She was obviously in some kind of trouble: her mascara was smudged, the area below her right eye bruised. Still, Michael could see the clear light of intelligence in her eyes, and found himself completely enamored of her.
– Ashley pulled strands of damp brown hair back from her face and looked cautiously around the room.
The diner was dimly lit, cramped, and hot — the air hanging heavily over the mismatched booths and tables like the breath of an old troll.
To her left, a rabbit-eared TV struggled to maintain a failing image amid dusty, burned out beer signs. To the right, on the far side of the large front window, hung a full-wall mosaic of the American flag, its red, white, and blue tiles surprisingly intact considering the condition of the rest of the diner. Cut into the mural below the field of stars was a door upon which the unisex restroom symbol had been crudely painted in white enamel.
Toward the back, separating the dining area from the smoke-filled kitchen, was a long, Formica counter with aluminum edging and a row of stools — each with its pitted-chrome base bolted securely to the floor, the cracked red-vinyl seats mended with rough duct-tape patches.
Her heart stopped when for a moment she thought she saw Johnny Souther sitting at the counter. She looked again and was relieved to see that it was just a handsome stranger.
She limped over and took a seat a couple of stools to Michael's right. She set her purse on the counter and laid her jacket next to it.
Michael tried his best to be discreet, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her, and when she repositioned herself — irritated, no doubt, by the cracked vinyl against the soft, smooth skin of her thighs — he felt weak.
Ashley checked her watch again. 6:28 p.m. She glanced at Michael then looked away so he wouldn't see the despair on her face.
He leaned in her direction and spoke in a low, comfortable voice. 'You know… you're putting your life at risk eating here.'
'Is that so?' Ashley said, pausing to check the front door.
'If I were you, I'd run like hell.' He laughed to himself and started a new sugar stack. 'I haven't seen you in here before. Do you live nearby?'
'No,' she said, clearly distracted.
'I eat here all the time,' Michael said then thought of how that must have sounded. 'Not that I'm proud of it or anything.'
'Good for you.' Ashley said, wishing this guy would just leave her alone.
Michael swiveled back toward the kitchen, his attempts at humor clearly under appreciated.
'Hey, chef!' he said. 'My dinner?'
The cook flipped him off, but Michael only smiled. Over the years he had formed a quasi-friendship with the cook and he'd grown accustomed to his stiff-finger-salute.
He decided to give the woman another go. He marked his page and slid over to the stool next to her.
'I'm Michael,' he said, offering his hand. 'Michael St. John.' At close range she smelled wonderful.
Ashley looked down without shaking his hand and folded hers in her lap. 'I'd rather be alone, thank you.'
Michael stood and raised his hands slightly. He was disappointed, but remained cool. 'I've got no problem with that,' he said pleasantly.
He sensed that the woman had been quite fun and playful when she was younger but had no doubt suffered terrible misfortunes over the years, and he could see a deep sadness in her eyes. But he knew that the playful girl must still be hiding inside her somewhere, and to him that made her even more captivating. He smiled politely then returned to his original stool, where he picked up his paperback and flipped to his mark.
Ashley's eye's moistened — she hadn't intended to take her frustrations out on him. 'I'm sorry,' she said, dabbing her nose with a tissue. 'You seem like a nice enough guy, and under normal circumstances I'd be flattered.'
She paused… it had been a long time since she talked to a man in that way — and it felt good. Then, on a wild impulse, she shared a piece of her dangerous secret with him.
'The truth is,' she said, 'I came down here to this rat-hole to save my son.'
Michael dropped his book and looked at her. 'Hold on a second,' he said, then paused — this would be too wild a coincidence. 'You're not Ashley Quinn by any chance — are you? You're not Aaron's mom…'
Oh my God, Ashley thought, her hand to her throat. She stood, her face filled with astonishment. 'How did you… I mean — '
'It's okay,' Michael said quickly, sensing her panic. 'I met Aaron the other night. We're friends. I've been looking for him, too.'
Ashley was dumbfounded, then frightened as she remembered Johnny Souther's orders and shot a glance at the door. 'I–I can't be seen talking to you,' she said, stepping away from the counter. Then she grabbed her purse and ran to the restroom.
Just then the cook delivered Michael's burger. 'Choke on it
…' he said, anticipating a retort.
But Michael only looked at him, dazed.
Chapter 51
Michael jumped when suddenly the diner's front door banged open again. The little brass bell flew off its hook and bounced across the room, coming to rest near his feet.
Johnny Souther entered and casually removed his sodden overcoat. Rain-water dripped from the brim of his leather fedora, staining his jacket; he removed the hat and tossed it on a table, then draped the overcoat over the back of a chair.
He glanced at Michael — who averted his eyes — then he knocked some dirty dishes and trash off onto the floor, and sat down alone.
He checked his watch. 6:30 p.m. His hip was hurting again and he badly needed a cup of coffee. He pounded the table with a heavy fist.
'Doesn't anybody work in this dump?' he said.
The cook glared at him through a burger haze. 'Hey, you… Put a lid on it.'
Souther hadn't taken time out of his busy day to come to the diner and fight with some cook; but once provoked, it was impossible for him to back down.
'I'm sorry,' he said coolly, rising slowly to his feet. 'I must be hard of hearing.' He tilted his head slightly and cupped his hand behind his ear in a subtle show of aggression. 'Could you repeat that?'
The cook approached the counter and leaned on his broad, course hands, nearly upsetting Michael's coffee cup. He looked directly into Souther's eyes and calmly rephrased his statement.
'I said, 'put a lid on it'… asshole.'
Off his stool, now, Michael backed toward the restroom. The old man with the jelly donut folded his paper.
Souther casually pulled his. 45 automatic and pointed it at the cook.
The cook seized a heavy, cast-iron skillet from the stove and hurled it at his assailant before ducking behind the counter. Like a huge cast-iron Frisbee, the pan impacted the far wall of the diner with a violent clang, sending the TV and several beer signs crashing to the floor.
Two shots shattered the air — the first striking the order wheel, sending it spinning, the other ricocheting off the stainless-steel panel behind the grill. The old man laid his head on the counter and wrapped it in his arms.
A third shot rattled some kitchen utensils, and Michael made for the restroom.
He slammed the restroom door behind him and locked it, then crouched, breathless, next to the single gray toilet stall. A pair of women's shoes showed beneath the panel. They were shaking.
Michael leaned back against the wall and swallowed hard, trying to think, but his mind was like a Scrabble
