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  He held the sheet up slightly so Art and the four cops could all see. There were murmurs among the Moorston police, and another elbow-gut-check from Dave, but it was Art's reaction that caught Lue's attention.

  At first, it was what Lue expected: silence. Blank-faced, uncommented silence.

  But the more Lue looked, the more he realized it was more than that. The blankness was careful, manufactured. It was more Art than Art ever had been.

  Lue had not known the man long, but he knew focus. He knew emotion. He knew poor tempers and the hundreds of ways in which witnesses, victims, and perpetrators cloaked such feelings. He could separate his personal feelings about a person, from how they acted. As sure as he was that Pamela Pride was the hottest witness he'd ever seen, he had no trouble spotting that she'd been hiding something during their last interview.

  Well, he was also sure Art was a good man. And he was equally sure that the BCA agent was absolutely furious at the sketch in front of him.

  This woman, he told himself, shivering. I do not want to be this woman, when Detective Art McMahon of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension arrives.

  CHAPTER 18

  Lue caught sight of her the moment she walked into the bar. This was not difficult, as he had chosen a booth with a direct sight line to the front door and kept looking up from his menu every fifteen seconds.

  The sight of her still made him catch his breath. No one else in Moorston dressed like her. Not then, and not now. Her walk through the bar to Lue was purposeful and slow. Her gaze never left his, even while his was all up and down her. It was like being stared down by a sexy laser.

  "Still got it?" she asked, as she and her velvet dress slid in loving concert into the booth across from him. When she crossed her short but powerful legs, he could hear the smooth rustle of her pantyhose. There had been a time when that sound would have resulted in an instant loss of at least ten of his IQ points.

  "Nancy, you realize you are more than a hundred miles from Minneapolis, right?"

  She sniffed and tossed her head. "Don't I know it." The light caught and shimmered in her crystal earrings, or diamond . . . no, they'd better not be, neither of them made that kind of money. And if they did, she'd damn well be better off spending it on her education instead of earrings made from compressed coal. "I'm still waiting for this crap town to get a wine bar, instead of yet another hole in the wall like this." She shook her head at the several fluorescentlit beer signs.

  "Snobbish is not a good look for you."

  "Liar." She said it with a perfectly devilish smile.

  "This is a nice place." He said this loud enough for the svelte, eighteen-year-old bartender to hear, he was pretty sure.

  "She's at the other end of the bar, Lue. You'll have to speak up."

  "If you hate this town, why are you still here?"

  She shrugged. "I'm not ready to leave. Soon."

  "Does it have anything to do with--"

  "Do you really want an answer to that?" She took out a compact, checked her reflection, changed nothing, snapped it shut. "Is that why you called me?"

  "I--I called you to see you. It has been a while."

  "What, we're dating again now?"

  "Why be like this, Nancy?"

  "Like what?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So I've seen you around town with the BCA guy."

  He sighed. "Lieutenant McMahon."

  "Yeah. So, what did you tell him about us?" She smiled up at Svelte Eighteen. "What cabernets do you have?"

  "Um, the only reds we've got are . . . um, I think a merlot, and maybe a pinot grigio . . ."

  "That's pinot noir, dear. Grigio's not even the right color. I'll have the merlot, if you can find it. My ex will have another beer, and a long look at your ass as you walk away." She turned back to Lue. "So?"

  "Funny, Nancy."

  "So what did you tell him?"

  "I told him nothing--"

  "Did you give him the Japanese-Hmong-two-different-cultures bit, or the she-couldn't-handle-my-job bit, or the Zeet-the-Snoring-Bee-control-freak bit?"

  He stared into his near-empty beer glass.

  He saw her knuckles actually whiten as she unconsciously made a fist. "Cripes, you actually used Zeet the Fucking Snoring Bee. Unreal. He believed it?"

  "Parts of it are true!"

  "Parts of all three are true. It doesn't make them any less lame when you say them. Of course, I should have known you'd never give him the real reason."

  "You cannot be serious."

  "What, he'll arrest me?"

  "Of course not. He's seen the FBI sketch from Saint George's. You are nowhere near the suspect's description. Not age, not height, nothing. Thanks." He said this last as he reached for a new beer.

  "Certainly not my color." Nancy winked as she snagged the merlot out of Svelte Eighteen's trembling fingers. She took a sniff. "Thanks, honey, this is lovely. Add it to my ex's tab. Oh, for heaven's sake, why are you even looking at him to check? You and I both know he'll buy either one of us drinks for the next three years, if we keep the cleavage coming."

  "Some of us call that chivalry, Nancy--"

  "You're once more staring at her ass as she scurries away."

  "Well, stand up in front of her and I will gladly stare at yours instead."

  "Ha. So you do like the dress."

  "Of course I like the dress. There is not a straight male in the history of velvet clothing who would not like the dress."

  "I bought it for you."

  He snorted. "With the money I sent for your education, no doubt."

  "I don't need any more education. I need a spouse who's not a capricious, shallow bigot."

  "How many times do I need to tell you I am sorry?"

  "Once would have been adequate, if you had really meant it. We know you never did."

  "You could have told me about yourself."

  "I did."

  "Right. After you had landed me and thought it would not matter."

  "It shouldn't have."

  "It did. Not as much as the deception, though."

  They glared at each other over their new drinks. And so it goes, and so it goes, he thought, dismayed. He could remember being single and watching divorced couples squabble. He could remember being baffled; even smug. Who was that couple hissing at each other? They had loved enough to pledge their lives, and now divorced over the husband's loathing of fabric softener? Theirs must have been a petty love indeed. His love would be different.

  And so it had been. But not in the way he thought.

  "So, dear ex-husband of mine, you were telling me about the Great Lieutenant Art McMahon--"

  "I never said his first name."

  "You didn't have to. I know all about him. Most of us do."

  "I should not be surprised."

  "You just cannot make a contraction, can you? So uptight in your second language. Like you were uptight about me. Uptight about everything."

  "What do you know about Art?"

  "You're worried about him? You think he's dangerous?"

  "I think he might be."

  "Well, he probably is. I don't know this from firsthand contact, mind you. He has . . . a reputation."

  "He hides things from me."

  "Of course he does. Like you hide things from him."

  "Nothing I am hiding from him can come back to hurt him."

  "He probably feels the same way. I wouldn't worry about Lieutenant Art McMahon." She swirled her glass and stared into the merlot.

  "Whom, then, should I worry about?"

  Nancy tipped back her head, polished off the merlot, and smacked the glass back onto the table. "Don't call me again, Lue. Stop sending me money. Pretend I'm not even in town anymore. Soon enough, that will be true. What we've seen in this town is just the beginning."

  "Beginning of what?"

  "You're a detective. Figure it out." As she got up, her dress snagged on something--possibly her own hand--and the lavender ridges rode all the way up her left thigh.
Tucked into the hip of her panties, Lue spotted a shining leaf the size of a woman's palm.

  She watched him notice, and took her time pulling the dress back down. "I like to hang on to it, even when it's not a crescent moon. Some of us think of it as unnatural, but I like the control it gives me. You never know when I might need to fight back against a killer."

  "I believe you have nothing to--"

  "Don't be stupid. Do you have any idea how risky it is for me to be around here at all? I wonder how much you'd even care if I were the next body you found."

  "I would care a great deal, Nancy."

  "Whatever. You're an insensitive bastard, Lue. Guess what--you want to plaster this woman's face on the evening news? You want to pull in the state police? You all want to find her? Fine. I hope you do. I hope you find her in the dark, when she's good and angry about what's going on. And then I hope you find out your clip is empty. That would be justice, like your world has never seen."

  He yawned. "Keep hiking up that dress, classy-ass."

  "Right. Hey, good luck with the bartender. Make sure you turn her over and check her for scales under a crescent moon before you propose. You'll save her a lot of heartache."

  Lue had nothing to say to that, so Nancy left.

  INTERLUDE

  Tonight

  She walked slowly, her feet barely making a sound against the gritty linoleum, eyes fixed on the array before her. He watched her while she was still several yards off, unable to get away, holding his breath. Behind him, the face and voice on the television droned about local deaths, a suspect on the run, property damage, neighbors annoyed--always more about the inconvenience than the loss of life--police befuddled.

  Police had no role here--not in what she wanted, or what he wanted.

  Never looking up, she advanced. She was no more than ten feet distant, but he realized she regarded him as little more than an insect. How could he be anything more, given the circumstances?

  She paused and considered her fateful choice.

  Trail mix with peanuts, or without?

  She reached out and grabbed the mix with peanuts. Starting toward the cashier, she reconsidered when another salty snack caught her eye, and grabbed a Slim Jim from the end cap display. Then she shrugged and headed for the refrigerated back wall, where multiple shelves of water bottles pressed their labels against the glass doors. She opened a door, grabbed one, and headed back for the cashier. The last two bananas next to a 'FRESH' FRUIT sign looked perfect, but she frowned.

  "Are they fresh or not?" she asked, still staring at the yellow crescents. Her voice was honey over ice.

  Even though he knew she wasn't looking, he nodded and pointed at the sign. "Says right there. Fresh."

  "No it doesn't. It says"--he put down her purchases and made air quotes--" 'fresh.'"

  He shrugged. "They taste good. I had one this afternoon, before my shift started."

  For the first time since she had entered the convenience store, she looked directly at him. He thought he would keel over. "That would have been over eight hours ago."

  "I'm working a double."

  "I mean, that's a long time for quotes to keep a banana fresh."

  "We've sold, like, twenty of them. Nobody's complained, miss."

  The left corner of her mouth raised, and he thought idly of proposing to her. He didn't need this job, did he? Not if he had her.

  "I guess I'll take a banana, then." She picked everything back up, used her free hand to pry the bananas apart, and left the slightly greener one behind. A few steps later, she was right in front of him. Right . . . there! So close he could reach out and . . . "Can you let me know if this is over three dollars? That's all I've got."

  He looked down at the small pile and did the math in his head. It would be five dollars and twenty-six cents. "You're fine."

  As she laid down three wrinkled bills, her gaze flitted up to the television screen and narrowed. The reaction lasted long enough for him to turn ... and see her face again, this time in an artist's rendering.

  "Authorities advise the woman is armed and dangerous. If you see her, do not approach her. Instead, please call the number on the screen immediately."

  "Well." Behind him, the honey was gone, and only ice remained. "That's unfortunate."

  PART TWO

  Art

  CHAPTER 19

  Art breathed slowly on the convenience store countertop, and then inhaled even more carefully. He was starting to get a headache.

  Stress. It has been stress. Nothing but stress. For years. And the closer I get, the more stress.

  "Say, Art--come check this out."

  Lue Vue, the Clever Detective Who Loved to Talk, was over by the bananas. That seemed quaintly appropriate.

  "Seriously, come on over."

  "You're five feet away. I can see you fine." In fact, Art was already scanning the fruit stand for clues.

  "Says here 'fresh' fruit."

  "Yes. You're hungry?"

  "No, look here. 'Fresh.' " Vue made air quotes with his fingers. "Why do they do that? What are the quotes for? Are they kidding about the 'fresh' part? If fresh is not the right word, what word do they mean? 'Aging'? 'Rotting'? I mean, tell me what you mean with your ridiculous sign, am I right?"

  Art squinted. He wasn't sure if the headache was getting worse. Lue was . . . unfathomable at times. Before Art had come to town, Lue, like every other cop in this country, had a staggering case load. Yet here he was, talking and talking and talking and talking and--

  "I do not understand why people don't use quotes correctly. We all learn how in fifth grade. It is not like you need a graduate degree."

  --talking and talking and talking and--

  "Oh, forget it. Okay, Mr. Alvarez, you say this woman"--Vue held up a copy of the artist's sketch they'd been running in the media. "This woman was here in this store? You saw her? Mr. Alvarez?"

  The lanky college student behind the counter, who had been staring at Art ever since the officers had arrived, noticed Vue with a visible start. Skittish, Art told himself. Teenaged. Easily startled. No real situational awareness. "Yeah. Um, yeah. She was here."

  "How sure are--"

  "It was her, man. She saw herself on the television, and she booked."

  "You got that good a look?"

  "You kidding? I couldn't take my eyes off her."

  "She came in, you stared at her, she watched herself on TV, she left? This is your accounting of the evening's events?"

  "No, man. That's not what I said. She came in like any other customer, spent a few minutes picking up some things, paid for them--"

  Art held up a hand. "She paid? Cash?"

  "Yeah." The teenager popped open the register drawer, riffled through the ones, and picked out three of them. "I bet you'll want them, to see if you can get any evidence off them."

  Lue held out a plastic bag. "You have done this before." Or you watch far too much prime-time television.

  Alvarez shrugged as he put the money in the bag. Look where I work.

  "You are sure these are the bills she used?"

  "Yep. The most wrinkled, tattered dollar bills I've ever seen. The last ones she had."

  "She told you that?" Art frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose; the throbbing of his headache seemed concentrated there. "And you believed her?"

  The student straightened, as if considering for the first time that he may have been taken. "Yeah. I mean, she looked desperate enough. And it's not like what she bought was that expensive. What, you think she lied to shave off a couple of bucks? That doesn't make--"

  "How long ago?" Art interrupted.

  Alvarez almost jumped. "What, man?"

  "How long ago was she here?"

  "Dude, she left, I called, you showed up. You figure it out. Maybe ten minutes?"

  "Not ten minutes."

  "What, I'm a liar? Don't they, like, write down the time when someone calls nine one one? Dude, I called you. Why are you busting my balls?"

/>   Art pointed a meaty finger at the register. "You dug."

  Vue caught on. "Right. Also, leave your balls out of this."

  "Those bills were not on top. So other customers have come in since she was here. With it being so late, and not everyone using cash, and even those who do not always having singles . . . how long has it been? An hour? Two?"

  "Geez, dude. What's the difference? She's gone. I doubt she's hanging around the parking lot. The TV spot said to call, I called. Dude!"

  "My name is Lieutenant McMahon."

  "Fine, Lieutenant McMahon, what's your problem?"

  "She got to you."

  Alvarez's lips quivered. "What do you mean, 'got to me'? You think I'm trying to help her, man?"

  "No. Not trying." The corner of Art's mouth twitched. "Just helping."

  Vue gave his partner a quizzical look. "What do you think happened here?"

  Art scanned the store--the flickering fluorescents above the bottled water, the ungrammatical sign that still smelled of banana even though none were left, the crowded yet tired rows of packaged dry foods, the screen still blaring over the kid's head. "She came in to eat. Met this moron. Paid half price. Saw the TV. Realized he recognized her. Thought about killing him. Chose another path."

  "You threw a lot of words out there for consideration, Art. Thanks for breaking it all up into tiny sentence fragments so I could follow it well enough."

  A look: I've got a tiny sentence for you.

  "Okay, so you say she chose another path. What do you mean--she convinced him to lie? How? Paid him--she had no money. Seduced him?"

  Now Art couldn't help but laugh.

  Alvarez sputtered. "Hey, dudes. I'm standing here!"

  "No need. She ordered him." Art turned to Alvarez. "Didn't she?"

  The kid's eyes flashed all over the place. "What do you mean, ordered--"

  Art pounded the counter. "Speak!"

  "Cripes okay she saw the TV and looked at me and told me not to say anything for a while and give her two hours so she left and I gave her two hours and what's the goddamn big deal anyway--"