Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [18]
She made it a collect call, charging it to his account, because her money was running low. He wouldn’t mind.
He answered on the second ring. The phone must have awakened him, but she heard no grogginess in his deep, slow voice.
“Anson McMillan.”
“It’s me,” she said.
“Figured as much.”
“I’m sorry to call so late.”
“Don’t bother yourself about that. How are you, darling?”
“Going along.”
“Any trouble?”
She wanted to say yes, all kinds of trouble. She wanted to tell him everything, but she couldn’t. The truth would be too hard for him. He was a strong man, but everyone’s strength had its limits.
“No,” she said lightly. “I was just feeling restless, that’s all.”
“Got a job?”
“Sure.” Another lie.
“Enough money? There are ways for me to get you money, you know.”
“I’m fine, Anson.”
“I’ll bet you don’t get enough to eat. You always were all skin and bones.”
“I’ve put on a few pounds.”
“I doubt that. Where are you now?”
She smiled at the clumsy way he tried to sneak that question in. “You know I won’t say. And you don’t want to be told.”
“I guess I don’t. Best not to know. You could come by sometime. For a visit.”
“I can’t chance it.”
“They’re not looking anymore. It’s been too long.”
“They’ll always be looking And people know me there. It’s too dangerous.”
“All right, that’s so, but there are other places you could go and settle down. You don’t need to stay on the move, not forever. You can’t live that way.”
“I’ve done okay so far.”
“If you call it doing okay, living from day to day.”
Don’t we all live that way? she wondered, but she didn’t ask this question.
Instead she made him tell her what he’d been up to, and he obliged, knowing why she wanted to hear it.
She curled up against the pillows and listened to him speak of the rusty porch door he’d replaced, and the new gun he’d added to his collection, and the food he put out for the rabbits every morning. She heard him light a cigarette as he went on talking.
“Went to the cemetery the other day,” he said. “Placed a new wreath on Regina’s grave. Nice day, warm and clear. No rain yet, and it’s still too early for snow, even in the high peaks of the range.”
He spoke more about the weather. Elizabeth noticed that he had said nothing of visiting Justin’s grave. She wondered if he’d laid a wreath there also. She doubted it.
After a long time she said, “I’d better let you get back to sleep.”
“You don’t have to. You know me. I can talk all night.”
“It’s okay, Anson. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Always a pleasure hearing yours. I wish ...”
He didn’t finish. She knew everything he meant to say but couldn’t.
“So do I,” she whispered. “But we play the hand we’re dealt. Isn’t that what you used to say?”
“I said it. Don’t know that it means much.”
“It does to me.”
They said their good-byes. She held the receiver to her ear long enough to hear him click off, and the sad silence after.
She cradled the phone, feeling calm again. Things were bad, but she would go on. If she had to sleep in her damn car, she would. She’d faced worse problems and endured.
And as for Cray ...
Tomorrow she would watch Cray again. Tonight there was nothing she could do.
At this very moment he might be lurking outside his next victim’s window, preparing an abduction and another kill.
If so, she couldn’t stop him.
She stretched out on the bed, hearing the creak of old mattress springs, and turned off the bedside lamp. The sudden darkness was heavy and hot, and she let herself fall into it, as into a deep hole. When she reached the bottom of the hole, she was asleep.
Her last half-waking thought was of Sharon Andrews.
Who’s next? a voice asked, a voice that might have been Elizabeth’s own.
But she heard no answer.
8
Cray waited an additional half hour after the motel room’s window went dark, giving Elizabeth Palmer sufficient time to fall asleep.
Then he pulled on black leather gloves and removed his Glock 9mm from the rear storage compartment