“You do?”
“Yes. Without a doubt.”
“What if… if they don’t catch him?” She squared her shoulders. “I’m not running again. I love my life here, the community of the other artists, my clients, my home, Bleki. Wait, what about Bleki? If I agree to the safe house, he’d have to come with me.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” I said. “I’ll check into it.”
“How long do I have to decide?”
“Tomorrow?” I asked. “Meanwhile, Spider Mulcahey has made arrangements for your personal protection. He’s sending a guy named Mad Man Malone.” At the look of alarm she gave me, I hurried to add, “Don’t let his nickname worry you. His real name is Eugene. He probably goes by Mad Man to be macho. He’s a pussycat, really.”
In my mind, I saw myself crouched behind one of the stone grottoes at Holy Hill monastery while a killer took potshots at me. There were still nights when I woke up in a sweat from that nightmare. If not for Spider, Bram, and Malone, among others, the snow would’ve run red with my blood that day. So I valued Malone’s ability to morph in seconds into a tiger on the hunt. But I wouldn’t tell Debby that. Not after the violence she’d endured.
“Angie?”
Her anxious voice snapped me out of the reverie. “You won’t even know Malone’s there, but he will not let Artur Hunter anywhere near you, I assure you.”
With a small sigh, Debby said, “Well, I hope Spider will understand, but I’d rather go to the safe house right away than worry about someone watching me all the time. It would remind me of… you know.”
“I think that’s a very wise decision. Now, about the shop. Do you have classes tonight?”
“No, not until the weekend.”
“Perfect. Then I suggest you put a sign on the door that you’re closed due to a personal emergency until further notice.”
She huffed. “I guess having a killer after you qualifies, if anything does.”
“That’s for sure. You should stop mail and package delivery and set up an out-of-office response to emails and phone calls. Don’t say anything to the other shop owners. People are gossips. It’s just a fact of life.”
While Debby took care of the minutiae of closing for a week, I texted Spider: Cancel the protection detail for Debby Hill. She’s going to a police safe house.
Spider: Roger that. Frees us up to cover you.
Next, I called Wukowski to let him know Debby agreed to the proposal.
“That’s a relief,” he said. “One less thing for me to worry about. It’s already set up since I was pretty sure you’d convince her of the wisdom of the plan. I’ll send a squad over to take her home. She can pack up what she needs, and we’ll take it from there.”
“She won’t go without her dog,” I told him.
“No problem. We’ve had cats, dogs, parrots with bad vocabularies, lizards, snakes… you name it.”
I explained the next steps to Debby, who turned a whiter shade of pale—to appropriate the Procul Harem title. “Will you be able to see me? Or at least call me?” she asked. “I need to know what’s happening.”
“I think a call will be okay. But Debby, don’t call anyone else or let your friends know where you are. You’re off grid until this is over. Almost anything can be traced these days. The police will explain it to you.”
“In that case, I’m packing a bunch of yarn. Knitting and crocheting keep me from going crazy.”
“Good idea.”
She gathered a huge bag of supplies, and we waited for the police to arrive. When the officers entered to escort her, she turned to me. “I’ll be safe, Angie, but what about you?”
“No worries,” I said. “I’ll have Wukowski and Spider, not to mention Bram York, Mad Man Malone, and Tiny Tim. I defy Artur Hunter to get to me with them around.”
She gave a little wave from the back of the squad car, and I smiled and waved back, praying to the God I wasn’t sure existed to keep us safe. Couldn’t hurt.
Chapter 29
Monsters don’t sleep under the bed. They sleep inside your head.
Unknown
The following morning, I visited Rebecca Franken. Wearing an eye patch, she sat in a recliner in Papa’s study, clothed in pajamas, robe, and slippers. Aunt Terry occupied the adjacent love seat. Since Papa is not a tall man and buys his furniture accordingly, Franken looked comfortable, watching the news on TV, with a cup of tea on the end table.
I approached and bent down to place a kiss on her cheek. “How are you today? Did the transfer from the hospital go well?”
After a slight start—perhaps she was uneasy about physical touch—she smiled and patted my arm. “I’m fine, just sore. And my eye was troubling me, so Terry suggested I cover it. Much better, but I feel like a junior version of Jack Sparrow.”
Settling next to Aunt Terry, I gave a laugh. “Very dashing,” I told her. “Rebecca, is there anything else you’ve recalled since we spoke?”
She clicked the remote to turn off the program. “Not to say recalled. More like dreamed. Or nightmared, but that’s not a word, right?”
“No, but it probably should be,” I answered. “Can you tell me about it?”
“Might as well. I woke up the whole household, so there’s no need to hide it.” She closed her eye. “I’m at home, working in my garden, when Mick enters via the back gate. ‘Find the box,’ he says. Before I can ask anything, he fades away. I stand up to look around, and a man in a ski mask grabs me by the arm. ‘Lebedev—you call him Swanson—do you store anything for him?’ He shakes me and grins. Evil. Pure evil.” Her eye popped open. “That’s when I woke up.”
The doorbell rang and Aunt Terry rose. “That’s probably Ted,” she told me. “He called to see if Rebecca was up to a visit.”
In a moment Wukowski entered the study and greeted
