French Silk(130)

She replaced the telephone and sat stiffly, staring forward. Cassidy weaved through traffic, taking the streets in a random, zigzag pattern. He drove well but fast. His eyes remained in constant motion, moving from side to side like a mine sweeper.

"Shouldn't you be taking me to the police station?"

"Later. When they've scattered the crazies and I don't have to worry about losing you to some fanatic who wants an eye for an eye."

"Then where are we going?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

"You mean you don't have a destination in mind?"

"About a dozen so far. I've discarded them all. I can't take you to French Silk. Once they figure out you're not there, they'll look for you at my place."

"There are hundreds of hotels and motels."

"They'll be checking the registration desks."

"Even out of town?"

He shook his head no. "With a broken window, I can't keep this car on the road for long. Too easy to spot."

"Take me back."

He made a scoffing sound. "Not likely. Even if you've got a death wish, I don't."

"I've confessed to murder, Cassidy. A felony. Every police officer in the state will be out looking for me. I don't want to make matters worse by becoming a fugitive."

"You're not a fugitive as long as you're in my custody. As soon as we get where we're going, I'll call Crowder. Once the coast is clear, I'll take you to the sheriff's office to be booked. Hopefully we can get you in before the press gets wind of it." He shot her a quick glance. "Between now and then, I've got to make sure you're not taken out by some bastard with a Bible in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other."

He wasn't overdramatizing. She touched the sore spot on her scalp and shuddered when she remembered the hatred she had seen in the man's eyes.

"Any ideas?" he asked. "Unfortunately I don't own a fishing cabin, or a boat, or a place—"

"Aunt Laurel's house," Claire said suddenly. "It's been closed up for years. Only a few people know I still own it."

"Have you got a key with you?"

"No, but I know where one is hidden."

She found the latchkey beneath the rock under the third camellia bush in the flower bed on the left side of the porch, where it had been secreted for as long as Claire remembered. Cassidy had expressed concern about leaving his car on the street in front of the house, so they parked it in the rear alley.

Entering the old townhouse was like stepping through a time warp. Although it had the close, musty odor of any unoccupied dwelling. Claire's sense of smell was stirred by dozens of fond memories: Aunt Laurel's rose sachet, pomander balls made of dried oranges spiked with cloves, dusty old lace, jasmine tea, and Christmas candles.

The entryway catapulted Claire's childhood to the forefront of her mind. Some memories were as gauzy as the curtains that hung in the slender windows flanking the front door. Others were as vivid as the colors in the authentic Persian rug. Some were golden, like the butter-colored sunlight that cast dappled shadows on the walls. Others were as somber as the grandfather clock that had stopped ticking and stood tall and silent.

Cassidy shut the door behind them and relocked it, then peered through the curtains until he was satisfied that no one had followed them and that they hadn't aroused the curiosity of nosy neighbors. Turning his back to the window, he surveyed his surroundings. Claire watched closely for his reaction, realizing that she wanted him to like and appreciate the house as she did.

"How long has it been since you were here?" he asked.

"Yesterday." He shot her a stunned look and she smiled. "It seems that way."

His eyes took a more detailed inventory of the two-story entry. "It looks like a granny's house."

"Did you have a granny, Cassidy?"

"Only one. On my mother's side."

"Did you have aunts and uncles and lots of cousins?"

"Assorted."

"Hmm. I always wished for them." She gave him a wistful smile, then asked him to follow her. "Let me show you the courtyard. That's my favorite part of the house. Later I'll take you upstairs."

"What about a phone?"

"It was disconnected when we moved out."

"I'll have to use my car phone."

"This minute?" she asked with disappointment.

"Not this minute, but soon, Claire."

"I understand."

He followed her through a formal dining room and a quaint kitchen into what she called the sun room. It had windows on three sides and was furnished in white wicker with floral chintz cushions that were comfortably sagged in their centers. The sun room opened onto the courtyard. Claire unlocked the French door, pushed it open, and stepped outside onto the ancient bricks.

"Over there where the double French doors are is the living room," she said, pointing. "Or the parlor, as Aunt Laurel called it. Up above it, on the second floor, is my bedroom. Sometimes in the summer, when the mosquitoes weren't too bad, Mama and Aunt Laurel would let me make a pallet there on the balcony. I loved falling asleep to the sound of the water trickling in the fountain. And in the morning I could smell fresh coffee and honeysuckle before opening my eyes."