Red Stripes by Matt Hilton Page B

something in that, but I wasn’t ready for the scrap heap just yet.
    The limp did serve some purpose. It added to the disguise I’d affected. Studying this stubble-chinned man, holding himself tightly against the chill, looking thoroughly miserable, who’d ever guess I was here for a deadly purpose?
    On the drive up I’d questioned my motives for coming to this dead-end town and more than once had almost turned the car around and headed south again. It’s a weakness, but I can’t say no. I should’ve told Don Griffiths to take a hike, concentrated on getting healthy again in the subtropical sun. But here I was. Apparently it’s true: you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I’ve never learned to roll on my back and wasn’t about to now.
    The main street of Bedford Well wasn’t much more than a hundred yards of family-run stores and amenities, all shut up tight for the night. At its northern end it opened into a circle of dwellings around a central green, complete with a wishing well that explained the town’s name. The well had a bucket, but no one would be able to draw water from it because a metal grill had been bolted over the top. A huge brass padlock fastened the grill to the stonework, but it was shiny and proclaimed that the well was regularly emptied of coins. The town council, it seemed, had claim on the nickels and dimes as well as people’s aspirations.
    I leaned my hips against the well, dug a couple of coins from my jeans pocket and dropped them through a slot in the center of the grill. I heard them hit bottom. They hadn’t fallen very far, making me wonder if this was just a folly designed to please the tourists. Regardless, I made a wish.
    Waste of money, because my wish was already redundant.
    I was already here and now there was no going back.
    Testament to this was the presence of the black SUV that nosed out between two stores farther along the street. Two shadows filled the front of the vehicle, topped by pale ovals that were turned my way. Under the peak of my cap, I returned their casual observation until the driver hit the gas and peeled out, heading back along the street. The brake lights flared, then the SUV took a turn to the right. The grumble of the engine carried on the air until the wind shifted and snatched it away.
    What was that all about? I mentally shrugged: nothing good, I bet.
    I headed across the green toward an imposing house that held sway over the smaller dwellings to either side. The house looked Victorian but for the satellite dishes in the garden and the cars on the drive, a Lexus and a Mercedes SUV. For all his claims to the contrary it looked like Don Griffiths was doing OK even in this dead-end town.
    I leaned on the doorbell.
    The house remained very still. As if it held its breath.
    I pressed the bell again.
    Beyond the door there was a shift in the darkness and a light came on above my head. I fought the urge to glance up at the light, an old habit to protect my night vision. Waited while the person inside hooked a security chain in place, then opened the door a sliver.
    Don is a heavy-built man in his early sixties. He has short steel-gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. The person looking out at me didn’t match any of those points. She was slim and dark and no more than thirty years old.
    It had been more than fifteen years since I’d laid eyes on her but I’d have recognized Millie anywhere. She had the vivid green eyes and raven tresses of her mother, but the strong nose and high cheekbones were every inch the image of her father.
    Millie Griffiths studied me for a while. I raised my head so the peak of the cap was no longer casting such a long shadow on my face. Finally Millie closed the door and I heard the unhooking of the chain. She opened the door fully this time.
    “Come in, Joe.” Her head dipped as I stepped by her into the darkness of the entrance hall. It looked like all the rooms on the lowest floor were unlit.
    “Where’s your