She studied Andie carefully, quizzically. It was a great offer. Three days of work for a nine-dollar necklace. With the option to screw her in the end. Dumb Injun.
"All right," she said finally. "I got some boxes that need unpacking, price marking, folding. You can start tomorrow." "Thanks."
"Hold it," she said, halting Andie in her tracks. She grabbed a baseball bat from behind the counter and pointed it at Andie, snarling. Andie took a half step back. "Got only one rule here, young lady. You rip me off, I crack your skull. Understand?"
Andie nodded.
"Good. What's your name?"
She started to say Andie, then caught herself. "Kira Whitehook."
"I'm Marion. Call me Mrs. Rankin. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay. Tomorrow." She turned and headed out the door, struggling not to show how very pleased she was that Kira Whitehook had found herself a job.
Gus was getting edgy. He had called Andie several times that afternoon and left messages on her voice mail. He had spoken twice to the receptionist, who either didn't know or couldn't tell him where she was. The last time he'd demanded to speak to her supervisor, but he too was unavailable. Something weird was going on.
Carla came by to fix dinner, but his stomach was too knotted to eat. He felt out of the loop, out of control. He wanted to call back Shirley Borge and tell her the prison pet program was hers and she could have any damn dog she wanted, as many as she wanted. Just give up the information. But he couldn't tell her anything without the okay from Andie.
Why the hell doesn't Henning call back?
Time was wasting. Either the FBI was dragging its feet and letting an opportunity slip away, or they were up to something and keeping him in the dark. Either way, he didn't like it.
"You want me to keep that warm for you?" Carla asked. She was standing at the oven with another one of those spaghetti casseroles that Morgan loved.
He looked up, elbows on the kitchen table. He hadn't touched his food.
"Mix it with the Jell-O," said Morgan. "It's good that way."
Gus forced himself to smile. Any communication from Morgan needed affirmation and encouragement. "Maybe later," he said.
The phone rang. He glanced at the wall phone, but that one wasn't ringing. He jumped from his chair and ran down the hall into his office. He grabbed it on the third ring, nearly diving for the phone before the machine picked up.
"Hello," he said eagerly. There was silence. "Hello," he repeated.
Still no answer.
He paused, confused. "Hello? Is someone there?"
It was a strange silence. Not the dead kind of silence that precedes then dialtone. He could tell the line was open. "Who is this?" he asked.
There was no response. But Gus didn't hang up. He waited. Seconds passed, then nearly half a minute. His confusion turned to anger. "Damn it, who are you?"
He thought he heard a crackle on the line. Could have been the sound of his own breathing. Then he had a thought. "Beth . ." His voice shook. "Is that you?"
No answer. But the caller didn't hang up.
His mind raced. He thought of the last call, the nursery tune she had played. He thought of all the horrible things that could have kept her from speaking. His voice turned frantic. "Beth, if it's you, hit any key three times."
After a few seconds he heard it. Three long tones.
"Beth!"
The line clicked. The caller was gone. Gus slammed down the phone and, one last time, dialed Agent Henning.
Chapter Thirty-Eight.
Andie ate dinner at a fast-food joint, then walked around the block to check out the neighborhood. The night was clear but cold. Yakima's version of rush-hour traffic had subsided, and the streets seemed lonely. Two cars waited at the Wendy's drive-thru, big clouds of exhaust spewing from the tailpipes in the chilly air. Three other cars were parked on I Street, one that looked as if it hadn't moved since the Bush administration. The gutters were packed with three or four inches of crusty brown ice, the melted and refrozen remnants of last week's snowfall. At the light Andie crossed the street. The two homeless guys were still in the parking lot, huddled in an empty cardboard box for a refrigerator. It looked as though three or four buddies had joined them. In numbers there was warmth, if not strength.
Around seven o'clock she found a hotel just up the street from Second Chance clothing store. It was a rundown one-story unit with a permanent sign that proclaimed VACANCY. Room rates were posted outside the door. By the month. By the week. By the night. By the hour. It was exactly the kind of place Kira Whitehook would patronize. Andie headed up the sidewalk and stepped inside.
The lobby was warm but smelled of old dust. A middle-aged Hispanic man sat behind the front desk reading a newspaper. He didn't look up. Across the room, the usual business of the night was well underway. A young Indian woman, not more than nineteen, was leaning against the wall. Her shirt was unbuttoned far below her breasts. Three men were pawing her. Andie could hear them haggling.
'"Uh-uh," said the girl, "not three at once."
"Aww, come on, bitch."
"Gets too crazy. One at a time."