‘Don’t think so. Lincoln said the people doing this were from Southern Illinois. It wasn’t far away from where my mother and I were. And I remember my mother and stepfather would meet with people from the other militias sometimes but I never paid any attention. I hated them all. Hated them so much.’ Her voice faded.
‘But the tattoo guy, the killer, he’s dead and the others got arrested.’
‘Right. A husband and wife and their son. They still don’t know who the guy in the tunnel was, who was killed. The tattoo artist.’
‘You’re still not talking to Amelia?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
‘For now.’
‘For a long time,’ Pam said firmly.
‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘No! That’s not it. She’s just protective. She thinks I’m this fragile doll. I don’t know. Jesus.’
Seth put down the coffee. ‘Okay if we talk about something serious?’
‘Sure, I guess.’
All right, what was this?
He laughed. ‘Relax. I’ve decided we need to hit the road sooner. Right away.’
‘Really? But I don’t have my passport yet.’
‘I was thinking we could stick to the US for a while.’
‘Oh. Well, I just thought we were going to see India. Then Paris and Prague and Hong Kong.’
‘We will. Just not now.’
She considered this but then looked at his intense brown eyes, staring into hers. And she said, ‘Okay. Sure, baby. Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.’
‘I love you,’ Seth whispered. He kissed her hard and she kissed back, embracing.
Pam sat forward, sipped coffee. ‘Munchies? I could use something. A pizza?’
‘Sure.’
She rose and walked into the kitchen again, opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a pizza and set it on the counter.
And sagged against the wall, feeling her gut churn, heart rate pound.
Thinking: How the hell did Seth know about Larchwood? She desperately thought back to their time together. No, I never mentioned it. I’m sure.
You need to tell Seth everything about your time underground.
No, I don’t.
Think, think …
‘Need a hand?’ his voice called.
‘Nope.’ She made noise, ripping the pizza box open, banging the oven door down.
This can’t be happening. There’s no way he could be involved with those people.
Impossible.
But Pam’s instincts, honed by years of survival, took over. She eased to the landline phone and picked it up. Held it to her ear.
Hit nine. Then one.
‘Making a call?’
Seth stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
Keeping a smile on her face, she turned, forcing herself to move slowly. ‘You know, we were talking about Amelia. I was just thinking. Maybe I will apologize. I think that’d be a good idea, don’t you? I mean, wouldn’t you, if you were in my place?’
‘Really?’ he asked. Not smiling. ‘You were calling Amelia?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Put the phone down, Pam.’
‘I …’ Her voice faded as his steely dark eyes bored into hers. The same shade of brown. Her thumb hovered over the one button on the phone. Before she could hit it Seth stepped forward and pulled the phone from her hand, hung it up.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.
But Seth said nothing. He took her firmly by the arm, pulling her back to the couch.
CHAPTER 69
Seth walked to the front door, put the chain on and returned.
He smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t believe that I mentioned Larchwood. I knew you and your mom stayed with the Patriot Frontier there. But you never mentioned it. Stupid of me, a mistake like that.’
She whispered, ‘It was one of the things Amelia and I argued about. She asked if I’d told you about my life there. I said it didn’t matter. But really? I was afraid to tell you. And now … You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re working with the people who tried to poison the water.’
He picked up the remote to turn the TV on, presumably to see the news. Pam took the chance to leap from the couch, shoving him back hard. When he stumbled back she sprinted for the door. But she got no more than two steps before he tackled her. She went down hard, her face bouncing on the wood. Pam tasted blood from a split lip. He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her roughly back to the couch, virtually tossing her onto it.
‘Never do that again.’ Leaning close, he dipped his finger in her blood and drew something on her face.
Whispering, he told her, ‘Body markings’re windows, you know. Into who you are and what you’re feeling. In some Native American tribes using paint — which is just a temporary tattoo — was a way to tell everybody what you were feeling. Warriors couldn’t express emotion through words or facial expressions — not part of the culture — but they could use painted mods to show they were in love or sad or angry. I mean, even if you lost a child, you couldn’t cry. You couldn’t react. But you could paint your face. And everyone knew how sad you were.
‘On your face, just now? I wrote the marks that mean Happy in the Lakota tribe.’
Then he reached into his backpack and took from it a roll of duct tape and a portable tattoo gun.
When he did this, his sleeve tugged up and Pam found herself staring at a tattoo. It was red. She couldn’t see it all but the portion exposed was the head and upper body of a centipede, whose all-too-human eyes stared at her just as Seth’s did now: The look was of hunger and disdain.
‘You’re the one tattooing those people,’ Pam said, her voice a frail whisper. ‘Killing them.’
Seth didn’t respond.
‘How do you know that couple? The terrorists?’
‘I’m their nephew.’
Seth — but no, not Seth; he’d have a different name — was assembling his tattoo gear. She stared at his arm, the tattoo. The insect eyes stared back.
‘Oh, this?’ He tugged his sleeve all the way up. ‘It’s not a tat. It’s just a drawing — water-soluble ink. The sort some artists use to do outlines.’ He licked his finger and smeared it. ‘When I was the Underground Man — out on the prowl — I’d draw it on my arm. Took ten minutes. When I was your friend Seth, I’d wash it off. It only had to be good enough to let witnesses see it and for your police friends — and you — to be happy that the new man in your life, me, wasn’t the killer.’
Pam was crying.
‘Lip hurt? You tried to run.’ He shrugged. ‘A busted lip is nothing compared with—’
‘You’re insane!’
His eyes flared and he slammed a fist into her belly. The room burst yellow and she whimpered under the pain. Controlled the nearly overwhelming urge to vomit.
‘Do not speak to me that way. Do you understand?’ He grabbed her hair and brought his mouth inches from her ear. He shouted so loud that her ears stung. ‘Do you?’
‘Okay, okay, okay! Stop please,’ she cried. Then, ‘Who, who are you?’ she whispered, but tentatively, afraid of another blow. He seemed capable of murder; his eyes were possessed.
He pushed her away. Pam collapsed on the floor. He pulled her roughly onto the couch, duct-taped her hands behind her and rolled her over on her back.
‘My name is Billy Haven.’ He continued to set out some jars and assemble his tattoo gun. He glanced at her and noted the look of utter confusion.
‘But I don’t understand. I talked to your mother on the phone, she … Oh, yes, yes: It was your aunt.’
He nodded.
‘But I’ve known you for a year. More.’