the home of the deceased, George Hotchkiss. He looked up at the waitress: “The old man’s lake house—who owns the place now?”
“Probably some transplant from the eastern shore—that’s where they all seem to come from these days. Where you from?”
“Don’t worry, I’m just passing through. Hey—how about that new sheriff of yours?”
“Ed Yanuzzi? You know about him?”
“Just met him today. Your very own FBI agent—not bad for a small town.”
“Yeah, he’s terrific.”
“People here seem to like him then?”
“What’s not to like?”
“A couple of things come to mind . . . May I have my check please?”
The waitress looked down at Nick’s plate—it was empty. He had managed to consume his entire dinner during their brief conversation. She glared at him, then ripped a sheet from her pad and slapped it on the table.
“Can I charge this to my room?” he asked.
“You’re staying here?”
“Isn’t it wonderful? We’ll be able to see each other again and again.”
Nick left the restaurant and headed back to the front desk. Holly looked up at him and smiled as he approached, and Nick noticed that she seemed to tip her head from side to side slightly as she looked at him, as though she were considering different poses for a portrait.
“Hey. Here—those directions you asked for. I wrote them out for you.”
“Thanks. I’ve got another address I need help with—it’s on the lake.”
“Oh, sure, that one’ll be easy—that’s just a couple miles from here.”
Nick looked at her handwritten directions; they filled most of a page. “How long will it take me to get to this place?”
“Gosh. Hard to say. Maybe . . . I don’t know, more like—”
“An hour? Less? More?” Nick stopped—he was starting to talk like her.
“No, not more. Less, maybe. A lot of back roads out there . . .
Half an hour, I’d say.”
Nick checked his watch; with any luck he could make it out there, ask Keller’s widow a few questions, and make it back again in time for his nine o’clock phone call with Alena. It might be a little tight, but the alternative was to just sit around and wait until morning—and Nick didn’t like to sit around.
“Thanks for the directions,” he said.
“You going now? Out there? Tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“Who lives way out there?” she asked.
“A lady,” he said. “See you later.”
13
N ick pulled over onto the shoulder and turned on the dome light to check the directions—for the fifth time. What’s that woman’s problem? he wondered. How hard can it be to write out a simple list of directions? A bloodhound with a Garmin couldn’t follow this list . Nick had once read a controversial study claiming that most women lack the spatial capabilities of men; it was as if Holly was trying to single-handedly prove the study true. He read from her directions again:
Turn left on Anderson and go 3 miles
But before you do that,
turn on Compton Woods
When you come to the fork, take it
Nick was awestruck by the woman’s ability to convert a logical sequence of thought into indecipherable gibberish. Holly seemed to dump random factual information into a mental blender and then serve it up like some sort of cognitive smoothie. It was truly a gift—a twisted, perverted gift from some dark corner of hell, yes, but a gift nonetheless—and he found himself despising it and marveling at it at the same time. Who thinks like that? he wondered. Who reasons that way? And then a terrifying thought crossed Nick’s mind . . .
Maybe all women do .
Thirty minutes later he found the final turn. At least that desk clerk got one thing right: “Way out in the boonies” was no exaggeration. A winding gravel road took his car down into an isolated hollow where a rustic cabin sat askew in a small clearing. The cabin was rectangular in shape and had a shallow front porch overhung by a corrugated roof; the walls were made of wooden planks that
“Probably some transplant from the eastern shore—that’s where they all seem to come from these days. Where you from?”
“Don’t worry, I’m just passing through. Hey—how about that new sheriff of yours?”
“Ed Yanuzzi? You know about him?”
“Just met him today. Your very own FBI agent—not bad for a small town.”
“Yeah, he’s terrific.”
“People here seem to like him then?”
“What’s not to like?”
“A couple of things come to mind . . . May I have my check please?”
The waitress looked down at Nick’s plate—it was empty. He had managed to consume his entire dinner during their brief conversation. She glared at him, then ripped a sheet from her pad and slapped it on the table.
“Can I charge this to my room?” he asked.
“You’re staying here?”
“Isn’t it wonderful? We’ll be able to see each other again and again.”
Nick left the restaurant and headed back to the front desk. Holly looked up at him and smiled as he approached, and Nick noticed that she seemed to tip her head from side to side slightly as she looked at him, as though she were considering different poses for a portrait.
“Hey. Here—those directions you asked for. I wrote them out for you.”
“Thanks. I’ve got another address I need help with—it’s on the lake.”
“Oh, sure, that one’ll be easy—that’s just a couple miles from here.”
Nick looked at her handwritten directions; they filled most of a page. “How long will it take me to get to this place?”
“Gosh. Hard to say. Maybe . . . I don’t know, more like—”
“An hour? Less? More?” Nick stopped—he was starting to talk like her.
“No, not more. Less, maybe. A lot of back roads out there . . .
Half an hour, I’d say.”
Nick checked his watch; with any luck he could make it out there, ask Keller’s widow a few questions, and make it back again in time for his nine o’clock phone call with Alena. It might be a little tight, but the alternative was to just sit around and wait until morning—and Nick didn’t like to sit around.
“Thanks for the directions,” he said.
“You going now? Out there? Tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“Who lives way out there?” she asked.
“A lady,” he said. “See you later.”
13
N ick pulled over onto the shoulder and turned on the dome light to check the directions—for the fifth time. What’s that woman’s problem? he wondered. How hard can it be to write out a simple list of directions? A bloodhound with a Garmin couldn’t follow this list . Nick had once read a controversial study claiming that most women lack the spatial capabilities of men; it was as if Holly was trying to single-handedly prove the study true. He read from her directions again:
Turn left on Anderson and go 3 miles
But before you do that,
turn on Compton Woods
When you come to the fork, take it
Nick was awestruck by the woman’s ability to convert a logical sequence of thought into indecipherable gibberish. Holly seemed to dump random factual information into a mental blender and then serve it up like some sort of cognitive smoothie. It was truly a gift—a twisted, perverted gift from some dark corner of hell, yes, but a gift nonetheless—and he found himself despising it and marveling at it at the same time. Who thinks like that? he wondered. Who reasons that way? And then a terrifying thought crossed Nick’s mind . . .
Maybe all women do .
Thirty minutes later he found the final turn. At least that desk clerk got one thing right: “Way out in the boonies” was no exaggeration. A winding gravel road took his car down into an isolated hollow where a rustic cabin sat askew in a small clearing. The cabin was rectangular in shape and had a shallow front porch overhung by a corrugated roof; the walls were made of wooden planks that
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