Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

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.

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 led 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.