Tailspin(90)
Then he moved to the window and peered through the crack between the wall and the edge of the drape. “Christ! Only one person, no one riding shotgun, but he’s parked at the end of a row. Lights off. No exhaust from the tailpipe.”
“Just sitting there?”
“Just sitting there.”
“Maybe he has nothing to do with us.”
“Maybe.”
“It could be hotel security.”
“Maybe.”
“Dammit, Rye. Say something besides maybe.”
“Well, sorry. That’s the only answer I have at the moment. I don’t know what he’s doing there. What I do know is that he’s got an unrestricted view of that side door.”
She looked at the clock. “I should be on the road.”
He absently acknowledged that as he assessed their predicament. “You can’t get through that exit and to Wes’s car without him seeing you. Do you want to chance it?”
“There’s no ‘or’?”
“Or you go through the lobby, out the front, flank him, and sneak around to the car.”
“He may still see me.”
“Another ‘or’ is to give it a while, see if he leaves. He could be taking a coffee break, and just chose that spot.”
She gave it a moment’s thought. “That’s logical, isn’t it? If he’d seen us, recognized us, he would have chased after us, wouldn’t he?”
“Not necessarily. He could have called it in and is waiting for instructions on how to proceed, or for backup.”
“Backup for us? We’re not public enemies number one and two.”
“Not to law enforcement. But that’s how the Hunts would rank us, and I wouldn’t put it past them to have cops on the take.”
“So then…what do I do?”
“I think you wait a while, see what happens.”
She slumped with disappointment, but without debating it further took off her coat, shook the rainwater off it, and hung it in the closet. He draped his bomber jacket over the desk chair so the leather would dry. He motioned toward the mini bar. “Something to drink?”
She shook her head.
He watched as she sat down on the edge of the bed and gave her a long, meditative look. Eventually she noticed. “What?”
“I do want to know about your life,” he said. “About you and Wes. Tell me why you make people think you shunned him, when it was the other way around.”
She looked prepared to refuse, then she looked resigned, then she looked away from him, and, in a barely discernible voice, said, “It hurts too much.”
He checked the cop car. It was still there. Nothing else beyond the window was noteworthy except hard rain. He walked over to the bed and sat down on the end of it. “What hurts too much?”
“Rejection, and admitting to being rejected. So, I mislead people into thinking that I rejected him.” She hooked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “The deceit began early. Whenever Dad was in, I pretended not to care. Indifference was an easy and safe barrier to hide behind. I fooled everyone into believing that I was ashamed of him, when, in truth…” Her voice hitched. She took a breath. “When all I ever wanted was to be with him.”
She paused, ran her hand over the duvet. “He told you the truth about why he steals,” she said. “It was never about the booty, the gain. He rarely kept the things he took. They had no value to him.
“What he loved was being a rapscallion. The challenge for him wasn’t to avoid capture, but to make friends with those who put him behind bars. Living as the town ‘character’ was more important to him than living with me.”
She looked down at her hand where it rested. “I must have inherited my mother’s hands. Slender, long fingers. Dad’s hands have wide, stubby fingers.” She gave a soft laugh. “He had a time of it, wrestling my hair into ponytails, which as often as not were lopsided. He cursed tiny buttons that wouldn’t go into their buttonholes.”
The light from the bathroom cast half of her face in shadow, but Rye could see how pensive her smile was.
“Once, I picked a bouquet of wildflowers and needed a vase to put them in. Rather than steal one, which I expected, he painstakingly glued sequins onto a Mason jar. By the time he finished, the flowers were wilted, but I put them in the vase anyway. I still have it. It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. But it’s the dearest thing I own.”
She choked up, but recovered quickly. “Before tonight, the last time I saw him, he told me that since I was all grown up and doing well, it was time we cut ties and got on with our separate lives. We had been separated so many times before, you would think I had become immune.
“But I no longer had the resilience or faith of a child. I couldn’t cling to a na?ve hope that things would change, get better, that he would miss me enough to want me with him. Because that separation was voluntary, mandated only by him, it hurt much more than all the others combined.”
She sat for several seconds, then left the bed and went into the bathroom. “Did you see a hair dryer in here?” A few seconds later one was switched on.
Rye got up and checked outside again. “Damn it.” The police unit hadn’t gone anywhere. The officer could be sleeping through his shift. Or guarding that door. He had no way of knowing, and the only way he could test it was to show himself.