take. The money is better than working for a single person.”
“Less long-term security,” he argued.
“Nobody who needs our services can offer long-term security.”
“So you don't want the piddling amount Bennett sent to you? Twenty thousand is not bad for killing the wrong people.”
“It was good exercise. I helped only because I love you, Arturo. As always, I will back you up. Not for the money, but because you need me.”
“I'll keep the twenty then.”
“I will take the money and invest it, because you will only waste it on toys you can't be bothered to learn to operate. You are too impatient, Turo. That is a bad thing.”
She stared at the lines of scar tissue scattered over his torso, made by knives, and the four familiar bullet wounds, left from three separate incidents. “You are like an alley cat, Turo. But for your battle scars you would have a perfect body.”
“I think of my scars as a road map of my life.”
His offhand comment filled her with sadness. “It isn't how you learn something, it's how you use the knowledge.”
“Always preaching,” he said curtly. “Church is out. I don't need your advice. I am a man, a professional, so let's drop it.”
He cut off the water and dried himself with the towel she tossed him. After he had combed his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist, she said, “Even with the scars, you are just too pretty. Those long eyelashes, the brows, those big golden eyes, and lips any woman would kill to have for herself.”
He tensed at the reference to femininity, as she knew he would. But it was true.
Arturo took her face between his hands, kissed her hard on her lips, and stared into her eyes. His amber- colored eyes held her soul and he knew it. “You love me.”
“I love you, Turo.”
“Love is a weakness. It will get you killed, Marta. That is my sermon to you.” Arturo turned and left the bathroom.
After they ate the steaks Marta cooked for them, and while she washed the plates, Arturo sat at the table smoking a cigarette.
“I thought you quit,” she said, concerned.
“I quit all the time,” he answered. “I'll quit again tomorrow.”
“It's bad for your wind.”
“It relaxes me. I work hard so I deserve to feel good.”
“Things that feel good aren't always good for you.”
“You know, you should preach on television.” He crushed out the cigarette and turned on the big plasma- screen set. A reporter was standing in front of an old building.
“Look!” he said excitedly. “I made the news!”
“… And we understand that police are searching for a twelve-year-old girl, one of the victims' daughter, who my sources inside the police department tell me might have witnessed her mother and another woman being murdered. Authorities are not releasing the names of the two victims yet, but as soon as they notify next of kin I hope to have that for you. If you are wondering how the police can effectively enlist the community's help in the search for a young girl whose name they won't release, so am I. It looks like it's going to be up to the department to resolve this. New Orleans detective Michael Manseur is leading the investigation. He should be familiar to New Orleanians as the detective who arrested Terrance Woodhouse last year for the murder of…”
“Fuck!” Arturo screamed. “There wasn't no kid! I searched the place. It's a trick.”
The telephone started to ring.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “That's Jerry. What I'm going to do, Marta?”
Arturo stared at the ringing telephone like it was a rattlesnake.
9
Faith Ann removed her clothes and dropped them into the hamper in the hall bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the tub, swung her legs in, and turned on the water. As she scrubbed her mother's blood away with a washcloth, tears ran down her cheeks.
She mustn't be sad, she told herself. She had to think things through. It was as though her mother was talking to her, because she had always talked to her, advised her. First thing is I can't trust the police. I have to get the evidence to someone who can stop the execution. Okay, Mama said that's Uncle Hank, because he knows the judges and the attorney general. He is coming here this afternoon to see his old friend.
She thought hard about what her mother had said and remembered only that Hank and Millie were staying at a guesthouse. Maybe she could still catch them at home. She needed Uncle Hank to tell her what to do next.
Faith Ann dried off and went to the den, where she picked up the list of telephone numbers her mother kept on the side table. She lifted the receiver and dialed Hank's number. It rang three times and the answering machine picked up. Millie's gentle voice asked for her to leave a message. “Y'all, this is me, Faith Ann. I don't know where you're staying. I need to know because can I see you as soon as you get here because it is really, really important.”
If Aunt Millie and Uncle Hank were on the way they wouldn't get the message. How would she find them? She would have to call guesthouses and ask if the Trammels were staying there. She fought down a sob. She lifted the yellow pages book and opened it.
The doorbell's melodic tones froze her. She stood there in only her panties, phone in hand, afraid to breathe. After a few seconds there was a pounding on the door and a voice calling out, “This is the police, is anybody home?”
A second voice, that of a woman, joined in. “Faith Ann Porter, are you in there?”
Faith Ann backed slowly up and peered down the hallway. Through the sheers, which filtered the light coming in through the glass panel in the front door, she could make out two dark shapes.
More banging.
A barely audible discussion for several seconds.
The doorbell rang again.
The police twisted the knob, and for a panicked second Faith Ann was sure she hadn't locked it. But she had, and turning the knob was a waste of the policeman's energy.
The dark forms seemed to shrink as the two police left the porch.
Heart thundering, Faith Ann tiptoed to the front door and picked up her backpack. By peering around the edge of the curtain she could see a parked police car at the curb. She put the backpack over her shoulder and moved stealthily to her bedroom. She eased open her drawers one by one and removed jeans, a shirt, and a hooded Tulane sweatshirt. Sitting on the braided rug beside her bed, she got dressed as quietly as she could. She finished and looked up to see a policeman standing outside her window. He cupped his hands like blinders, and as he started to press his wide face against the glass Faith Ann ducked.
“Don't see anybody,” a man's voice reported.
Faith Ann waited several seconds. Then she slowly raised her head to look at the window, which was empty. Would they break in? She wasn't sure, but she didn't think they could enter the house without permission unless they had a warrant. She knew that cops had to get warrants from judges, but she had no idea how long that took: on TV shows, it only took a few minutes. She didn't have much time.
Slipping her old cross-trainers on and lacing them up, she grabbed the backpack again and crawled out into the hallway. She sneaked to the front window. The two cops stood at the gate with their backs to her, talking to another policeman in another police car that had pulled up beside the one already at the curb.
Faith Ann moved back down the hall and, remembering the money, stopped long enough to get it from the pocket of her jeans in the hamper. She saw her mother's cell phone charging on the counter beside their computer and pocketed it. She also took the small Mag-Lite her mother kept beside the phone charger in case the electricity
