* * *
Sammie Martens turned on the car's dome light and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She hadn't worn the stuff since the last time she'd been undercover, at Tucker Peak, and harbored a neophyte's insecurity about how long, or even if, it would stay put. Not that she was slathered with it-just some eye shadow, a little mascara, a touch of blush, and, of course, lipstick-but it still felt like she was wearing clown paint. She then twisted the mirror to see her hair. That, she was more comfortable with-a simple blond dye job-even if the effect still startled her.
She switched off the light, drove the last eighth of a mile down the road, pulled into the driveway, and cut the engine.
She was beyond Guilford, south of Brattleboro, near the Massachusetts border, parked in front of a historical memento even her parents would have found quaint. It was an old-fashioned, 1930s motor court, the kind that mushroomed all over the country with the new rage of the affordable automobile. A string of separate wooden cabins, now swaybacked, peeling, and looking as if the earth were about to reabsorb them, still reflected the culture of their time, when people in their black Fords pulled off after a grueling day's drive up from the city and set up in their homes-away-from-home, complete with barbecue pits, glider swings, fireplaces for those chilly evenings, and individual front porches from which to socialize with the neighbors.
Once well tended and tidy, the grounds of this place had been left to disintegrate, helped along by a scraggly line of rusting eighteen-wheeler boxes standing guard alongside the road, partially blocking the view and the remnants of the long-dead neon sign advertising the place. Weeds choked what had probably been a neat lawn and colorful flower gardens, and all that was left of the curved gravel driveway was a rutted dirt trail, lumpy with tree roots and rocks, that ran ill defined before the row of cabins.
Sam got out of her car and pulled her tight sweater down over her hips, feeling constrained in a pair of stretch jeans two sizes too small. She'd felt less uncomfortable in a flak jacket, combat boots, and a forty-pound pack.
She surveyed the string of buildings fanned out before her. Once identical to one another as motel units, they'd been remodeled here and there as detached rental apartments, some with extra bedroom wings, others with a carport. A few had been destroyed altogether, leaving a jarring gap in the row, like a broken tooth. In all cases, they amounted to as cheap a form of housing as she knew-a north country version of tar paper shacks, meaning they had to at least hold up under a snow load.
Despite the late hour, she wasn't surprised to see some lights on. The place was no magnet for the nine-to-five crowd.
She walked slowly, fearful that she might twist her ankle wearing high-heeled boots. Not naturally statuesque, she'd had to compensate beyond the makeup and the clothes with a little padding in the appropriate places, making her feel like the Michelin Man on stilts.
About half way down the row, she found the number she was looking for and stood quietly for a moment, taking her bearings.
The old porch to this unit had been dismantled, so access to the crooked front door was an uneven stack of cinder blocks. From what she could see through the uncurtained windows, the door led directly into a kitchen, with what looked like a bathroom in the back. On the left was a small bedroom. All the lights were on and she could hear faint music leaking out onto the grass.
She stepped closer to the bedroom window after checking around for any movement from the neighbors. Inside, stretched out on a disheveled bed, was an unshaven man in his underwear, his head propped up on pillows, his face bathed in the ethereal glow of a TV set Sam couldn't see.
She studied his expression for several minutes, trying to gauge his frame of mind, before moving to the front door and quietly knocking on it.
She had to do this several times before a male voice finally called out, "Who's there?"
"It's Greta, Bill. From Tucker Peak. Last winter."
She heard him stumbling to get up, bouncing against the wall as he hurried to get his pants on. As she'd told Joe earlier, Bill Dancer had done everything he could in his very limited repertory to get her into bed when she'd been pretending to be a ski instructor and he'd been a grease-smeared mechanic. She had no doubts whatsoever about what fantasies had electrified his mind at the sound of her name.
In fact, when he finally tore open the door, she noted he'd put on a clean shirt, still creased at the fold lines, and was chewing a breath mint of inordinate strength.
"Greta Novak, my god. What a surprise. I mean, wow. I never thought I'd see you again."
"Which means you're going to let me stand out here all night?"
He leapt backward, making room, and almost fell over a chair pushed up against the wall behind him. "Oh, shit. No, come on in. Damn, you look really good."
She felt like crouching so she could replace her padded breasts with her face in his line of sight, except that he was already looking lower, smiling like a poleaxed cow.
"God," he murmured again as she swept past him into the tiny kitchen.
"So you said," she answered, looking around.
He followed her glance and immediately started to move things around on the cluttered counter near the sink, which was itself stuffed with dirty dishes. "I'm sorry about the mess. I don't entertain much. I wish I'd known you were coming. I would've cleaned up a little."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm not staying long."
He stopped in midmotion, as if that were one surprise too many-a stunning disappointment he tried to cover with a show of hospitality. "Well, sure, would you like something to drink? I got beer, some Scotch, if you'd like." He dove at a sorry-looking armchair and cleared it of some clothes. "Have a seat, too. Take a load off."
He added a small one-liner to test the waters, always the smooth talker. "Not that your load isn't totally perfect."
Sam chose the least dangerous of his libations as she settled down, crossing her legs with a flourish and rubbing one hand along her thigh. "Give me a beer."
He opened the undersized, rusty fridge and extracted a six-pack. He tore two off and handed her one, which she merely stared at. "You wash the lid on that?"
He stared at her for a split second, as if interpreting a foreign language. "Oh, right," he then said, and made for the crowded sink. He wedged the can under the faucet, rattling the stack of dishes, scrubbed the top energetically, dried it with a quick swipe against his shirtfront, and tried handing it to her again.
She even took some pity on him at that point, accepting the can. "You just never know where these have been."
He perched on the edge of a barstool, his own beer forgotten on the counter beside him. "Greta Novak. At my house. Unbelievable. I didn't even know you lived around here. I thought you were from Europe or someplace."
Sam took a swig of beer. "Yeah, right."
"No, no. I mean it. You have to admit, the name sounds foreign."
"I don't even have an accent, Bill. And the name's made up. I changed it so I could sell myself better."
He laughed nervously, still amazed this was happening.
"Holy shit, you hardly need that. Don't you know what you look like? I mean, Christ, you're. ." But his voice died off as she gave him a hard look.
"Sorry," he continued in an abashed tone. "But you're a fox."
She frowned. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. We both know what I'm talking about. Getting ahead means a shit-load more than getting laid, and you can't get ahead on looks alone."
He looked confused. "Right."
"You need an edge, an angle, you know? Something they can remember about you besides a nice ass."