place. It was all a plot. He wanted me out of the way. Why? I don't know. Maybe just plain revenge for the way I'd thwarted him for the past ten years. Surely you must have guessed something. Doubted him when he told you. You never came to see me, Mama, never.'
'Your father told me, and you're right, I was suspicious, but then Scott broke down-he was in tears-and he told me about all the things you'd done, how you simply weren't yourself anymore and there hadn't been any choice but to put you in the sanitarium. I met Doctor Beadermeyer. He assured me you would be well cared for.
'Oh, Sally, Doctor Beadermeyer told me it would be better if I didn't see you just yet, that you were blaming me for so many things, that you hated me, that you didn't want to see me, that seeing me would just make you worse and he feared you'd try to commit suicide again.'
But Sally wasn't listening to her. She felt something prickle on her skin, and she knew, she knew he was close. She also knew that her mother wasn't telling her the truth about the night her father was murdered.
Why? What had really happened that night? There just wasn't time now.
Yes, James was close. There was no unnatural sound, no real warning, yet she knew.
'Do you have any money, Noelle?'
'Just a few dollars, Sally, but why? Why? Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer. He's already called several times. I've got to protect you, Sally.'
'Good-bye, Noelle. If you love me-if you've ever loved me-please keep the FBI agent talking as long as you can. His name is James Quinlan. Please, don't tell him I was here.'
'How do you know the name of an FBI agent?' 'It's not important. Please don't tell him anything, Noelle.'
'Mrs. St. John, we saw the car parked on Cooperton. Sally was here. Is she still here? Are you hiding her?'
Noelle St. John stared at his ID, then at Dillon's. Finally, after an eternity, she looked up and said, 'I haven't seen my daughter for nearly seven months, Agent Quinlan. What car are you talking about?'
'A car we know she was driving, Mrs. St. John,' Dil-lon said.
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“Why are you calling my daughter by her first name? Indeed, Sally is her nickname. Her real name is Susan. Where did you get her nickname?''
'It doesn't matter,' Quinlan said. 'Please, Mrs. St. John, you must help us. Would you mind if we looked through your house? Her car is parked just down the street. She's probably hiding here in the house waiting for us to leave before she comes out.'
'That's ridiculous, gentlemen, but look to your hearts' content. None of the help sleep here, so the house is empty. Don't worry about frightening anyone.' She smiled at them and walked with her elegant stride back into the library.
'Upstairs first,' Quinlan said.
They went methodically from room to room, Dillon waiting in the corridor as Quinlan searched, to ensure that Sally couldn't slip between adjoining rooms and elude them. When Quinlan opened the door to a bedroom at the far end of the hall, he knew immediately that it had been hers. He switched on the light. It wasn't a frilly room with a pink or white canopied bed and posters of rock stars plastering the walls. No, three of the walls were filled with bookshelves, all of them stuffed with books. On the fourth wall were framed awards, writing awards beginning with ones for papers she'd written in junior high school on the U.S. dependence on foreign oil and the gasoline crisis, on the hostages in Iran, on the countries that became communist during Carter's administration and why. There was a paper that had won the Idleberg Award and appeared in the New York Times, on the U.S. hockey win against the Russians at Lake Placid at the 1980 Olympics. The high school awards were for papers that ran more toward literary themes.
Then they stopped, somewhere around the end of high school-no more awards, no more recognition for excellent short stories or essays, at least no more here in this bedroom. She'd gone to Georgetown University, majored in English. Again, no more sign that she'd ever written another word or won another prize.
'Quinlan, for God's sake, what are you doing? Is she in there or not?'
He was shaking his head when he rejoined Dillon. He said, 'Sally isn't here. Sure, she was here, but she's long gone. Somehow she knew we were close. How, I don't know, but she knew. Let's go, Dillon.'
'You don't think her mother would have any idea, do you?''
'Get real.' But they asked Mrs. St. John anyway. She gave them a blank smile and sent them on their way.
'What now, Quinlan?'
'Let me think.' Quinlan hunched over the steering wheel, wishing he had a cup of coffee, not good coffee, but the rotgut stuff at the bureau. He drove to FBI headquarters at Tenth and Pennsylvania, the ugliest building ever constructed in the nation's capital.
Ten minutes later, he was sipping on the stuff that could be used to plug a hole in a dike. He took Dillon a cup and set it near the mouse pad at his right hand.
'Okay, she's got the Oldsmobile.'
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'No APB, Dillon.'
Dillon swiveled around in his chair, the computer screen glowing behind his head. 'You can't just keep this a two-man hunt, Quinlan. We lost her. You and I, my friend, lost a rank amateur. Don't you think it's time to spread the net?'
'Not yet. She's also got my wallet. See what you can do with that.'
“If she keeps purchases below fifty dollars, chances are no one will check. Still, if someone does check, we'll have her almost instantly. Hold on a minute and let me set that up.'
