“Thank God,” Bob said, “police.”
“I’m not the police.” The man wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a dark gray jacket under which a shoulder holster was visible.
Bob was confused, wondering if their rescuer was another thief about to take over where the junkie had been violently interrupted.
The stranger looked up from the corpse. His eyes were pure blue, intense, and direct.
Bob was sure that he had seen the guy before, but he could not remember where or when.
The stranger looked at Laura. “You all right, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she said, but she clung to her father.
The pungent odor of urine rose from the dead man, for he had lost control of his bladder at the moment of death.
The stranger crossed the room, stepping around the corpse, and engaged the dead-bolt lock on the front door. He pulled down the shade. He looked worriedly at the big display windows over which flowed a continuous film of rain, distorting the stormy afternoon beyond. “No way to cover those, I guess. We’ll just have to hope nobody comes along and looks in.”
“What’re you going to do to us?” Bob asked.
“Me? Nothing. I’m not like that creep. I don’t want anything from you. I just locked the door so we could work out the story you’re going to have to tell the police. We have to get it straight before anyone walks in here and sees the body.”
“Why do I need a story?”
Stooping beside the corpse, the stranger took a set of car keys and the wad of money from the pockets of the bloodstained windbreaker. Rising again, he said, “Okay, what you have to tell them is that there were two gunmen. This one wanted Laura, but the other was sickened by the idea of raping a little girl, and he just wanted to get out. So they argued, it got nasty, the other one shot this bastard and skipped with the money. Can you make that sound right?”
Bob was reluctant to believe that he and Laura had been spared.
With one arm he held his daughter tightly against him. “I … I don’t understand. You weren’t really with him. You’re not in trouble for killing him—after all, he was going to kill us. So why don’t we just tell them the truth?”
Stepping to the end of the checkout counter, returning the money to Bob, the man said, “And what is the truth?”
“Well . . . you happened along and saw the robbery in progress—”
“I didn’t just happen along, Bob. I’ve been watching over you and Laura.” Slipping his pistol into his shoulder holster, the man looked down at Laura. She stared at him wide-eyed. He smiled and whispered, “Guardian angel.”
Not believing in guardian angels, Bob said, “Watching over us? From where, how long, why?”
In a voice colored by urgency and by a vague, unplaceable accent that Bob heard for the first time, the stranger said, “Can’t tell you that.” He glanced at the rain-washed windows. “And I can’t afford to be questioned by police. So you’ve got to get this story straight.”
Bob said, “Where do I know you from?”
“You don’t know me.”
“But I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
“You haven’t. You don’t need to know. Now for God’s sake, hide that money and leave the register empty; it’ll seem odd if the second man left without what he came for. I’ll take his Buick, abandon it in a few blocks, so you can give the cops a description of it. Give them a description of me, too. It won’t matter.”
Thunder rumbled outside, but it was low and distant, not like the explosions with which the storm had begun.
The humid air thickened as the slower-spreading, coppery scent of blood mixed with the stench of urine.
Queasy, leaning on the counter but still holding Laura at his side, Bob said, “Why can’t I just tell them how you interrupted the robbery, shot the guy, and didn’t want publicity, so you left?”
Impatient, the stranger raised his voice. “An armed man just happens to stroll by while the robbery’s in progress and decides to be a hero? The cops won’t believe a cockeyed story like that.”