Promised Land by Robert B. Parker Page A

seventeenth-century America, and experience a sense of the desolation they must have felt, minute and remote and resolute in the vast woods.
    I saw Susan on top of the blockhouse, looking out at the village, her arms folded on the parapet, and I came back to business and walked up the hill, past the blockhouse and into the Plantation. There was one street, narrow and rutted, leading downhill toward the ocean. Thatched houses along each side, behind the herb gardens, some livestock and a number of people dressed in Colonial costume. Lots of children, lots of Kodak Instamatics. I walked down the hill, slowly, letting Pam Shepard have ample time to spot me and see that I wasn’t followed. I went the whole length of the street and started back up. As I passed Myles Standish’s house, Pam came out of the door wearing huge sunglasses and fell into step beside me.
    ”You’re alone.“
    ”No, I have a friend with me. A woman.“ It seemed important to say it was a woman.
    ”Why,“ she said. Her eyes were wide and dark.
    ”You are in trouble, and maybe she could help. She’s an A-l woman. And I had the impression you weren’t into men much lately.“
    ”Can I trust her?“
    ”Yes.“
    ”Can I trust you?“
    ”Yes.“
    ”I suppose you wouldn’t say so if I couldn’t anyway, would you?“ She was wearing a faded denim pants and jacket combo over a funky-looking multicolored T-shirt. She was exactly as immaculate and neat and fresh-from-the-shower-and-make-up-table as she had been the last time I saw her.
    ”No, I wouldn’t. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friend, then we can go someplace and sit down and maybe have a drink or a snack or both and talk about whatever you’d like to talk about.“
    She looked all around her as if she might dart back into one of the thatched houses and hide in the loft. Then she took a deep breath and said, ”Okay, but I mustn’t be seen.“
    ”Seen by who?“
    ”By anyone, by anyone who would recognize me.“
    ”Okay, we’ll get Susan and we’ll go someplace obscure.“ I walked back up the street toward the gate to the blockhouse, Pam Shepard close by me as if trying to stay in my shadow. Near the top of the hill Susan Silverman met us. I nodded at her and she smiled.
    ”Pam Shepard,“ I said. ”Susan Silverman.“ Susan put out her hand and smiled.
    Pam Shepard said, ”Hello.“
    I said, ”Come on, we’ll head back to the car.“
    In the car Pam Shepard talked with Susan. ”Are you a detective too, Susan?“
    ”No, I’m a guidance counselor at Smithfield High School,“ Susan said.
    ”Oh, really? That must be very interesting.“
    ”Yes,“ Susan said, ”it is. It’s tiresome, sometimes, like most things, but I love it.“
    ”I never worked,“ Pam said. ”I always just stayed home with the kids.“
    ”But that must be interesting too,“ Susan said. ”And tiresome. I never had much chance to do that.“
    ”You’re not married?“
    ”Not now, I was divorced quite some time ago.“
    ”Children?“
    Susan shook her head, I pulled into the parking lot at Bert’s. ”You know anybody in this town,“ I said to Pam.
    ”No.“
    ”Okay, then this place ought to be fairly safe. It doesn’t look like a spot people would drive up from the Cape to go to.“
    Bert’s was a two-story building done in weathered shingles fronting on the ocean. Inside, the dining room was bright, pleasant, informal and not very full. We sat by the window and looked at the waves come in and go out. The waitress came. Susan didn’t want a drink. Pam Shepard had a stinger on the rocks. I ordered a draft beer. The waitress said they had none. ”I’ve learned,“ I said, ”to live with disappointment.“ The waitress said she could bring me a bottle of Heineken. I said it would do. The menu leaned heavily toward fried seafood. Not my favorite, but the worst meal I ever had was wonderful. At least they didn’t feature things like the John Alden Burger or Pilgrim Soup.
    The waitress