“I realize that, too.” She massaged her forehead while she considered what her next step should be. “I’ll see what happens tomorrow. If Detective Bowie shuts down completely, I’ll have lost my one and only source. In which case, I had just as well come home.”
“Book your flight tonight. Get your tush back here and make nice with Brady.”
“That holds no appeal whatsoever.”
“It has more appeal than unemployment.” He paused to take a breath that trailed off in a gurgle. “As your mentor, I’m duty bound to tell you that it’s time to punt. You’re not going to wear Bowie down. You said so yourself that a hammer and chisel wouldn’t crack that guy.
“And even if he was singing like a canary about in-house corruption and ineptitude in that police department, Brady won’t forget that you pursued that angle without his authorization. You’re already out of his favor, and he doesn’t even know that you’re risking the show’s reputation on a wild hare about red moons.”
That stung. Did Max really have so little confidence in her? She straightened her spine and, in as crisp a voice as she could muster, said, “I’m not ready to punt. I may stay here through the blood moon. If nothing evil happens, and God willing it won’t, then I’ll acknowledge that my hypothesis was a wild hare, and you can say you told me so. You’ll relish that, I’m sure. Right now, I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. Good night.”
The bedroom and bathroom John used whenever he stayed at the cabin was on the opposite side of the broad living area from the bedroom in which he’d deposited Beth. He’d used the time she was on her call to shower and change into a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt.
When Beth emerged from the bedroom, he was sprawled in his favorite chair. “Coffee’s fresh. Want a cup?”
“Yes, thanks, but I’ll pour.”
As he made to get up, she motioned him back into the chair and went into the kitchen area. She returned with a mug of strong coffee, which she’d liberally doctored with the powdered creamer and sugar he’d set out.
He’d draped a multicolored throw over the upholstered chair nearest his. As she sat down in it, she looked warily at his pistol now lying on the table between their chairs. He said, “I wanted it within reach.”
“You said nobody would find us here.”
“I’ve been wrong before.” He sipped from his coffee mug. “How’d it go with your boss?”
“He’s peeved. He wants me back in New York. Yesterday. Your tactics seem to make him nervous.”
“They make me nervous.”
She laughed softly, then became serious. “There’s been a development.”
When she finished her rundown of their conversation, he said, “Add another reason for me to despise Tom Barker. Not only did he sic the ogre on us, he also put you on the new top dog’s shit list.”
“Well, if my visit here results in a jaw-dropping twist ending to the Mellin story, all will be forgiven.”
“What if it doesn’t result in that?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.” Smiling ruefully, she rubbed the fringe of the throw between her thumb and fingers. “Hand knitted?”
“By one of the aunts, who must’ve been color-blind. It’s ugly as all get-out, but not as ugly as the chair’s upholstery.”
“It’s cozy.” She draped the tail of the throw over her feet.
“Are they cold? I can help with that.” He got up and fetched a pair of thick white socks from his bedroom. “They’re clean,” he said as he handed them to her. “They’ll be too big for you, but warm.”
Setting aside her mug of coffee, she slipped off her shoes and pulled on the socks, then wiggled her toes and sighed. “Much better. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She dipped her head and snuffled a laugh. “Yesterday when you came over to the booth and thanked me for the Coke, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that soon I’d be thanking you for a pair of borrowed socks.” She tilted her head and regarded him with perplexity. “You didn’t strike me as the type.”
“What type?”
“A man who would keep his grandmother’s gumbo recipe, much less make it. Who would share socks.” She looked over at Mutt, who was curled up asleep on a folded blanket on the floor. “Who would be so fond of his dog. You looked too… um…”
“Mean?”
Her head came back around to him. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“It’s okay. I was trying to look mean.”
“Why?”
“To make the impression I apparently did.”
“On me?”
“Definitely on you. But also on the bartender and the guys shooting stick. I could’ve been walking into a trap.” He cocked an eyebrow. “One laid by someone other than you, that is.”
“Someone like the ogre? Tom Barker?”
Exactly like that, he thought, although he didn’t say so. Restless and agitated, he spread his fingers wide and ran his hands up and down his thighs, dreading like hell the course this conversation was about to take. Since their arrival, neither of them had acknowledged what had brought them here. The meal had delayed addressing the subject. Then her phone call. They’d put off talking about it long enough.
He looked over at her, where she was curled up in the oversize chair. “Tell me about the two abductions that happened in 2018.”
She stopped winding strands of the fringe around her fingers and let them fall into her lap. “In January of that year, a nineteen-year-old woman in Jackson disappeared while riding her bicycle home from her shift at a Waffle House.