Jon withdrew the gun, put a finger to his lips; Cindy Lou sucked in air, brought a hand up to her mouth.
The safety chain kept the door from opening more than a few inches. A voice out there — Cole Comfort’s voice, sounding a little drunk — said, “Let me in, darlin’! What you got this thing locked for? And turn that TV down!”
Jon mouthed, “Please,” to her, and she got up and went to the door, saying, “I got to shut it to open it, Daddy,” and she shut it, turning to Jon and giving him a pained expression and shaking her head no.
Quickly he ducked out the glass doors and sprinted through the snow back to his van, not looking back, gun in his hand and in his pocket. Wondering if he’d blown it.
16
Business was slow, at Nolan’s, even for a Thursday night. It was cold, particularly for early December, and the roads were slick from the light but persistent snow. This was no blizzard, but people weren’t used to the winter driving conditions yet, and a lot of them stayed home. Tonight it was mostly singles, out dancing to the monotonous beat and nasal sounds of some British synthesizer band. Nolan had turned the alleged music down lower than Sherry would have liked. Sherry thought loud music encouraged dancing, which encouraged general socializing, all of which encouraged drinking. It was his thinking that the couples lingering here, after a late dinner, sitting in the bar, might want to talk, or anyway hear themselves think. The loudness of the sound system was a bone of contention between Sherry and Nolan. He usually let her have her way — as long as the customers didn’t complain, and they never seemed to. Without her here, he did it his way.
The regulars were asking for her: “Where’s Sherry?” “We really miss her!” “You’re a poor substitute for a pretty face, Nolan!” He told them, including several of his Chamber of Commerce pals, she’d gone home to visit family. Since her family was all dead, he hoped that wasn’t really the case.
Being at the restaurant was worse, in a way, than being at home; her touch was here — the plants, the decor, even the way things were run, much of it had come from her, or from them both, talking things out, planning together. They had shared the restaurant more than the house. Funny, how the worst waitress in the world could turn out to have such a knowing touch where managing was concerned. Strange, how he could sleep in that bed and force her from his mind but in Nolan’s, he couldn’t. She was everywhere.
Except in the back room. That was where Cole Comfort waited.
Jennifer Wallace liked her job. She never admitted it to anybody, because she was, after all, just a glorified janitor. And not particularly glorified, either.
But she liked solitude — she’d grown up in a big family and hadn’t had near as much time to herself as she would’ve liked, and now, only twenty-five years of age, she was working on her own big family, with three at home, ages two, four and seven, which was the life she’d sought, the life she loved, but solitude wasn’t part of it.
She was a small but sturdy woman, with dark brown hair in a short tight perm, small dark eyes, rather large nose, pleasant smile; wearing a light brown shirt with the Brady Eighty logo on it, and dark brown slacks. It was almost a uniform, giving her a military look, and she liked that. It made her feel less a janitor, as the term bothered her a little, even though she liked the work just fine.
A lot of people wouldn’t have. But all the mopping of floors and Windexing of storefronts (which was pretty much the sum of her duties between now and seven, when the shift changed and the doors opened) had a hypnotic effect on her. She got into it. She liked the feel of her muscles being exercised. She liked working hard but unsupervised, taking her time.
And she varied it. She could finish up the place in five hours, if she pushed it. In which case, she could sit in the maintenance shop — a big cement supply room, like a garage only without a garage door — with her feet up on the workbench, reading a book, or listening to the radio, or watching a portable TV.
Other nights she would take her time. Those were the nights when she was in a thoughtful mood, and let the motion of mopping and Windexing lull her. She could get drunk on work when she took it at that slow, steady pace. But not so drunk that she wouldn’t think about her kids and her Doug.
She had a terrific husband and terrific kids. Doug was blond and chubby and cute as a bug’s ear; they got married out of high school — a “have-to,” but they neither one had regrets, at least not that Jennifer knew. Doug worked at Oscar Meyer, day shift, and she took the kids to day-care when she got home from work around 7:30 A.M. and then she’d sleep all day. She and Doug and the kids had all evening together; she came on at ten, so they’d get the kids in bed at eight-thirty or so, and have a roll in the hay, and she’d go off to work with a glow.
She loved her life.
Tonight, she’d come on, as usual, right at ten, nodding to Pete, whose maintenance shift was just ending, and Scott, that cute security guard, who was going off duty. As usual, Pete had a pot of coffee waiting for her. She needed her caffeine; that’s one thing you needed in this job. That and a good attitude.
She sat in her swivel executive-style chair, which had been abandoned by one of the businesses out here and which Pete had salvaged and repaired, with her feet up on the workbench, trying to decide whether tonight would be a high-energy, five-hour night, followed by some relaxation (she had a historical romance paperback tucked in her purse, Love’s Savage Sword by Linda Benjamin); or a reflective, slow-and-steady worknight, where she could get lost in the circular motion of mop and rag, and contemplate her kids and her old man. She sipped her coffee, and thought: I think tonight I’ll whip through this place like a female Mr. Clean; maybe I can beat my record and come in under five hours — and finish reading my romance.
With that, she was deep asleep.
Nolan sat at his desk. White-haired, blue-eyed Coleman Comfort sat on a box of whiskey bottles nearby; he was wearing his coveralls with a plaid shirt underneath, looking folksy as a postcard from the Grand Ole Opry. He seemed to have developed a bit of a paunch; Nolan didn’t seem to be the only one age had put a spare tire on. One odd note was struck: his high-topped black tennis shoes, over which cream-colored longjohns rose into the coveralls. Nolan understood the shoes, though: he’d suggested to all of them, last night, that they wear something comfortable and suited for the long night of physical labor ahead. And Cole Comfort had obviously taken Nolan’s footwear advice to heart, and sole.
“I guess it’s time,” Cole said, smiling; he had such a nice smile.
Nolan glanced at his watch. Ten after ten. “I’d say the maintenance girl’s out, by now.” He had gone in just before Pete went off and chatted with the man, slipping Seconal in the pot of coffee. The last three nights Nolan had, just after ten, entered the mall the back way, walking past the maintenance shop’s double doors, which were invariably ajar; each night he noticed the night girl sitting having a cup of coffee before getting to work.
Three nights in a row suggested, but did not guarantee, a pattern.
“How do we know she’s out?” Comfort said, just a little irritably.
“We’ll know for sure soon enough. Before this goes any further, you’ve got a phone call to make.”
And Nolan pushed the phone on his desk toward Comfort. Comfort rose and went to the phone and pushed some buttons and, phone to his ear, stood and smiled at Nolan. It was a smile that seemed pleasant enough, but Nolan could see the smugness, the cruelty, that lurked behind Comfort’s good-ole-boy veneer.