“I don’t remember any old folk named Harve and Marge,” Amabel said. “I’m going in the back to change now, Sherry. Ring out, okay?”
She was the best liar yet. He tamped down his dratted curiosity. It didn’t matter. Sally Brainerd was the only thing that mattered.
“How’s your little niece doing, Amabel?”
Amabel wished Sherry wouldn’t drink so much iced tea. It made her run off at the mouth. But she said pleasantly, “She’s doing better. She was just so exhausted from her trip.”
“Yes, of course.” Sherry Vorhees continued to sip out of that big plastic tumbler and smile at James. That English actor’s name was Timothy Dalton. Beautiful man. She liked James Quinlan even better. “There’s not much to do here in The Cove. I don’t know if you’ll last out the week.”
“Who knows?” James said, tossed his napkin into the white trash bin, and left the ice cream shop.
His next stop was Amabel Perdy’s house, the small white one on the corner of Main Street and Conroy Street. Time to get it done.
When he knocked on the trim white door, he heard a crash from inside. It sounded as though a piece of furniture had been knocked down. He knocked louder. He heard a woman’s cry of terror.
He turned the knob, found the door was locked. Well, shit. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed really hard. The door burst inward.
He saw Susan St. John Brainerd on her knees on the floor, the telephone lying beside her. He could hear the buzz of the dial tone. Her fist was stuffed in her mouth. She’d probably terrified herself when she screamed-that or she was afraid someone would hear her. Well, he had, and here he was.
She stared at him as he flew into Amabel’s small living room, huddled herself against the wall like he was going to shoot her, jerked her fist out of her mouth, and screamed again.
Really loud.
4
“STOP SCREAMING,” HE yelled at her. “What the hell’s the matter? What happened?”
Sally knew this was it. She’d never seen him before. He wasn’t old like everyone else in this town. He didn’t belong here. He’d tracked her here. He was here to drag her back to Washington or force her to go back to that horrible place. Yes, he could work for Beadermeyer, he probably did. She couldn’t go back there. She stared at the big man who was now standing over her, looking at her strangely, as if he was really concerned, but she knew he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, it was just a ruse. He was here to hurt her.
“The phone,” she said, because she was going to die and it didn’t matter what she said. “It was someone who called and he scared me.”
As she spoke, she slowly rose and began backing away from him.
He wondered if she had a gun. He wondered if she’d turn and run to get that gun. He didn’t want this to turn nasty. He lunged for her, grabbed her left arm as she cried out, twisted about, and tried to jerk away from him.
“I’m not going to hurt you, dammit.”
“Go away! I won’t go with you, I won’t. Go away.”
She was sobbing and panting, fighting him hard now, and he was impressed with the way she jabbed him with her knuckles just below his ribs where it hurt really good, then raised her leg to knee him.
He jerked her back against him, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her until she quieted. She had no leverage now, no chance to hurt him. She was a lightweight, but the place where she’d gotten him below his ribs really hurt.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, his voice calm and low. He was one of the best interviewers in the FBI because he could modulate his voice just right, make it gentle and soothing, mean and vicious, whatever was necessary to get what he needed.
He said now, in his easy and soft tone, “I heard you cry out and thought someone was in here with you, attacking you. I was just trying to be a hero.”