was a basset hound, for God’s sake. One of those low-slung, bowlegged lugubrious-looking dogs with ears that nearly dragged the ground.
Except for the dog, the woman and kid were traveling remarkably light. That was good. That was probably Corbett’s doing. (Couldn’t Corbett have talked her into leaving the fool dog behind?)
The kid was strapped into the back seat. He’d wakened briefly when his mother put him in the van, but now he was dead to the world again.
Hawkshaw got into the driver’s seat. The woman sat in the passenger seat, staring up at the ink-dark sky. The lights of the airport parking lot fell through the windshield, illuminating her profile. It was a nice profile, he noted, but she wasn’t Helen of Troy.
He started the van. From the back, the dog gave a pathetic yodel of canine heartbreak.
Hawkshaw headed out on South Roosevelt Street, toward the highway. The street ran beside the shore of the Atlantic side of the island, and the sea was rough tonight.
“We’ve never been in Florida before,” said Kate Kanaday, staring out at the ocean. Its darkness was dimly streaked with lines of white foam breaking.
She had a low voice, the kind that would sound sexy over a telephone. He hadn’t noticed her voice before. Funny. Maybe it was the darkness that made him notice now. He thought of a man listening in the dark to that voice, becoming excited by it.
She said, “Where are we going? Will you tell me that much? Corbett wouldn’t say. Only that we’d meet you here, in Key West.”
He narrowed his eyes against the glare of oncoming headlights. Traffic was heavy, even at this time of night. Key West was a party town, and the party never stopped.
He said, “It’s in the lower keys. A place called Cobia Key. Not many people know where it’s at.”
Which is to your advantage, he thought. Which is to your very great advantage.
“I do,” she said without hesitation. “It’s the island sixteen miles north of Key West. There’s a heron preserve there.”
He allowed himself to lift an eyebrow in surprise, but kept his gaze fastened on the road. “You’ve heard of it?”
“I read about it,” she said in her low voice. “When we were delayed so long in Miami, I bought a book.”
Of course, he thought. She’d read about it. She would. “Yeah,” he said. “You worked in a bookstore.”
“Yes,” she said. “I used to.”
There was no self-pity in her voice, only resignation.
Hawkshaw stole a sideways look at her. The van’s windows were down, and although her hair was pinned back in some sort of braid, strands had escaped and fluttered around her face.
The van was on the highway now, crossing one of the dozens of bridges that linked the islands that formed the Keys.
The Kanaday woman said, “You live on Cobia Key?”
“For now,” he said. “It’s nothing fancy. It’s in the backcountry. Off to itself.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, still gazing moodily at the Atlantic. “As long as it’s safe.”
In the back of the van, the basset hound gave a throaty complaint followed by a series of mournful snorts.
She said, “You were in the Secret Service with Corbett?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Until he retired, went into business on his own?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve retired, too?”
“Yes.”
Two years ago he’d taken an early retirement, at age forty-two, exactly twenty years after signing up with the Treasury Department. He’d loved the job, but he’d left it in self-disgust after he’d lost Sandra.
He didn’t want to talk about himself or the Service or his relationship to Corbett or to think about Sandra. So he said, “Tell me about this problem you’ve got. Do you think Corbett’s got some lead on the stalker? Something he’s not ready to tell you or me?”
She stiffened as if the word stalker sent a bolt of electricity ripping through her system. She drew her breath between her teeth. “No,” she said. “I don’t think he does. He’s afraid my only option is to go away.” She turned to him. “I have a friend, Carol, in Denver who’ll help. I worked it out with her over a pay phone, so nobody could tap into the conversations. But Corbett still didn’t want us to go straight there. He’s very cautious. I hate imposing on you.”
“Don’t mention it,” muttered Hawkshaw.
“I mean it,” she said. “I hate it. My money situation’s complicated right now, but somehow I’ll reimburse you. I pay my own way. We’re not a charity case, Charlie and I.” She turned away again. “So tell me about yourself,” she said. “What do you do, now that you’re retired?”
“As little as possible.”
“Do you have a first name?” she asked.
“None that I answer to.”
“How long did you and Corbett work together?”
“Fourteen years, off and on.”
“All of it in Washington?”
“A lot of it,” he said.
“Like where else?”
“Here.” he said. “There.”
She shifted in her seat and he could feel her looking at him. “Would you rather we not talk? Is that it? All you have to do is say so.”
The words surprised him. There was a certain sassiness in them he hadn’t expected. But, what, God help him, if she was a talker, one of those women who never shut up?
“I’m out of practice,” he said dryly.
“If you’re worried that we’re going to intrude on your life, don’t be,” she said. “We’ll keep to ourselves as much as possible.”
“Umph,” he said.
“The last thing I want to do is be a bother.”
“Um.”
“I mean, I, of all people, know what it’s like to have your privacy invaded.”
Touché, he thought. A good point, that.
“I have plenty to do,” she said, as if to herself. “I’ve got a lot of decisions to make, things to plan. I mean, if I look at the bright side, I’ve got a whole new life ahead, a completely fresh start.”
He
