The Cove

"That's what I thought too when I first got here. I hadn't seen her since I was seven years old. I expected her to whip out some tarot cards, but I was very glad she didn't."

    "Why? Maybe she's good at tarot cards. Uncertainty's a bitch."

    But she was shaking her head. "I'd rather have uncertainty than certainty. I don't want to know what's going to happen. It can't be good."

    No, he wasn't going to tell her who he was, he wasn't going to tell her that she was perfectly right, that what would happen to her would suck. He wondered if she'd killed her father, if she hadn't run to this town that was on the backside of the Earth to protect her mother. Others in the bureau believed it was a deal gone sour, that Amory St. John had finally screwed over the wrong people. But he didn't believe that for a minute, never had, which was why he was here and no other agents were. "You know, I'd sure like some brandy." "Who are you?"

    He said easily, "I'm a private investigator from Los Angeles. A man hired me to find his parents, who disappeared from around here some three years ago."

    She was weighing his words, and he knew she was trying to determine if he was lying to her. His cover was excellent because it was true, but even that didn't matter. He was a good liar. He could tell his voice was working on her.

    She was so thin, her face still had that bloodless look, the color leached out by the terror of that phone call. Her father? He was coming to take care of her? This was nuts. He could handle sane people. He didn't know what he'd do if she flipped out.

    "All right," she said finally. "Come this way, into the kitchen."

    He followed her to a kitchen that was straight out of the 1940's-the brownish linoleum floor with stains older than he was. It was clean but peeling up badly near the sink area. All the appliances were as old as the floor, and just as clean. He sat down at the table as she said, "Don't lean on it. One of the legs is uneven. See, Aunt Amabel has magazines under it to make it steady."

    He wondered how long the table had been like that. What an easy thing to fix. He watched Susan St. John Brainerd pour him some brandy in a water glass. He watched her pause and frown. He realized she didn't know how much to pour.

    "That's just right," he said easily. "Thank you." He waited until she'd poured herself a bit, then gave her a salute. "I need this. You scared the bejesus out of me. Nice to meet you, Susan St. John."

    "And you, Mr. Quinlan. Please call me Sally." "All right-Sally. After all our screams and shouts, why not call me James?"

    "I don't know you, even if I did scream at you." "The way you gouged me in the ribs, I'd give up before I'd let you attack me like that again. Where'd you learn to do that?''

    "A girl at boarding school taught me. She said her brother was the meanest guy in junior high and he didn't want a wuss for a sister so he taught her all sorts of self-defense tricks."

    He found himself looking down at her hands. They were as thin and pale as the rest of her. She said, "I never tried it before-seriously, I mean. Well, I did, several times, but I didn't have a chance, There were too many of them."

    What the hell was she talking about? He said, "It worked. I wanted to die. In fact, I'll be hobbled over for the next couple of days. I'm glad you missed my groin." He sipped his brandy, watching her. What to do? It had seemed so simple, so straightforward before, but now, sitting here, facing her, seeing her in the flesh as a person and not just as his key to the murder of Amory St. John, things weren't so clear anymore. He hated it when things weren't clear. "Tell me about your father." She didn't say anything, just shook her head. "Listen to me, Sally. He's dead. Your damned father is dead. That couldn't have been him on the phone. That means that it must have been either a recording of his voice or a person who could mimic him very well." "Yes," she said, still staring into the brandy. "Obviously someone knows you're here. Someone wants to frighten you."

    She looked up at him then, and remarkably, she smiled. It was a lovely smile, free of fear, free of stress. He found himself smiling back at her. "That someone succeeded admirably," she said. "I'm scared out of my mind. I'm sorry I attacked you."

    "I would have attacked me too if I had burst through the front door like that."

    "I don't know if the call was long distance. If it was long distance, then I've got some time to decide