“Lady,” Dana said.
Then Janey kicked the woman in the leg.
“Ow! You little twat!” Her left hand darted at Janey.
As the girl leaped away, Dana jerked the woman’s right arm and swung her around and slammed her against the wall.
“That’s enough!” Dana shouted in her face.
The woman blinked.
The spit had soaked through Dana’s shirt. She felt its cool wetness against her skin.
With both hands, she clutched the front of the woman white T-shirt. “Calm down!”
“Let go of me!”
“You cannot go around hitting people,” Dana said.
Or spitting on them, she thought.
And she smelled the woman’s spit on her shirt. Felt it against her skin, and smelled it. It smelled like jasmine. It smelled like sneeze.
She suddenly gagged.
“Let go of me, or I’ll...”
Dana felt it suddenly coming. She had time to turn away. But she chose not to. She kept her grip on the mother’s T-shirt and lurched forward and threw up in her face.
For lunch, she’d had a Red-Hot Beastie Weenie, Beastly Chili Fries with cheese, and a strawberry flavored milkshake called a “Bucket of Blood.”
Chapter Thirty-three
SANDY’S STORY—July,1992
The sight of Terry’s badge seemed to freeze Sandy’s mind.
She gaped at it.
For God’s sake, don’t faint! Don’t scream and run! Just act normal.
Sure thing.
Keeping her eyes on the badge, she tried to sound like Cagney as she said, “So, you’re a copper?”
“Right. Fort Platt Municipal Police Department.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“If I’m not a cop, I’ve got a mighty fine shield and i.d. Look at that photo. That’s me, rights
She stared at the i.d. photo. “Yep.”
“So I’m either a real cop or a really slick bad guy. But that isn’t the point.” He flipped the police i.d. over. Underneath it was his driver’s license. “Look. See the address there? Fourteen Beach Drive? That’s my cottage. If you follow me over, you can check the address before you even get out of your truck. If they don’t match up, you can just drive on.”
“I guess I could do that,” Sandy said.
She felt numb.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
“Great!”
She smiled and nodded and resumed her grocery shopping.
Dazed.
Oh, my God. Oh, God. A cop. He’s a cop. What’m I gonna do?
Go over to his place and kill him?
No, no, no. Can’t do that. He’s a nice guy. I like him.
I can’t kill him.
Can’t?
Okay. I could.
But even if I wanted to, all these people are seeing us together. I’d never get away with it.
Just play along. See what happens.
In the checkout line, a couple of customers greeted Terry and he responded as if they were his good friends. The cashier knew him, too. Her name tag read, MARGE. She said, “Hey there, Ter. Whatcha up to?”
“No good, as usual.”
“Haw!”
As Marge slid the groceries across the scanner, Sandy said to her, “Is this guy really a cop?”
“Oh, I’ll say. He’s a regular terror. Ain’t you, Ter?”
“That’s me.”
“You gonna handcuff her?” Marge asked him.
“Gonna try.”
A few minutes later, he beat Sandy to the shopping cart.
She decided not to fight him for it. Outside, she walked beside him. “You’re a popular guy around here,” she said.
“For a serial killer.”
“Well, I guess you aren’t one of those.”
“They do impersonate cops, sometimes. You can’t be too careful.”
“Well, I’m convinced.”
When they reached her pickup truck, Terry unloaded the shopping cart for her. He even put the milk, butter, eggs and meat into the ice chest she’d brought along to keep them cold during the long trip home. After thanking him, she said, “You lead the way.”
“You won’t ditch me, will you?”
“If I do, I guess you can just run a make on my plates or something, huh?”
“I could. But I wouldn’t. I probably wouldn’t.”
“See you in a while,” she said. Then she climbed into her pickup, started the engine, and waited. After Terry’s car went by, she backed out of her space and followed it.
A cop. He’s a cop.
What if he does run the license?
He would find out that the vehicle was registered to Harry Matthews. And the computer would give him Harry’s address—Sandy’s address.
She had that covered, at least. During the past few years, she had managed to acquire the paperwork to back up four different false identities—including Ashley Matthews.
A girl named Ashley Matthews, born two years before Sandy, had died in an apartment fire at the age of nine.
Ralph had dug up her name—and the others. He did such things for a living, and he was good at it.
Thank God for private eyes, she thought as she turned left and followed Terry’s car onto Fort Platt Boulevard.
And thank God for Blaze. If not for the large amounts of money coming in from the paintings, she never would’ve been able to afford Ralph’s services.
So if Terry does check on me, she thought, I shouldn’t have any trouble. No reason for him to think I’m not Harry’s niece.
If he asks about Harry, I’ll say he’s on a trip.
Everything’ll be fine, she told herself.
Unless he comes over for a visit.
I can’t let that happen.
How can I stop it?
Ahead of her, Terry’s turn signal began to flash. He slowed down, then swung to the right.
I could just keep on going, Sandy thought.
But he’ll know where to find me.
We’d have to get our stuff together and leave. Right away.
Today. And find ourselves a new place to live.
Move in with Blaze?
Shaking her head, she made the turn and closed in on Terry’s car. It had slowed down to wait for her. As she approached, it picked up speed and led her onto Beach Drive.
The quiet, one-lane road ran parallel to the ocean. Along both sides were wood frame cottages and house trailers. One of the trailers had a swing set on its side yard. A boy in a swimsuit was standing on the middle swing, making it sway from side to side. A German shepherd wearing a red bandana around its neck was roaming down the side of the road. A woman was squatting down, planting flowers in front of her cottage.
An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs, one reading a newspaper, the other a paperback. A teenaged boy was busy with a hose and sponge, washing an old green Pontiac.
It looked like a nice place to live.
A lot nicer than a hideout in the woods.
Sandy felt a pull of regret.
Can’t have everything, she told herself. Be happy with what you’ve got.
Just ahead of her, Terry slowed down and turned left onto a gravel driveway. It seemed plenty long enough for her car to fit in behind his. As she made the turn, she glanced at the mailbox: 14 Beach Drive.
It was Terry’s place, all right.
She parked, climbed out of her pickup and walked toward him. “I won’t be able to stay long,” she said.