps and onto the deck. “If I cared about your sorry ass, I would have been worried for the past few days.”
“Uh-huh.” I introduced him to Julie and Betsy. Betsy hid behind her mother’s leg, acting shy for the first time since I’d known her. Joe could do that to you.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said to Julie. “It’s real nice to meet you, actually. For a while there I didn’t think I was ever going to have the chance.” He looked up the drive. “Lois Lane is running late, which is no surprise. I suppose we’d better go inside and have a little talk.”
“Sounds good.”
We went inside and sat in the living room. The walls were covered with the faux-wood paneling often seen in vacation homes. There was one large rack ofantlers on the wall, several mounted fish, and a lamp made out of what appeared to be the skull of a buffalo. Charming. Old Don Gellino knew how to decorate. The carpet was a mixture of dull shades that reminded me of a calico cat’s fur. It was a shrewd choice; most stains blended in pretty well. The furniture was old and well worn but comfortable enough.
It was cold inside the cottage, and Betsy was shivering as she sat down. The three of us would have to do something about our summer clothes. I asked Julie if she had sweatshirts or jackets in the car, and she said she did. I went outside and brought their bags in, and they went into one of the bedrooms to change. When they were gone, Joe turned to me and shook his head.
“I don’t believe it. They’re still the top story on every newscast in town, and yet I’m sitting here with them.” He was staring at my shirt, examining the blood near the collar. “Rough night, eh?”
“It wasn’t the best night, that’s for sure.”
“Think the Cleveland cops have heard about it yet?”
“Possibly. I talked to Amy, and she said Myrtle Beach police are looking into an exchange of gunfire at the hotel last night.”
“No surprise.”
“But there is a surprise. They don’t seem to have turned up any bodies.”
He frowned. “Are you sure you killed the guy?”
I saw the fat blond man’s face disappearing in that red mist again. “Yeah, Joe. I’m sure.”
“Well, I guess they must have taken the body and run. Regardless, it’s good news for you. You’re only wanted for a few small-time felonies now.”
Tires crunched on the gravel outside, and we got up and crossed to the window. Amy’s Acura had pulled to a stop beside our cars. She’d had the body damage repaired and the car repainted. She got out of the car and started up the steps to the deck, carrying a bag in each hand. One looked like a video camera carrying case.
We went out on the deck to meet her, and she surprised me by setting the bags down and hugging me fiercely.
“You’re not dead,” she said when she stepped back, and then she looked a little embarrassed when she saw Joe watching us with a smile.
“No such luck,” I said.
“Good. That means I still have the chance to kill you myself. As soon as I get Jacob Terry out of the way, you’re next on my list.” She leaned forward, looking past me and into the cottage. “As nice as it is to see you again, Lincoln, weren’t you supposed to bring a few others along?”
“Oops,” I said. “I knew I forgot something at that gas station in West Virginia.”
“Seriously, where are they?” she said, and at that moment the bedroom door opened and Betsy stepped out, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt now. Her mother was right behind. Amy whispered, “Well, son ofa bitch. It is them,” and then walked inside.
“Mrs. Weston?” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Amy Ambrose.” She shook hands with Julie, then knelt on the floor beside Betsy and shook the girl’s hand as well. “You must be Betsy.”
Betsy looked at her shyly, but she didn’t duck behind Julie’s legs as she had with Joe. “Amy Ambrose,” the girl said, pronouncing it carefully. “You have a pretty name.”
“Love the alliteration, don’t ya, kid?” Amy said.
Betsy looked at me, confused. “Alitternation?”
“A litter nation,” I said. “It’s the dream of cat owners everywhere.”
“What?”
“Ignore him, honey,” Amy said. “He rarely makes any sense.”
“You have pretty hair, too,” Betsy said. “Can I…” She stopped talking, embarrassed to ask the question.
“Can you touch it?” Amy asked, and Betsy nodded and giggled. “Sure,” Amy said, lowering her head and letting the girl run her fingers through the soft blond curls.
Julie laughed. “A pretty name and pretty hair,” she said. “You’ve been met with approval, Miss Ambrose.”
Amy got back to her feet. “That’s reassuring. I spent a little extra time on the hair this morning to be sure it would stand up to heavy scrutiny.”
Joe cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, ladies, but before we start working on our pigtails or putting on toenail polish, there are a few other things we have to attend to.”
Ah, Joe. Always on the blunt side.
“Yes,” Julie said, not offended by his remark, “there certainly are. But Betsy doesn’t need to be here while we attend to them.”
I was afraid Joe might suggest we lock the girl in a closet, but apparently he was in a tenderhearted mood, because he just shrugged, leaving the decision up to Julie.
“Speaking of nail polish,” Amy said, “I’ve got some in my purse.” She looked at Betsy. “Would you like to paint your nails, honey? You can pick the color.” Betsy nodded, and Amy took her into the bedroom and left her with enough nail polish to coat her entire body. It would keep the kid occupied for a while, though. Joe looked at me and sighed.
Amy came back out of the bedroom, and Julie pulled the door shut and sat on the couch. A little cloud of dust rose up from the old cushion. She took a deep breath, rubbed her temples lightly with her fingers, and then looked up and forced a smile.
“All right,” she said. “Where do we start?”
“We start by planning a course of action,” Joe said. “I understand you’re afraid, Mrs. Weston, and I understand the reasons you had for not contacting the police, but that has to stop now. You have testimony and a tape that can put several people in jail. Several people who need to be put in jail.”
She nodded. “I understand that. But I also understand what will happen to me if I go to the police, Mr. Pritchard. There will be trials, won’t there? There will be trials for the Russian murderers, and there will be a trial for Jeremiah Hubbard, and probably a trial for whoever killed Randy Hartwick. Trials that will likely last for months. And I’ll be expected to testify at them, right? At all of them. What happens to my daughter during that time? She won’t be allowed to go to school, because people may try to abduct her or kill her. We won’t be allowed to live in our home, for the same reasons. So she’s going to spend the next six months-the next year, maybe-hidden away someplace with bodyguards? In the summer, when she should be at the swimming pool or playing with her friends, she’s going to be tucked away out of sight? Oh, and of course I won’t be able to allow her to turn on the television or pick up a newspaper, because she’s going to see Daddy’s face staring back at her or hear the television newscasters talking about the trials. I will not let that happen to my daughter, Mr. Pritchard.”