The Welcoming

he had a chance of getting that far. “We’re all a bit edgy because of Charity’s accident. You could probably use a drink.”
    Roman moved over to a stack of computer manuals and unearthed a small silver flask. “Yours?” he said. Bob stared at him. “I imagine you keep this in here for those long nights when you’re working late—and alone. Wondering how I knew where to find it?” He set it aside. “I came across it when I broke in here a couple of nights ago and went through the books.”
    “You broke in?” Bob wiped the back of his hand over suddenly dry lips. “That’s a hell of a way to pay Charity back for giving you a job.”
    “Yeah, you’re right about that. Almost as bad as using her inn to pass counterfeit bills and slip undesirables in and out of the country.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bob took one cautious sideways step toward the door. “I want you out of here, DeWinter. When I tell Charity what you’ve done—”
    “But you’re not going to tell her. You’re not going to tell her a damn thing—yet. But you’re going to tell me.” One look stopped Bob’s careful movement cold. “Try for the door and I’ll break your leg.” Roman tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “Sit down.”
    “I don’t have to take this.” But he took a step back, away from the door, and away from Roman. “I’ll call the police.”
    “Go ahead.” Roman lit the cigarette and watched him through a veil of smoke. It was a pity Bob was so easily cowed. He’d have liked an excuse to damage him. “I was tempted to tell Royce everything I knew this morning. The problem with that was that it would have spoiled the satisfaction of dealing with you and the people you’re with personally. But go ahead and call him.” Roman shoved the phone across the desk in Bob’s direction. “I can find a way of finishing my business with you once you’re inside.”
    Bob didn’t ask him to explain. He had heard the cell door slam the moment Roman had walked into the room. “Listen, I know you’re upset. . . .”
    “Do I look upset?” Roman murmured.
    No, Bob thought, his stomach clenched. He looked cold—cold enough to kill. Or worse. But there had to be a way out. There always was. “You said something about counterfeiting. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about, and we’ll try to settle this calm—?” Before he got the last word out he was choking as Roman hauled him out of the chair by the collar.
    “Do you want to die?”
    “No.” Bob’s fingers slid helplessly off Roman’s wrists.
    “Then cut the crap.” Disgusted, Roman tossed him back into the chair. “There are two things Charity doesn’t do around here. Only two. She doesn’t cook, and she doesn’t work the computer.
Can’t
would be a better word. She can’t cook because Mae didn’t teach her. Pretty easy to figure why. Mae wanted to rule in the kitchen, and Charity wanted to let her.”
    He moved to the window and casually lowered the shades so that the room was dim and private. “It’s just as simple to figure why she can’t work a basic office computer. You didn’t teach her, or you made the lessons so complicated and contradictory she never caught on. You want me to tell you why you did that?”
    “She was never really interested.” Bob swallowed, his throat raw. “She can do the basics when she has to, but you know Charity—she’s more interested in people than machines. I show her all the printouts.”
    “All? You and I know you haven’t shown her all of them. Should I tell you what I think is on those disks you’ve got hidden in the file drawer?”
    Bob pulled out a handkerchief with fumbling fingers and mopped at his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You keep the books for the inn, and for the little business you and your friends have on the side. I figure a man like you would keep backups, a little insurance in case the people you work for decided to cut you out.” He opened a file drawer and dug out a disk. “We’ll take a look at this later,” he said, and tossed it onto the desk. “Two to three thousand a week washes through this place. Fifty-two weeks a year makes that a pretty good haul. Add that to the fee you charge to get someone back and forth across the border mixed with the tour group and you’ve got a nice, tidy sum.”
    “That’s crazy.” Barely breathing, Bob tugged at his collar. “You’ve got to know that’s