32

The press conference was finished by the time they left the antiques store and glanced up toward the courthouse. The sun was lower, casting the deserted street in a deeper orange.

Page looked at Tori.

“I need to get my rental car from up there,” he said. “Do you want to follow me back to the motel?”

Tori didn’t answer right away. “Sure.”

But as Page drove to the motel, he glanced in his rearview mirror and there wasn’t any sign of Tori’s blue Saturn among the traffic that was heading out of town toward the observation platform. He parked in front of unit 11, got out, and waited. Glancing up, he noticed that there were clouds gathering for the first time since he’d been in Rostov.

Fifteen minutes passed and he still didn’t see any sign of her, so he finally took his suitcase from the trunk and moved toward the door.

The gangly motel clerk came from the office and hurried toward him. Page remembered his name.

“Something wrong, Jake?”

“There’ve been reporters looking for you.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them we’re staying here.”

“Captain Medrano said not to. But somehow the reporters found out the woman at the shooting has red hair, and your wife is the only redhead at the motel. I thought I’d better warn you.”

“Thanks.”

“It was weird.”

“Lately everything’s been weird,” Page said. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

“The reporter who’s most determined to find you is the television guy from El Paso. You saw him on the TV in the lobby the last time we talked.”

Page thought a moment. “Movie-star jaw. Rumpled suit. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days.”

“That’s the guy. He was the first reporter to come to town. He’s figured out a lot of angles on the story-so many that the other re- porters have just been following his lead. I was in the office, watching him on TV. Then the door opened, and I looked over, and by God, there he was, walking toward me. I guess some of what I figured is ‘live’ must be on tape. Seeing him in two places at the same time felt unreal. Be careful of him. You want your privacy, but the look in his eyes told me he’d do anything to put your wife in front of a camera and make her describe how she shot that guy.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Page said. Before he could say anything more, a phone rang in the office.

“Gotta get back to work.” The gangly clerk ran toward the door.

As it banged shut, Page took another look toward the road, hoping their conversation might have given Tori time to catch up. But there was no sign of the Saturn. More clouds had gathered, filling the sky. His side ached when he carried his suitcase into the room.

If things had been different, it would have felt good to shave and shower, to get the smell of the smoke and the violence off him, but all Page thought was that he could bear anything-even what had happened the previous night-if only Tori had followed him to the motel as she’d said she would. If only she hadn’t left him again.

If only she didn’t have cancer.

The bruise where he’d been kicked was larger than he’d expected, dark purple ringed with orange. Trying to ignore it, he put on a fresh pair of jeans and another denim shirt. Kind of predictable, pal. He took the 9-millimeter pistol out of his suitcase, removed the magazine, made sure it was full, and checked to make sure there was a round in the firing chamber. You examined it before you left the house yesterday, he thought, aware that people whose occupation involved carrying a gun tended to display obsessive-compulsive behavior.

Or maybe he just needed to narrow his thoughts.

The gun was a Sig Sauer 225. It held eight rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not a lot of firepower compared to pistols with double-stacked magazines, but the 225’s virtue was its compact size. He considered it an ideal concealed-carry pistol. The company didn’t make them any longer, and this particular gun had belonged to his father.

He holstered it on his belt, put on a windbreaker to conceal it, grabbed a baseball cap from his suitcase, and opened the door, ready to go looking for Tori, although he knew where he’d find her: the viewing area.

About to get into his car, he heard tires crunching on gravel and looked toward the road, surprised to see the blue Saturn coming through the parking lot toward him. Tori’s red hair was vivid through the windshield. When she stopped in front of unit 11, his knees felt weak.

“I figured you’d left me behind,” he said through the open window.

She showed him a paper bag. “I got this for you.”

Page almost frowned in confusion before he smelled the food.

“You said you hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I hope a burger and fries work for you. Anything else would have taken too long.”

“They’re perfect.” Emotion made his knees more unsteady. “Thanks.”

“You need to keep up your energy. This’ll be another long night.”

“Thanks. Really. I mean it.”

“Get in,” she said impatiently.

He did so, and pulled off the baseball cap.

“Better put this on. Reporters are looking for a woman with red hair.”

She nodded and took it.

As she drove, Page bit into the hamburger and recalled uneasily that this was what he and Chief Costigan had eaten the evening before.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“When I see the lights again, everything’ll be fine. They’ll make me forget what happened last night.”

“The trick is to distract your mind by paying attention to the small details. But I wasn’t thinking about last night. How are you feeling?”

Tori hesitated. “I never realized anything was wrong with me until the doctor phoned to tell me the results of my mammogram. Now I’m so self-conscious that I swear I can feel the thing growing in me.”

“On Tuesday, it’ll be gone.”

“I’d like to just reach in and claw it out with my fingers.”

“I love you.”

Tori looked at him. “You said that last night, too.”

Ahead, three TV news helicopters were silhouetted against the dark, cloudy sky. Vehicles were parked along both sides of the road. Taking his own advice, Page distracted himself by paying attention to small details and looked to the right toward the ruin of the World War II airbase.

He saw someone unlocking a gate. The man wore sturdy shoes, loose-fitting pants, a T-shirt, and an overshirt that hung below his belt. He was in his forties, bald and sinewy, with rigid shoulders and an air of authority. When he motioned for two dark Chevy Surburbans to drive onto the property, he had the manner of someone who was used to giving orders.

There was now a second sign on the gate.

“Tori, I want to check something. Please stop for a second.”

She looked at him reluctantly but applied the brakes as they came close to the gate. Page lowered his window and leaned out to get a better view in the dwindling sunset.

The older sign warned:

PROPERTY OF U.S. MILITARY

DANGER

HAZARDOUS CHEMICALS

UNEXPLODED ORDNANCE

The new one announced:

SOON TO BE

AN ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION AGENCY

RECLAMATION SITE

The authoritative man stepped through the gate, locked it, and noticed Page.

“Parking’s not allowed on this property.” He pointed toward the signs. “Restricted area.”

Page waved to indicate he understood.

Another man got out of one of the vans. He had a German shepherd on a leash. The authoritative man just stood there, staring at the car until Tori drove on.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” Page looked back and watched as the two Suburbans drove toward the collapsed, weed-choked, rusted airplane hangars.