The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [346]
She nodded, even though he was no longer there. “Yes, Reverend McCamy.”
Katie said to Elsbeth, “Sam is a wonderful little boy. I will not allow him to be taken again. Do you understand me, Elsbeth?”
“Go away, Katie. Go away and take that godless man with you.”
“I’m not godless, ma’am. I just don’t worship quite the same God you and your husband do.”
When they were driving away from that lovely house, Miles said, “That was excellent questioning. I just don’t know what it got us.”
“I don’t either,” Katie said. “But I discovered I could pry him open.”
“They’re in on this, Katie.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so, too.”
Miles slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Why, for God’s sake? Why?”
29
Sam and Keely were playing chess, loosely speaking, given that Keely had had only two lessons. Katie had a No-TV rule during the week so the house was quiet, with just a soft layer of light rock coming from the speakers, and an occasional ember popping in the fireplace. The air felt thick, heavy. Another big storm was coming.
“No, Sam,” Keely said, “you can’t do that. The rook has to go in straight lines, he can’t go sideways.”
“That’s boring,” said Sam, and moved his bishop instead because he liked the long diagonal. The only problem was he stopped his bishop in front of a pawn, which Keely promptly removed. Sam yelled out, then sat back, stroked his chin like his father did, and said, “I will think about this and then you’ll be very sorry.”
Keely crowed.
“Killers, both of them,” said Miles, happy to see Sam acting like a normal kid again.
Katie and Miles were seated on opposite ends of the long sofa, doing nothing but sipping coffee and listening to the fascinating chess moves made by two children whose combined age was eleven.
Two deputies, Neil Crooke, who got no end of grief for his name, and Jamie Beezer, who did a great imitation dance of Muhammad Ali in his heyday, were outside watching the house. When Neil called to ask if he could go unlock ancient Mr. Cerlew’s 1956 Buick for him since he’d locked his keys in it, Katie said go, but get back as soon as possible.
She excused herself a moment, and came back into the living room with a plate of brownies in her hands. “They’re not homemade like Elsbeth’s, but I’ll tell you, the Harvest Moon bakery can’t be beat.”
Miles took a brownie, saying, “You think they’re better than the ones Elsbeth McCamy made?”
“We’ll never know, at least I hope we won’t. Kids? Can the chess battle stop for a brownie break?”
When the plate was empty, in just under four minutes, Miles sat back and laced his fingers over his belly. He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned his head back against the sofa. He said as he closed his eyes, “It’s Wednesday night. I’ve known you since Saturday. Isn’t that amazing?”
Katie slowly nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see her, and said, “We’re sitting here like two folks who’ve been sitting here for a very long time.” Except for the SIG tucked into the waistband of her jeans and the derringer strapped at her ankle.
That was sure the truth, Miles thought.
Katie stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace that periodically spewed up a mist of color. “It seems much longer,” she said after a moment. “It seems natural.”
He opened his eyes and turned his head to face her. “I can’t stay here indefinitely, Katie, although I’m becoming fond of your microwave and your teakettle. The oatmeal was pretty good, too. But the bed is too short, and Sam snores on occasion.” He stopped, and sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees, staring at the rag rug Katie’s grandmother had made in the thirties. “This still isn’t over, Katie. What am I to do?”
Because Katie didn’t have an