their surroundings.
The early morning was dark and silent, so cold that their breath fogged into ice crystals. No stars winked overhead, and she knew why when a few white flakes began drifting soundlessly to the ground. A cold breeze sliced through her jeans, freezing her legs.
He led her across to a nondescript tan Oldsmobile that was backed into a parking slot between a scraggly bush, the motel’s attempt at landscaping, and a Volvo station wagon. She walked carefully, and her headache obliged by remaining bearable.
He opened the rear door of the four-door car and put her inside, then he got into the front, beside his partner. Dean Pearsall was exactly as MacNeil had described him, thin and dark, as well as definitely puzzled. "What the hell’s going on?"
Briefly MacNeil outlined the plan. Pearsall’s head swiveled, and he looked over the seat at Maris, doubt plain in his expression.
"I can do it," she said, not giving him time to voice that doubt.
"We have to work fast," MacNeil said. "Can you get the video equipment set up?"
"Yeah," Pearsall replied. "Maybe. We’re cutting it damn close, though."
"Then let’s not waste any more time." MacNeil popped open the glove box and removed a holstered pistol. He took it out, checked it, then slid it back into the holster before handing it back to Maris. "It’s a .38 revolver, five shots, and there’s a round under the hammer."
She nodded and checked the weapon herself. A faint smile eased the grim line of his mouth as he watched her; he wouldn’t have taken someone else’s word on the state of a weapon’s readiness, either.
"There’s a Kevlar vest on the seat beside you. It’ll be way too big for you, but put it on anyway," he instructed.
"That’s your vest," Pearsall said.
"Yeah, but she’s going to wear it."
Maris slipped the revolver into her coat pocket and grabbed the vest. "I’ll put it on in the truck," she said as she opened the door and slid out. "We have to hurry."
The snowflakes were still drifting down, ghostly in the predawn quiet. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as she and MacNeil crossed the parking lot to the truck. The defroster had cleared the bottom half of the windshield, and that was enough for him to drive.
He didn’t turn on the headlights until they were on the highway and he could tell there was nothing in sight in either direction except for the tan Oldsmobile, which had pulled out behind them. Then he hit the switch, and the green dash lights illuminated his face just as they had earlier.
Maris shrugged out of her coat and into the Kevlar vest. It was heavy and far too big, so big it covered her hips, but she didn’t waste her time arguing about wearing the cumbersome garment, because she knew MacNeil would never give in on this.
"I remember driving with you last night," she said.
He glanced at her. "Your memory’s back?"
"Not all of it. I still don’t remember who hit me on the head, or taking Pleasure. By the way, don’t you think you should tell me?"
He grunted. "I don’t know who hit you. There’s a choice between at least three people, maybe more."
"Ronald and Joan are two. Who’s the one you followed to Solomon Green?"
"The new vet. Randy Yu."
Maris was silent. That name surprised her; she would have thought of a lot of other people before she would have come up with the vet’s name. She’d been impressed with his skill, and he’d never shown anything but the utmost care for his four-legged patients. He was a quarter Chinese, in his middle thirties, and with the strength a veterinarian needed. If he was the one she’d tangled with, she was surprised she’d managed to get away from him with no more than a bump on the head. Of course, whoever she’d fought with wouldn’t have expected her to know how to fight, much less fight hard and dirty.
"It makes sense," she said, thinking about it. "A quick injection, Pleasure dies of cardiac arrest, and it looks like natural causes. Not nearly as messy
The early morning was dark and silent, so cold that their breath fogged into ice crystals. No stars winked overhead, and she knew why when a few white flakes began drifting soundlessly to the ground. A cold breeze sliced through her jeans, freezing her legs.
He led her across to a nondescript tan Oldsmobile that was backed into a parking slot between a scraggly bush, the motel’s attempt at landscaping, and a Volvo station wagon. She walked carefully, and her headache obliged by remaining bearable.
He opened the rear door of the four-door car and put her inside, then he got into the front, beside his partner. Dean Pearsall was exactly as MacNeil had described him, thin and dark, as well as definitely puzzled. "What the hell’s going on?"
Briefly MacNeil outlined the plan. Pearsall’s head swiveled, and he looked over the seat at Maris, doubt plain in his expression.
"I can do it," she said, not giving him time to voice that doubt.
"We have to work fast," MacNeil said. "Can you get the video equipment set up?"
"Yeah," Pearsall replied. "Maybe. We’re cutting it damn close, though."
"Then let’s not waste any more time." MacNeil popped open the glove box and removed a holstered pistol. He took it out, checked it, then slid it back into the holster before handing it back to Maris. "It’s a .38 revolver, five shots, and there’s a round under the hammer."
She nodded and checked the weapon herself. A faint smile eased the grim line of his mouth as he watched her; he wouldn’t have taken someone else’s word on the state of a weapon’s readiness, either.
"There’s a Kevlar vest on the seat beside you. It’ll be way too big for you, but put it on anyway," he instructed.
"That’s your vest," Pearsall said.
"Yeah, but she’s going to wear it."
Maris slipped the revolver into her coat pocket and grabbed the vest. "I’ll put it on in the truck," she said as she opened the door and slid out. "We have to hurry."
The snowflakes were still drifting down, ghostly in the predawn quiet. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as she and MacNeil crossed the parking lot to the truck. The defroster had cleared the bottom half of the windshield, and that was enough for him to drive.
He didn’t turn on the headlights until they were on the highway and he could tell there was nothing in sight in either direction except for the tan Oldsmobile, which had pulled out behind them. Then he hit the switch, and the green dash lights illuminated his face just as they had earlier.
Maris shrugged out of her coat and into the Kevlar vest. It was heavy and far too big, so big it covered her hips, but she didn’t waste her time arguing about wearing the cumbersome garment, because she knew MacNeil would never give in on this.
"I remember driving with you last night," she said.
He glanced at her. "Your memory’s back?"
"Not all of it. I still don’t remember who hit me on the head, or taking Pleasure. By the way, don’t you think you should tell me?"
He grunted. "I don’t know who hit you. There’s a choice between at least three people, maybe more."
"Ronald and Joan are two. Who’s the one you followed to Solomon Green?"
"The new vet. Randy Yu."
Maris was silent. That name surprised her; she would have thought of a lot of other people before she would have come up with the vet’s name. She’d been impressed with his skill, and he’d never shown anything but the utmost care for his four-legged patients. He was a quarter Chinese, in his middle thirties, and with the strength a veterinarian needed. If he was the one she’d tangled with, she was surprised she’d managed to get away from him with no more than a bump on the head. Of course, whoever she’d fought with wouldn’t have expected her to know how to fight, much less fight hard and dirty.
"It makes sense," she said, thinking about it. "A quick injection, Pleasure dies of cardiac arrest, and it looks like natural causes. Not nearly as messy
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