of keys, a click as her cell was unlocked. The rusty iron door creaked as it opened.
“You’re out of here.”
She didn’t move. Hazen’s voice sounded particularly thick. Something had made him mad.
“Someone just made your bail.”
Still she didn’t move. And the other voice spoke. It was low and soft, with an unfamiliar accent.
“Miss Swanson? You are free to leave.”
“Who are you?” she asked without turning around. “Did Mom send you?”
“No. I am Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”
God. It was that creepy-looking man in the undertaker’s getup she’d seen walking around town.
“I don’t need your help,” she said.
His voice still heavy with annoyance, Hazen said to Pendergast, “Maybe you should’ve saved your money and stayed out of local law enforcement business.”
But Corrie had grown curious despite herself. After a moment, she asked, “What’s the catch?”
“We’ll speak about it outside,” said Pendergast.
“So there
Sheriff Hazen issued a burst of laughter that degenerated into a smoker’s hack. “Pendergast, what’d I tell you?”
Corrie remained curled on the folding bed. She wondered why this Pendergast was offering to bail her out. It was clear that Hazen didn’t particularly like Pendergast. She remembered a phrase: the enemy of your enemy is your friend. She sat up and looked around. There he was, the undertaker, arms folded, looking at her pensively. The little bulldog Hazen stood next to him, arms squared, scalp glistening under the thinning crew cut, razor rash on his face.
“So I can just get up and walk out of here?” she asked.
“If that’s what you want,” Pendergast replied.
She got up, brushed past the FBI agent, past the sheriff, and headed toward the door.
“Don’t forget your car keys,” called Hazen.
She paused in the door, turned, held out her hand. The sheriff was standing there, dangling them in his hand. He made no move to give them to her. She took a step forward and snatched them.
“Your car’s out back in the lot,” he said. “You can settle up the seventy-five-dollar towing fee later.”
Corrie opened the door and went outside. After the air-conditioned jail, it felt like walking into hot soup. Blinking against the glare, she made her way around the corner and down the alley to the little parking lot behind the sheriff’s office. There was her Gremlin, and there, leaning against it, was the pervert in the black suit. As she approached, he stepped forward and opened the door for her. She got in without a word and slammed the door behind her. Slipping the key into the ignition, she cranked the engine, and after turning over a few times it coughed into life, laying down a huge cloud of oily smoke. The man in black stepped away. She waited a moment, then leaned out the window.
“Thanks,” she said grudgingly.
“It was my pleasure.”
She pressed the accelerator and the car stalled.
She restarted it, revved a few times. More smoke poured out. The FBI man was still there. What the hell did he want? She had to admit, he didn’t really look like a pervert. Curiosity finally got the better of her and she leaned out the window once again.
“All right, Mr. Special Agent. What’s the catch?”
“I’ll tell you while you give me a lift back to Winifred Kraus’s place. That’s where I’m staying.”
Corrie Swanson hesitated, then opened the door. “Get in.” She swept a heap of McDonald’s trash off the passenger seat onto the floor. “I hope you’re not going to do something stupid.”
The FBI agent smiled and slid in beside her as smoothly as a cat. “You can trust me, Miss Swanson. Can I trust you?”
She looked at him. “No.”
She popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving behind a pall of oilsmoke and a nice ten-inch pair of tire marks on the sheriff’s asphalt. As she careened out of the alley and slewed onto the street, she was gratified to see the stumpy little sheriff tumble angrily out the door and start to shout something just as her black contrail obliterated him from view.
Eleven
Speaking of her dear, nurturing parent, it was going to be a bitch going home. By now, her mother would be
