Rescue

and maybe even mentioned by name to someone else. The Sheriff’s Office hadn’t fingerprinted me after the breakfast incident at Pedro’s, and the checkered handle of the revolver Deputy Sherman had taken from the trunk of my rent-a-car wouldn’t give up a latent even if they thought to try the cartridges as Well. But I had touched things here on Friday night, and now was a crime scene that would be gone over carefully by technicians. Latents from Dawna’s house might be matched eventually with my prints on file, either from the service or from my licensing as a private investigator in Boston, both identifying me as the definite John Cuddy, not a vague John Francis.
    Moving slowly around the bed, I tried to remember where I’d been on my first visit. Adair reclining on the bed, us t alking, me going back downstairs to sleep. I didn’t think I’d touched any smooth surfaces on the second floor except the bathroom faucets.
    I went into the small, tiled room, using a clean washrag as a wipe-cloth. Then I went downstairs.
    I couldn’t hope to get all the hairs that might have fallen out of my head, or the other faint forensic stuff, but I used the wipe-cloth on everything else. Edge of table, light switch, the kitchen counter. I tried to remember whether I’d handled anything in the kitchen, then noticed Dawna’s tote bag again. Pinky’s parking lot on Friday night, the cannister of Mace. I opened the bag to find it.
    And found the note instead.
    It was on simple white paper, written in a shaky, feminine hand with a Flair-style pen. It read,

    To whom it may consern,
    I am real afraid that John Francis, a man I met, is trying to disscredit the Church of the Lord Vigilant. I am afraid he will do something to put me in perel of my life because he is sick or something. If anything happens to me, please see to it that this note goes to the Sheriff’s Office.
    Dawn Adair

    I closed my eyes. The spelling bee champion, knowing she was going to die, intentionally misspelling three words and then even her own first name, putting the lie to what the note seemed to be saying about me.
    Pocketing the paper, I risked that whoever had been W the house was staking it out and even now calling me if anonymously. I ran that risk to walk back through the living room and back up the stairs.
    Next to the bed, I looked up at Dawna, into the eyes that wouldn’t ever look at anything again. And I made her a promise, too.

22

    I got out of the house, into the car, and down the driveway to the road. No one stopped me on the way to Route 1. I turned north, realizing I’d have to go back to the hotel, wipe down the surfaces that the maid wouldn’t have cleaned for sure. I took a left and went through the median, carefully keeping ten miles below the speed limit until the turn for Mercy Lodge.
    I drove very slowly through the lot, not seeing anyone suspicious or official. I parked a ways from the building and killed the engine, sitting in the dark and quiet for a while, watching and listening. Nobody.
    Crossing to the lobby, I didn’t see anyone behind the desk, ®p cut through to the back door that gave onto the horseshoe. There was no one around on the bay side either, a few voices drifting down here and there from the upper-floor balconies.
    Approaching #139, I checked the area by the soda machine before going to my door. Nobody.
    Inside the room, I thought about packing hurriedly, then —decided it might look better when they came for me if it appeared as though I might be coming back there. I went to work with a clean facecloth, taking only about ten minutes to sweep the place. After another minute to look around, I used the facecloth to toggle the light switch, then tossed the cloth toward the sinks as the door was closing from the spring.
    Retracing my steps, I went back into the empty lobby. I’d almost reached the door to the parking lot when I heard, “Oh, Mr. Francis?“
    I stopped, heart pounding, and turned. It was just Clark, who might have been bending over behind the front desk but now was standing, his arms sticking out from under a tangerine polo shirt.
    I tried to breathe normally. “Yes, Clark?“
    “I took a message for you.“
    I went over to the desk. “Thanks.“
    “Uh, I’m afraid the printer’s down, so I’ll have to read it off the screen for you.“ He laid his hand on top of the monitor facing him.
    I said, “The printer’s down, but the computer’s up and running?“
    The eyes crossed