I was surprised she’d brought up Amy. “I can ask her to join us,” I said. “Is that something you want?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, I think that is definitely something I want.”
I sipped my coffee. “I see. Would you mind telling me why?”
“Why I want the reporter involved?” When I nodded, she said, “Insurance, I guess.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes. For example, if anything were to happen to me—if, heaven forbid, the police screwed up, or Hubbard paid them off—my story would still be told. I’d like to know that.”
“You’re more scared of Hubbard than of the Russians, aren’t you?”
She held my eyes for a second and then nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I am. He killed my husband, Lincoln. You don’t have to believe that, but I know it’s true. And I know my husband was scared of him, too. My cocky, brave husband, who always thought he was invincible, was scared of Jeremiah Hubbard. So scared that he preferred to throw his life away—throw our life away—rather than upset the man. You think Wayne avoided the police because he was afraid of the Russians?” She shook her head emphatically. “No way. He was concerned about them, obviously, but the only person who scared him was Jeremiah Hubbard.”
I thought about Cody and his FBI badge, and I thought about Richard Douglass, the top attorney in town, and maybe I was a little bit scared of Jeremiah Hubbard, too. At least the Russians used methods I understood, methods I was familiar with. Hubbard worked through different channels entirely, controlling situations with a checkbook instead of a gun. And there was no doubt his checkbook was far more powerful than any number of guns.
Betsy returned from the bathroom, bringing an abrupt end to my conversation with her mother. I paid the bill, relieved myself of some of the coffee, and then went back to the car. I was approaching twenty-four hours without sleep, but I wasn’t feeling it yet.
We drove out of West Virginia and into Ohio. As we headed north, Julie occupied Betsy by playing silly games like racing to see who could find all the letters of the alphabet on road signs. They were both stuck on X for quite a while, until Betsy spotted a hotel sign boasting of expanded cable. She wrapped the game up by finding a Z in a sign for a radio station called “Rock 93, WZPL.” The victory seemed to take something out of her, though, because she fell asleep again around eleven, as we neared Akron.
“Home sweet home,” Julie said as we drove through Akron and continued north on I-77 toward Cleveland. “Somehow I feel safer now.”
I pulled off the interstate at a rest stop a few minutes later. Julie went to the bathroom, but we let Betsy continue sleeping. I leaned against the trunk of the car and called Joe.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just south of the city. Where are you?”
“Don Gellino’s lake cottage. You remember it?” Don Gellino was a retired cop who owned a small cottage in Medina County. He called it a lake cottage, but the body of water it stood beside wasn’t much more than a large pond. Good fishing, though, if Don was to be believed.
“I remember it. How the hell did you end up there?”
“Don’s in New Mexico for the winter staying with his kids. He left the key with me and asked me to check in on it from time to time. I thought it was as good a spot as any for our purposes.”
“Can’t argue with that. Is Kinkaid with you?”
“Not yet. I’m supposed to call him soon, though. I just didn’t think it would be a real good idea to drop him on Mrs. Weston on top of everything else she’s got to deal with.”
“Good choice,” I said. I didn’t want Julie to see Kinkaid, either. Whether my reasoning for that decision was based on Julie’s welfare or my own feelings for her was another question, and not one I felt like dealing with at the moment. “Julie wants Amy there, too.”
“Why?”
I explained her reasoning as best I could. “It makes some sense, Joe. If there’s anything usable as leverage with Hubbard, it’s going to be the threat of going public.”
“I don’t see why we need leverage with Hubbard. We’re not negotiating a business deal, you know. This woman needs to talk to the police.”
“Let’s do it her way, Joe.”
“Fine.”
I hung up with him and called Amy at her office. I got the voice mail, so I tried her cell phone, and this time she answered.
“Lincoln, I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day. You have no idea how close I’ve come to going to the police with this.”
“With what?”
“With everything, jackass. When I saw the story come over the wire this morning I about died.”
“Story?”
“Yeah, the story about the shootout at the Golden Breakers hotel. Don’t tell me you weren’t involved with it. I’m not that clueless.”
“I was involved with it,” I said. “Did the story give my name?”
“No, it didn’t give any names except the cop they interviewed and the hotel owner, some guy named Burks.”
“Lamar Burks, yeah. So what did the story say?”
“Just that there was an exchange of gunfire in and around this resort hotel early last night, and no arrests have been made. Apparently a desk clerk was beaten up, but she’s in stable condition.”
“There wasn’t anything about someone being killed in this shootout?”
“No. Should there have been?”
I frowned. “Yeah, there should have been. If there was a body at the scene, would the reporters know about it by now, or could the cops be holding out?”
“Press would have it by now,” she said confidently. “All we got on it was a little briefon the national news wire. I called the South Carolina bureau of the Associated Press for more details, and they told me they didn’t have anything else. No one was injured, and no arrests had been made, they said.”
No one was injured. Had I imagined shooting a man in the face? No, that didn’t seem like the type of thing that was easy to misinterpret. I’d killed him. If his body hadn’t been there, the Russians had taken it with them. Once I thought about it, that move made some sense. Leaving the body behind would have tied them to the shootings, and they were probably even more eager to avoid that than I was.
“What happened?” Amy asked.
“I can’t tell you about it now.”
“Dammit, Lincoln—”
“Look, I’ve got much bigger news for you,” I interrupted. “After I tell you this, you’re going to love me.”
“What?”
“I’m back in Ohio, I’ve got Julie Weston with me, and you’ve got an exclusive interview with her if you want it. If you don’t, I can call your buddy Jacob Terry and see if he’s interested.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“When and where can I talk to her?”
I gave her directions to Gellino’s cottage. She told me she’d be there in an hour, and I suggested she bring a video camera and an inkpad with her. For Julie’s interview to carry any significance, her identity would need to be verifiable, and I figured video and fingerprints should take care of that.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said. “After the night you had, I bet you’re relieved to be getting closer to home and some support.”
Closer to some support, all right. For me and the Russians. I hung up the phone and gazed down the highway, watching the innocuous stream of cars and wondering how long we had until the illusion of safety would be shattered again.
CHAPTER 21
DON GELLINO’S cottage was near Hinckley, a tiny rural town south of Cleveland. I’d been there twice several years earlier, when Gellino had cookouts in the summer. It was a beautiful place. The pond was nestled in tall, thick pines and surrounded on one side by a jagged cliff, and the cottage was small but pleasant. Gellino had spent one June building a massive redwood deck looking out on the water. I’d forgotten just how nice a spot it was until I pulled off the state highway and onto the narrow, rutted gravel drive that l
ed down to the pond and the cottage.
“Who owns this?” Julie asked as we passed through the rows of tall pines.
“A cop who retired four or five years ago and now spends the winters out in New Mexico with his kids. Joe has a key. It seemed like a good spot for us to use today.”
Betsy was awake now, sitting up in the backseat and humming softly to herself. I was impressed with her. In the past ten days she’d been taken from her home to hide in a hotel room, then taken in the middle of the night from the hotel to drive for fourteen hours in a car with a man who was basically a stranger to her. Now she still didn’t have any idea where we were going, but she wasn’t complaining. Agreeable kid.
The gravel drive followed a gentle slope down through the trees, and then the water and the cottage came into view. Joe’s Taurus was parked in front of the little house, but Amy hadn’t arrived yet. There were patches of snow here and there under the trees, and the warm breezes of the South Carolina coast seemed a distant memory.
“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.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Weston, I don’t care,” Joe said. “You have information about several serious crimes. You need to come forward with that information.”
“What information?” she said, spreading her hands. “I have a tape of a murder. I’ve never even seen it. So give them the tape. The only testimony I could provide would be about my husband’s work with Jeremiah Hubbard. I don’t know anything about these Russian men. He didn’t tell me anything, and I did not ask. But I have that tape, and if I give that to the police, people are going to want to kill me. If I don’t give it to the police, they’re going to want to kill me.” She smiled bitterly. “I’m not very well liked.”
“So what do you want to do?” Joe said, and I could tell he was fighting to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“I want to tell people the truth,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made me think of the night in the whirlpool, of the press of her body against mine. “I want to make it clear that my daughter and I are alive and that my husband was not a killer, and then I want to leave. I can’t stay here, obviously. Wayne understood that, and that’s why he tried to run. He can’t leave anymore, but I can. And I can take my daughter with me.”
Tonight I Said Goodbye lp-1 Page 23
