when I leave town, for all I care. But while I’m here, I need you to call me right away if you hear anything around town about Sophie, or if you see anybody snooping around Eddie’s place.”
“Dude, I don’t have a clue how to use one of these contraptions.”
“I spent all morning translating the user’s manual, already got it programmed for you. All you have to do is answer it if it rings. It’ll say ‘WIDOWMAKER’ on the little screen when I call.”
That earned a grin from Leon. He held the phone up to his ear, inspected its shiny silver buttons. When he sat it down on the bar, though, he kept one eye on the phone, as if it were something that might jump up and latch onto his carotid artery if he dropped his guard for a second.
“Somebody tried to off you, man. I can’t believe that shit!”
“It’s true,” said Nick.
“Say the dude had a silencer and everything? It’s like somethin’ outta one of them old private-eye flicks!”
“I guess.” Nick’s tone was sardonic, yet at the same time somber. “But real life isn’t black-and-white. I’m no Philip Marlowe. And I’m surrounded by rejects from Deliverance instead of double-crossing dames with perfect gams and tits out to here.”
Leon beamed at the mention of tits. He gave his hero two thumbs up, oblivious to the fact that he had been insulted.
†
Dinnertime found Nick and his daughter again sitting in a corner booth at Annie’s Country Diner. But they didn’t stay for long, after he told her what the man who tried to kill him had said about Sophie (“Oh, God,” she cried, “I knew it! Some pervert’s got her locked up like he owns her!”). Nick tossed a few dollars onto the table to pay for their untouched sodas, helped her stagger outside as the diner’s patrons looked on.
All morning, a bruise-colored sky had hinted of a storm on the way. Seconds after they climbed into Nick’s Bronco, the threat was realized. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed as if all the angels in Heaven were throwing down in some celestial brawl.
One minute the air was still, the next Nick could barely see the world outside through the sheets of pouring rain.
In the passenger seat beside him, Melissa stared out her window. Her shoulders trembled, but her sobs were muted beneath the rhythm of the Bronco’s wipers thumping back and forth like long, skinny arms warding off the blows of a bully. Wormy rivulets of rainwater trickled down the glass in front of her face.
“Where are we going?” Nick started up the vehicle. “You wanna sit here and talk, or should we—”
“Just drive,” she said. “Anywhere. I don’t care.”
He nodded, pulled away from the curb. Before they headed down Main Street, Nick saw where his daughter had been staring: on a telephone pole a few feet from the Bronco, a soggy flyer with Sophie’s face on it had been all but destroyed by the storm. The fourteen-year-old’s features appeared to be melting in the rain.
Nick felt a chill.
“Mind if I smoke?” Melissa asked him.
“Be my guest.”
She lit up. Her cigarette quivered in her grip. She rolled down her window a half-inch or so, tapped ashes through the gap.
Neither of them said another word until they had traveled out of the town common, into the wooded outskirts of Midnight. When he noticed his daughter was shivering, Nick cranked up the Bronco’s heater. Mostly it just blew out cool, dusty air that smelled like someone’s basement.
Softly, he said, “Tell me about her.”
The storm howled around them. At least a minute passed before Melissa replied.
“She’s a wonderful young lady.” She continued to stare out her rain-streaked window, alternately chewing at her fingernails and taking long drags off her cigarette as she spoke. “Nothing like me when I was her age, thank God. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Worries about her epilepsy, of course. Says she wants to be a writer when she grows up. She loves coffee ice cream, and
“Dude, I don’t have a clue how to use one of these contraptions.”
“I spent all morning translating the user’s manual, already got it programmed for you. All you have to do is answer it if it rings. It’ll say ‘WIDOWMAKER’ on the little screen when I call.”
That earned a grin from Leon. He held the phone up to his ear, inspected its shiny silver buttons. When he sat it down on the bar, though, he kept one eye on the phone, as if it were something that might jump up and latch onto his carotid artery if he dropped his guard for a second.
“Somebody tried to off you, man. I can’t believe that shit!”
“It’s true,” said Nick.
“Say the dude had a silencer and everything? It’s like somethin’ outta one of them old private-eye flicks!”
“I guess.” Nick’s tone was sardonic, yet at the same time somber. “But real life isn’t black-and-white. I’m no Philip Marlowe. And I’m surrounded by rejects from Deliverance instead of double-crossing dames with perfect gams and tits out to here.”
Leon beamed at the mention of tits. He gave his hero two thumbs up, oblivious to the fact that he had been insulted.
†
Dinnertime found Nick and his daughter again sitting in a corner booth at Annie’s Country Diner. But they didn’t stay for long, after he told her what the man who tried to kill him had said about Sophie (“Oh, God,” she cried, “I knew it! Some pervert’s got her locked up like he owns her!”). Nick tossed a few dollars onto the table to pay for their untouched sodas, helped her stagger outside as the diner’s patrons looked on.
All morning, a bruise-colored sky had hinted of a storm on the way. Seconds after they climbed into Nick’s Bronco, the threat was realized. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed as if all the angels in Heaven were throwing down in some celestial brawl.
One minute the air was still, the next Nick could barely see the world outside through the sheets of pouring rain.
In the passenger seat beside him, Melissa stared out her window. Her shoulders trembled, but her sobs were muted beneath the rhythm of the Bronco’s wipers thumping back and forth like long, skinny arms warding off the blows of a bully. Wormy rivulets of rainwater trickled down the glass in front of her face.
“Where are we going?” Nick started up the vehicle. “You wanna sit here and talk, or should we—”
“Just drive,” she said. “Anywhere. I don’t care.”
He nodded, pulled away from the curb. Before they headed down Main Street, Nick saw where his daughter had been staring: on a telephone pole a few feet from the Bronco, a soggy flyer with Sophie’s face on it had been all but destroyed by the storm. The fourteen-year-old’s features appeared to be melting in the rain.
Nick felt a chill.
“Mind if I smoke?” Melissa asked him.
“Be my guest.”
She lit up. Her cigarette quivered in her grip. She rolled down her window a half-inch or so, tapped ashes through the gap.
Neither of them said another word until they had traveled out of the town common, into the wooded outskirts of Midnight. When he noticed his daughter was shivering, Nick cranked up the Bronco’s heater. Mostly it just blew out cool, dusty air that smelled like someone’s basement.
Softly, he said, “Tell me about her.”
The storm howled around them. At least a minute passed before Melissa replied.
“She’s a wonderful young lady.” She continued to stare out her rain-streaked window, alternately chewing at her fingernails and taking long drags off her cigarette as she spoke. “Nothing like me when I was her age, thank God. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Worries about her epilepsy, of course. Says she wants to be a writer when she grows up. She loves coffee ice cream, and
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