Shoot / Don't Shoot

“Shhhhhh,” Larry said, casually waving his cof­fee cup to encompass the rest of the lobby. “You wouldn’t want the whole world to hear our little discussion now, would you? It should be public enough so no one can pull anything off the wall, but private enough so no one else hears, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care if the whole world hears. Where are the girls?” Joanna asked, not bothering to lower her voice. “If you have them, I want you to tell me where they are.”

“I won’t tell you where they are, not right now. They’re safe, at least for the moment. But they won’t be forever, not if you insist on being stupid. Lower your damn voice!”

Gripping the end of the armrests, Joanna forced her breath out slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was a bare whisper. “What is it you want?”

“That’s more like it,” Larry said.

Joanna stared back at him. Years of battling with Eleanor had taught her the futility of raised voices. What Larry most likely misread as terrified com­pliance was, on her part, nothing more or less than self-contained fury.

“I want you and Carol Strong off my back,” he said easily. “I want to leave town. I want things to go the way they would have gone if you hadn’t come around sticking your nose into things that were none of your concern.”

“What things?” Joanna asked, willing her face to remain impassive.

Larry looked at her and didn’t answer. His lips smiled; his eyes didn’t. There was no relationship between his eyes and mouth. It was easy to imagine that the two curving lips and the implacable eyes belonged to two entirely separate faces. The effect was disconcerting, but Joanna didn’t look away.

“You mean like letting Jorge Grijalva’s plea bargain go through?” she asked. “You mean like let­ting Dean Norton go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit? And as for Dave Thompson ...”

In answer, Larry let his glance shift briefly from her to his watch. “I want you to call Carol Strong.”

“It’s too early. She isn’t due into the office until four.”

“Call her anyway. Have them find her. And when you reach her, tell her we need to talk. Tell her I have the girls.”

Hearing him say the words aloud, Joanna’s heart skipped a beat. “How do I know that you—”

Before Joanna could finish framing the sentence, Dysart reached down beside his chair, picked up one of the Hohokam’s plastic laundry bags. He tossed it into her lap. There was something wet and heavy in the bottom of the bag. The weight of it sickened her. Afraid of what warped trophy might he inside, Joanna didn’t want to look. And yet, she had to.

Stomach heaving, she finally peered inside. Jen­ny’s still-wet bathing suit lay in a soggy pink wad at the bottom of the bag. Larry Dysart had told Joanna that he had the girls, but visible confirma­tion more than words brought the horrifying reality of it home to her.

Larry Dysart really did have Jenny. And Ceci, too. The awful realization rocked Joanna to her very core. The lunchtime bowl of turkey noodle soup curdled in her stomach.

“Where are they?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Like I said, they’re safe enough for right now,” Larry told her. “Where they are doesn’t really matter. What does matter is whether or not you’re go­ing to do as you’re told. Go call Carol Strong. Now. Use the pay phone over there by the elevators so I can see you the whole time. Don’t try anything funny. And remember, if anything happens to me, the girls die. You do have her number, don’t you?”