Under Cover of Darkness (31 page)

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Don't think so." "Looks like you could use some help around here unloading boxes, cleaning up, whatever."

The old lady just glared. "I don't hire strangers." "I work cheap."

"You all do," she said wryly. "When you work, that is."

It was a racist jab, something Andie wasn't accustomed to. But she let it go. "I'd even work free for three days. You can stay right here and watch me, get to know me. If you like me, you keep me and give me the necklace for three days' salary. If you don't like me, you let me go. You pay me nothing."

She studied Andie carefully, quizzically. It was a great offer. Three days of work for a nine-dollar necklace. With the option to screw her in the end. Dumb Injun.

"All right," she said finally. "I got some boxes that need unpacking, price marking, folding. You can start tomorrow." "Thanks."

"Hold it," she said, halting Andie in her tracks. She grabbed a baseball bat from behind the counter an
d p
ointed it at Andie, snarling. Andie took a half step back. "Got only one rule here, young lady. You rip me off, I crack your skull. Understand?"

Andie nodded.

"Good. What's your name?"

She started to say Andie, then caught herself. "Kira Whitehook."

"I'm Marion. Call me Mrs. Rankin. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Tomorrow." She turned and headed out the door, struggling not to show how very pleased she was that Kira Whitehook had found herself a job.

Gus was getting edgy. He had called Andie several times that afternoon and left messages on her voice mail. He had spoken twice to the receptionist, who either didn't know or couldn't tell him where she was. The last time he'd demanded to speak to her supervisor, but he too was unavailable. Something weird was going on.

Carla came by to fix dinner, but his stomach was too knotted to eat. He felt out of the loop, out of control. He wanted to call back Shirley Borge and tell her the prison pet program was hers and she could have any damn dog she wanted, as many as she wanted. Just give up the information. But he couldn't tell her anything without the okay from Andie.

Why the hell doesn't Henning call back?

Time was wasting. Either the FBI was dragging its feet and letting an opportunity slip away, or they were up to something and keeping him in the dark. Either way, he didn't like it.

"You want me to keep that warm for you?" Carla asked. She was standing at the oven with another one of those spaghetti casseroles that Morgan loved.

He looked up, elbows on the kitchen table. He hadn't touched his food.

"Mix it with the Jell-O," said Morgan. "It's good that way."

Gus forced himself to smile. Any communication from Morgan needed affirmation and encouragement. "Maybe later," he said.

The phone rang. He glanced at the wall phone, but that one wasn't ringing. He jumped from his chair and ran down the hall into his office. He grabbed it on the third ring, nearly diving for the phone before the machine picked up.

"Hello," he said eagerly. There was silence. "Hello," he repeated.

Still no answer.

He paused, confused. "Hello? Is someone there?"

It was a strange silence. Not the dead kind of silence tha
t p
recedes then dialtone. He could tell the line was open. "Who is this?" he asked.

There was no response. But Gus didn't hang up. He waited. Seconds passed, then nearly half a minute. His confusion turned to anger. "Damn it, who are you?"

He thought he heard a crackle on the line. Could have been the sound of his own breathing. Then he had a thought. "Beth . ." His voice shook. "Is that you?"

No answer. But the caller didn't hang up.

His mind raced. He thought of the last call, the nursery tune she had played. He thought of all the horrible things that could have kept her from speaking. His voice turned frantic. "Beth, if it's you, hit any key three times."

After a few seconds he heard it. Three long tones.

"Beth!"

The line clicked. The caller was gone. Gus slammed down the phone and, one last time, dialed Agent Henning.

Chapter
Thirty-Eight.

Andie ate dinner at a fast-food joint, then walked around the block to check out the neighborhood. The night was clear but cold. Yakima's version of rush-hour traffic had subsided, and the streets seemed lonely. Two cars waited at the Wendy's drive-thru, big clouds of exhaust spewing from the tailpipes in the chilly air. Three other cars were parked on I Street, one that looked as if it hadn't moved since the Bush administration. The gutters were packed with three or four inches of crusty brown ice, the melted and refrozen remnants of last week's snowfall. At the light Andie crossed the street. The two homeless guys were still in the parking lot, huddled in an empty cardboard box for a refrigerator. It looked as though three or four buddies had joined them. In numbers there was warmth, if not strength.

Around seven o'clock she found a hotel just up the street from Second Chance clothing store. It was a rundown one-story unit with a permanent sign that proclaimed VACANCY. Room rates were posted outside the door. By the month. By the week. By the night. By the hour. It was exactly the kind of place Kira Whitehook would patronize. Andie headed up the sidewalk and stepped inside.

The lobby was warm but smelled of old dust. A middle-aged Hispanic man sat behind the front desk reading a newspaper. He didn't look up. Across the room, the usua
l b
usiness of the night was well underway. A young Indian woman, not more than nineteen, was leaning against the wall. Her shirt was unbuttoned far below her breasts. Three men were pawing her. Andie could hear them haggling.

'"Uh-uh," said the girl, "not three at once."

"Aww, come on, bitch."

"Gets too crazy. One at a time."

"I'll throw in an extra rock," he said, meaning crack.

His buddy grabbed his crotch. "I give you two rocks." They all laughed, even the girl. It was like wheeling and dealing with the old lady in the clothes store. Everything was for sale in this part of town. Everything was negotiable.

The desk clerk looked up. "What's it gonna be?" "Huh?" Andie answered.

The clerk looked past her and raised his voice. "I' m talking to those jerks. You boys want a room or don't you?"

The bald one answered. "We're working on it, okay? I'm this close to talking Gives-Great-Head into changing her name to Fucks-Three-At-Once."

They all laughed again. The clerk said, "Take it out of the lobby, pal."

The man was still laughing as he stepped to the counter and opened his wallet.

Andie stepped back and waited, watching the Indian girl. The eyes were glazed. Her mouth was partly open, as if it required too much effort to keep it closed. One of the men held a rag to her nose, from which she sniffed. It almost sent her spinning. The tall one had his hand inside her shirt, caressing her soft, young belly. They were dirty, rough hands, soiled from work in the fields. But the girl didn't flinch. She was beyond not caring. She was numb to it. Whatever she'd inhaled had made her night livable, her life bearable.

"Hey," said the one at the counter, "one of you losers got five bucks?"

Andie could hear them haggling as they pooled their money to cover the room and the girl. Her eyes, however, never left the girl.

It was a painful sight. Andie felt for her, but she also felt for herself. She thought back to the remark that old woman at the clothing store had made, something to the effect that you--meaning Indians--all work cheap, at least when you're working. Prejudice was something she had never come to terms with, the ridiculous views that crime and unemployment and a host of other social ills were simply a part of the Indian culture. But she knew next to nothing about the traditions and values that were her real heritage. Nine years of foster care had taught her only about survival, and the nice white family that finally adopted her had raised her as their own, with the best of intentions but without regard for where she had come from. She knew only that her father was white and her mother was Native American, but she didn't even know which tribe.

Strangely, she had never pursued her past. That was something her ex-fiance had found puzzling. They had talked about it once, when she and Rick had talked about having kids of their own. Rick had asked point-blank if she'd ever wondered who her real mother was. . . .

"At times," Andie told him.

"Ever try to find her?" Rick asked.

"No"

"Why not?"

Andie thought for a second. "Just out of respect." "Respect for who?"

"My adoptive parents. I think it would hurt their feelings if I started looking for my biological parents."

Rick scoffed. "That's stupid. You would put their feelings above everything else?"

"It's just not important to me."

"Come on."

"Honest. I don't really need to know."

"Maybe you just don't want to know. I think you're afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of what kind of woman your mother was. Afraid she was a hooker or druggie or something."

"Go to hell."

"I'm sorry. You're right. It doesn't matter. You are what you are. Not what your mother was." He leaned close and took her hand, as if his sudden about-face was supposed to be the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. As if she was supposed to melt in his arms and marvel at his sensitivity. As if he really believed the future was all that mattered. Andie just looked away and wondered. . . .

"Hey, doll face." It was the clerk behind the counter pulling her back to reality. He had finished with the threesome and their nineteen-year-old prize. "You're next."

Andie didn't move. She watched as the men gathered around the girl in the hallway. The debate had shifted to which of them would be first.

"You want a room or not?" the clerk asked.

Andie didn't answer. Watching that girl had triggered the irrational fears her adoptive mother had drummed into her head. Fears about who--or what--her biological mother had been. Fears that Andie would have been the same if she hadn't been adopted.

Confusion boiled inside her. She. felt compelled to do something. The pistol was strapped to her ankle, but that would be stupid. She had to think like Kira Whitehook, not Agent Henning. Kira would just let them go. Can't save the world. Save yourself. Screw Kira.

"Hey, asshole," said Andie.

The men froze. The biggest one shot her a look. "Who you think you're talking to?"

"An asshole, apparently. You answered?'

The attitude amused him. "Whadda we got here? Another whore muscling in on her sister's territory? Maybe
a l
ittle head-to-head competition?" He laughed at his own pun.

"Get your hands off her."

His eyes narrowed. He pulled his hand from the girl's shirt. "Now, exactly who's gonna make me do that?"

Andie felt the urge to pop him. Before she could speak, the girl stepped forward and glared with contempt. Her speech was slurred from whatever she'd inhaled two minutes ago. "Get outcha here, bish. Dis is my trick."

Andie froze, not sure what to say. There was a rumble behind the desk. The clerk had a shotgun on the counter.

"Get out," he said, aiming at Andie. "Or you're a stain on the wall."

Andie glanced again at the girl. She was barely able to stand but mad enough to shout. "Beat it, slut!"

The hammer cocked on the shotgun. The clerk meant business. Andie hoisted her duffel bag, turned away, and left. The door slammed behind her.

"Get lost, bish!"

The night air chilled her face. For twenty paces down the dark sidewalk the shouting followed her. It wasn't the men. Only the girl continued to deride her, showering her with slurred profanity.

She kept walking. The shrill voice faded, but the knot in her stomach tightened.

Kira had lost a turf war. Andie had found her demons.

Chapter
Thirty-Nine.

The FBI had set up a trap and trace on all of the Wheatley phone lines, so Gus knew they were immediately on the call, even if it was just three tones and a hang-up. An agent he had never met, some guy named Mel Haveres, had called to tell him they were pursuing it. Haveres couldn't say where Agent Henning was, and Gus still couldn't get her to call him back.

For whatever reason, the FBI was being awfully cagey as to Andie's whereabouts. Gus talked it over with Dex, who suggested they try someone outside the FBI, like Detective Kessler. Gus didn't exactly feel like he had a rapport with Kessler, not after their rocky start. It only made sense to let Dex do the digging.

At eight-thirty Dexter Bryant came by the house to report back. A face-to-face meeting was the only reliable way to make sure the FBI wasn't listening. They sat at the kitchen table. Carla served coffee, a polite way of trying to invite herself into the conversation. Ever since Gus had confided in her about Shirley Borge, she seemed to think she was automatically in the loop. But Gus had a feeling she was a pipeline to Morgan, telling her things she didn't need to know. So out she went.