The Cove

nothing, just stared ahead, her thoughts far away from him, and he hated it. He wanted to know what was going through her mind. He imagined it wasn't pleasant.

    "If you help me, I'll get your passport and take you to Mexico."

    That brought her back for a moment. She said with a quirky smile that she probably hadn't worn on her face in a very long time, "I don't want to go to Mexico. I've been there three times and got vilely sick all three times."

    "There's this drug you can take before going. It's supposed to keep your innards safe from the foreign bugs. I used it once when I went down to La Paz on a fishing trip with my buddies and I never got sick and we were on the water most of the time."

    "I can't imagine you ever getting sick from anything. No bug would want to take up residence inside you. Too little to show for it."

    "You're talking to me."

    "Oh, yes. Talking calms me. It makes all that bile settle down a bit. And just listen to you, talking to the little victim, trying to soothe and calm her, gain her trust. You're really very good, the way you use your voice, your tone, your choice of words.

    "Forget it, James. I've got even more to say. In fact, I think I've got it all together now.

    "If you'll notice, Mr. Quinlan, I've got your gun pointed at your belly. Try to squeeze me or hurt me or jerk it away from me with one of your fancy moves, and I'll pull the trigger."

    He felt then the nose of his SIG-sauer pressing against his gut. He hadn't felt it even a second before. How the hell had she gotten it out of his shoulder holster? The fact that she'd gotten it without his realizing it scared him more than knowing the pistol had a hair trigger and her finger was on it.

    He said against her hair, "I guess this means you're still pissed at me, huh?"

    "Yes."

    "I guess this means you don't want to talk about Mexico anymore? You don't like deep-sea fishing?"

    "I've never done it. But no, the time for talking is over."

    He said very quietly and slowly, “That gun is perfectly balanced and will respond practically to your thoughts. Please be careful, Sally, don't think any violent thoughts, okay?"

    "I'll try not to, but don't push me. Now, James, just fall over onto your back and don't even think about kicking out with your feet. No, don't stiffen up like that or I'll shoot you. I've got nothing to lose, don't ever forget that."

    "It's not a good idea, Sally. Let's talk some more."

    "FALL ON YOUR BACK!"

    "Well, hell." He dropped his arms to his sides as he keeled over backward. He could have tried kicking up, but he Wouldn't be sure that he wouldn't hurt her badly. He lay on his back watching her rise to stand over him, the pistol in her hand. She looked very proficient with that damned gun. She never looked away from him, not even for an instant.

    "Have you ever fired a gun before?"

    "Oh, yes. You needn't worry that I'll shoot myself in the foot. Now, James, don't even twitch." She backed away from him, up the steps to the veranda. She got his jacket, felt inside the breast pocket and found his wallet. "I hope you've got enough money," she said.

    “I went to the cash machine just before corning to rescue you, dammit."

    "That was nice of you. Don't worry, James." She gave him a small salute with his gun, then threw his jacket over her arm. "Dillon will be back soon to make your dinner. I think I heard him talking about some halibut. The lake doesn't look polluted, so maybe it won't poison you. Did I ever tell you that my father headed up this citizens' committee that was always haranguing against pollution?

    "I even wrote a paper about it, and President Reagan even told me how excellent it was. But who cares, when it comes right down to it? No, don't say it. I'm talking. It feels rather good actually. So you see, no matter what else the bastard did, he did accomplish some good.

    "Oh, yeah, Mr. Quinlan, you wanted to know all the juicy details about who did what to me in the sanitarium. You're dying to know who did it, who put me there. Well, it wasn't Dr. Beadermeyer or my husband. It was my father."

    And how, she wondered, could she ever get vengeance on a dead man? She was off in a flash, running faster than he'd thought she could, dust kicking up behind her sneakers.

    She was at the car when he jumped to his feet. He didn't think, just sprinted as fast as he could toward the Oldsmobile. He saw her stop by the driver's door and aim quickly, then he felt the dirt spray his jeans leg as a