John Miller - Upside Down

She had to protect the tape. She opened the chips and ate them slowly, savoring the familiar, dry taste. After emptying the baggie, she dropped in the cassette tape and sealed it. Then, unable to resist her pleading stomach, she opened the other baggie and ate the sandwich.

Light washed over her. Startled, she looked up: someone had switched on the lights in the house next door. A man in his underwear sat down on a couch in his den, turned on his big television set, and started flipping through the channels. He hesitated on the news, and Faith Ann glimpsed a picture on the screen of her mother's building. Police cars were parked outside it. Then a man talked into a microphone and a picture of her mother came on the screen. Faith Ann had to put her hand up to her mouth to keep from crying out. Lastly, the television showed one of her own school pictures. That one stayed on for a long time, and she thought there was a phone number under it. When the story changed, Faith Ann sat back down and had to wipe the tears from her eyes so she could see.

Sitting in the bushes, she thought about what to do. She wondered if the police were gone from her home yet. She needed to get some dry clothes, rest some, if she could, and figure out what she was going to do next.

She had to find someone she could trust who would also know how to take the tape and the picture copies to the right person and free Horace Pond, and it had to be somebody the Spanish cop wouldn't just kill. She was sure that after she did that, God would make everything work out somehow. She looked at her watch. Twenty-four hours, she thought. I have to save Horace Pond. Help me, Mama.

Faith Ann got back on her bike.

It was nearly noon when Manseur parked and went into the Park View Guest House. The clerk was reading a novel, which he set aside when the detective approached.

“You have a Henry Trammel registered?” Manseur flashed his badge and let the young man read it. He showed the clerk a room key.

“Sure. The Trammels are staying there.”

“There was an accident. I'd like to have a look at their room.”

“I don't know… You have a warrant or something?”

“I'm just looking for next-of-kin information. I can have a warrant here in an hour.”

“I don't know… I should call my boss…”

The call took only a few seconds. The clerk came around the desk and accompanied Manseur to the room. Manseur gave the key to the clerk, who opened the door. “He said I should watch you,” the young man said. “To list anything you take away.”

“Watch and list away,” Manseur said.

Manseur looked around the room. The room was tidy, the suitcases beside the bed. The bathroom had used towels hanging on the shower bar, male and female toilet articles on the counter. There were some prescription bottles, an open dop kit, some makeup, a hairbrush, razor and lather, two damp toothbrushes bristles up.

He looked at the clothes hanging in the closet, then set the suitcases on the bed and opened them. The only thing he found of interest was a leather holster for a Colt and a partially full box of. 45 +P ammunition in Hank's suitcase. There was an address book and a cell phone in Millie Trammel's suitcase along with eight hundred dollars' worth of American Express traveler's checks.

“I want you to leave things as they are for a day or two in case I need to come back.”

“This room is booked through Tuesday. I don't guess there's a problem there. We're like half full.”

Manseur handed the clerk his card. “If anybody comes looking for them, or calls to speak to them, you'll call me?”

“Sure. There was a little girl here earlier.”

“What little girl?”

The clerk shrugged. “She asked after the Trammels.”

“She give her name?”

“No, I don't think she did. She was only here for a minute. Just after they left.”

“Describe her.”

“Tall, skinny kid. She was soaked. I told her they had gone out to eat. She ran out of here.”

“Was she wearing a yellow poncho?”

“Yeah. You already know about her?”

“If she comes back, you call me,” Manseur said, but he didn't think she would.

Concord, North Carolina

The Masseys' home was a California Mission Revival, a yellow brick house with a red barrel-tile roof and arches defining the covered front porch. It sat in a line of other homes all built when F.D.R. was president. For the past hour, Winter Massey had sat out on the porch swing alone, looking out through the arch, but Sean, who had been taking periodic peeks out the window at him, knew he wasn't looking at anything that anyone else could see.

She had never seen her husband grieve, but she knew him well enough to know that he didn't require her company, hadn't invited it. Knowing that she was helpless to comfort him was painful to her. She had been fond of both Hank and Millie, but she had been closer to Hank because he had taken a bullet in his and Winter's effort to save her life.

Not being a relative made getting any information on Hank's condition impossible. Sean called a lawyer she had been using in New Orleans. She told him to tell the chief administrator at Charity Hospital that the Trammels had no relatives, just close friends named Massey, and that for certain considerations she was prepared to make a six-figure donation in the Trammels' name to the ICU. Twenty minutes after hanging up, a Dr. Russell, the chief of medicine, called her back. He told Winter that Hank Trammel had only a slight chance of living through the night. The physician said that if he made it through the first twenty-four hours, Hank's chances would greatly improve, although he would probably never be the same. Winter told Dr. Russell that he would be at the hospital in the morning.

Sean went back to Rush's bedroom, opened the door, and saw that the boy was sound asleep. Her stepson had been every bit as upset as his father and was also upset by the fact that Faith Ann Porter's mother had been murdered and Faith Ann was missing. It appeared that Faith Ann may have been there when it happened.

Neither Winter nor Sean could imagine why Faith Ann hadn't gone to the police or remained on the scene after Hank and Millie were hit. They agreed that Faith Ann was probably in danger, that the odds against the two deadly incidents being unrelated were astronomical. Winter reasoned that whoever murdered Kimberly Porter must have run down the Trammels and was probably still after Kimberly's daughter.

Sean was in their bedroom when she heard the front door close, followed by Winter's slow footsteps coming down the hallway.

Winter entered the room, sat on the bed, put his arm around Sean, and pulled her close.

“You know, I'm really happy about the baby. I haven't seen Rush so excited in a very long time.”

“I know,” she said, hugging him. From the highest high to the lowest low in a matter of seconds. “Hank will be all right.”

“And so will Faith Ann,” Winter said.

“I want to go with you,” she said, knowing exactly what his response would be.

“It isn't a good idea,” he said. “Nicky is going to stay close to watch over Hank and be there in case Faith Ann shows up. I'm going to be busy from the second I hit the ground. I don't want to have to worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself, Massey. Or have you forgotten?”

“I know that. But Faith Ann may call here. If she calls Rush you need to tell her to call me at the Pontchartrain Hotel. Or better yet, tell her to sit tight and you call me on my cell and Nicky Green or I will go to her.”

“I just wish I could do more.”

As he rubbed her shoulder gently, Sean looked over at Winter's packed duffel parked on the floor beside the dresser. Winter's cordovan shoulder rig-the straps spooled around the holster containing his SIG Sauer 220-resting on top of the bag reminded her of a sleeping serpent.