And she knew now why they were all here.
It was some time since she had seen Rosie in the light, and a fresh worry assailed her as she washed the small face and hands, rapidly, because she did not want to be ordered out of here. The child’s huge dark eyes seemed to have retreated, her always peaked features looked wizened. Rosie, who had survived in a cocoon of protection—
Her forehead didn’t feel hot. Still, Amanda reached into the cabinet for two aspirins to drop into her pocket, in case of emergency, and was confronted by her own reflection.
Her top-piled hair had continued to escape fringily. Only a ghost of her lipstick remained. Heavy dust picked up in the church had somehow become transferred to her face, emphasizing her pallor and the eyes which were at present her only real color; she might have been an evacuee from some natural disaster, and that did not fit in with Dickens’ plan.
Too bad, thought Amanda, and realized on the heels of that that there were two of them, that Dickens might just be vengeful enough to spit on his handkerchief and — She used soap and water, toweled her face dry, said urgently to Rosie, “They aren’t going to hurt us, but don’t cry, they don’t like it,” and opened the door. She was just in time: Dickens was starting along the hall, his face set.
“I have to get Rosie’s pills,” said Amanda quickly. “They’re in the guest room.”
Because he would have only contemptuous dismissal for vitamins, and how long before (don’t look at any other possibility) would they be released and safe? As it was, another echo of distaste came from Dickens, but after a second’s hesitation he walked to the guest room door, again entering first.
Amanda went at once to the small suitcase. With a businesslike economy that made her heart sink, Dickens straightened the scarcely disturbed covers on the near twin bed, erasing the fact that Rosie had slept there. The Afghan had bustled in, convinced that she was a member of a happy group, and Amanda cast a glance of despair at the delicate golden face that came dipping inquisitively into the suitcase. Apple was a fast and wiry jumper. If she had been of another breed, the kind ready to attack on command—but she was not. Having discovered that there was nothing edible among Rosie’s scanty belongings, she was nosing affectionately at Dickens’ hand.
It wasn’t only affection, Amanda realized, dropping the bottle of vitamins into her coat pocket as she stood up; it was expectation as well. Apple was looking to Dickens for her dinner because at some previous time he had fed her. He was of course—it fell neatly into place, very late—the man who had returned her to Mrs. Balsam and refused a reward.
And hadn’t there been something about repairs to the corral, so that he would know the quickest and easiest point at which to let the mare out? Wonderment at the delay in her own recognition brought Amanda’s gaze up from the dog to Dickens’ eyes, blue, a little narrowed, watching and aware.
But he considered Mrs. Balsam as good as dead. It would certainly not cross his mind to telephone the hospital and perhaps learn—
Apple backed precipitately into her shins. “Your— that man seems to have an infected hand,” said Amanda, pretending not to have caught motion in the hall behind Dickens. “I have streptomycin and codeine at home.”
She did, as legacy of a severe attack of tonsillitis. Like the feigned necessity for calling the Lopezes, it was a desperate time-gaining maneuver, a delay in Dickens plan for her—and the man in the doorway, speaking for the first time, said abruptly, “Then let’s go there.”
His voice was heavy and soft and edgeless, like condensed fog. Dickens looked hard at Amanda and walked out of the guest room. From the far end of the hall there was some urgent muttering and then the unmistakable impact of a fist smashing against the wall, a statement of rage and pain.
Dickens came back, his face tight. “[ warned you once, but I’ll warn you again.” His icy stare shifted to Rosie and stayed there for a deliberate heartbeat or two. “If you don’t have that stuff, all hell is going to break loose.”
It did not need embroidering. “I have it,” said Amanda.
In the living room, she had a long tense moment alone with the other man, who paced without speaking in a kind of lithe shamble, before the other part of the house went dark and Dickens appeared with her handbag and the keys to the Rabbit. Mrs. Balsam’s bag, from which he had taken them, was nowhere to be seen— was he afraid that a cleaning woman might come in the morning and wonder why her employer had gone off without it?
Apple had given up on Dickens, now glancing around him and moving purposefully in the direction of the front door, and raised a fringy paw to scrape remindingly at Amanda’s coat. The dog was unaware of any perfidy, and her eyes glowed with trust. She had been all day without food, and Amanda remembered the water bowl in the kitchen as being empty too. “Can’t I at least feed—?”
“No,” said Dickens, a short chop of sound, and once again, as she had known he must, took Rosie from her and nodded at the denim-clad man. “He rides with you.”
Rosie did not struggle over the transfer; unaware of impending separation, she simply turned her small questioning face to Amanda, whose throat closed before it would allow her to say steadily, “We’re going for a ride, Rosie. We’re going to my house.”
Dickens had a finger on the light switch. He did not ask directions, as if that would allow Amanda to lead him
