“There are quite a few unsolved murders tied together with this,” I said. “Nasty things are happening in the shadows, and this woman knows enough to make sense of it. Some powerful people are going to do whatever it takes to keep those things in the shadows. If that means adding a few more murders to the list, they won’t lose sleep over it.”

“You know the best way to bring something scary out of the shadows, Lincoln? Shine a light on it.”

I frowned. “Clarify, Ace.”

“I mean, let me write this story.”

“Amy,” I began, irritated that she was thinking of herself, but she cut me off.

“I’m serious, Lincoln, so listen to me. I’m not thinking just about the story, although I’ll admit I’d love to write it. I’m thinking about the woman and her daughter. People are willing to kill them because Julie Weston has damaging knowledge and a damaging videotape, right? Well, if the knowledge and tape are made public, then killing Julie Weston and her daughter serves no purpose except revenge. And, if the case has been pushed into the public eye, any attempt for revenge is just going to make things much worse.”

“The Russians don’t care about that, Amy,” I said. “They won’t hesitate to kill for revenge, regardless of the consequences.” But it was an interesting idea. It could possibly be the best way of keeping Hubbard at bay, if nothing else. “I’m not dismissing it entirely,” I said, giving some ground. “I’ll talk to Julie tonight and see what she thinks.”

“Okay, Lincoln. But remember something-you have much of the same knowledge that led to Wayne Weston’s murder and probably this Hartwick guy’s. That makes you just as much of a threat to everyone involved as Julie Weston.”

Encouraging. I hung up with Amy and walked back inside. Julie had taken my seat on the couch beside Betsy, and the cartoons were still on. She glanced up at me as I stepped into the room and frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said, surprised she had read my face so easily. “My cell phone signal is bad on the balcony, that’s all. Frustrating.”

“Oh,” she said, but I could tell she wasn’t buying it. “Do you need to go downstairs to make another call?”

“No, I’m done with the phone for now.” I put the cell phone back in my pocket and slid my hand up my spine, touching the butt of the gun under my shirt. It was still there, comforting if not comfortable.

“I thought we were going to play miniature golf,” I said, trying to force some good humor into my voice. I could spend the rest of the afternoon dwelling on Amy’s news, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything, and it would probably stress Julie out. If I could make the afternoon fun for her and the kid, then I’d sit her down for a serious conversation after Betsy went to sleep.

“Let’s go play!” Betsy said, leaping off the couch. “I’m gonna win.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “I’m going to win.”

“I’ll bet you an ice cream I win,” the little girl said confidently. I accepted the bet with a laugh, and as I did so I saw a shadow of sadness pass over Julie’s face. It was only momentary, and then the smile was back. I thought about the bet we’d made, and I realized it was probably something the girl had picked up from her father.

“I always beat Daddy and get ice cream when we play,” Betsy said, confirming my suspicions as if on cue. “He says I’m short for good games.”

“Short game,” Julie said softly, looking away from us, out at the ocean. “He says you have a good short game.”

Between my worries about Belov and Julie’s recollections of her husband, I was afraid we were in for an awkward afternoon. I was wrong. By the time we reached the hotel lobby, Betsy had both of us laughing, and the more serious concerns were forgotten for a while. There were several miniature golf establishments within walking distance, but apparently Betsy had seen one with giant plastic alligators on a drive earlier in the week, and that was where she wanted to play.

Julie hadn’t rented a car, so I had to drive. They’d taken a cab from the airport when they arrived in town, and Hartwick had driven them a few times. Other than those trips, they’d stayed in walking distance.

“It’s too small for you,” Betsy said of the Contour as she settled into the backseat. I closed the door of the little rental car and looked at her in the rearview mirror.

“I agree,” I said. “It’s way too small for me.”

“It fits me, though,” she said.

“Want to drive?” I asked, straight-faced.

“I’m not old enough to drive,” she answered just as seriously.

“Oh. I guess I’ll handle it, then.”

We drove to the miniature golf course with the giant plastic alligators. It turned out to be just a few miles south, and the bizarre décor didn’t stop with the alligators. They were there, all right, but so were a large plastic pirate ship, an octopus, and several pirate mannequins complete with eye patches and hooks. The course wrapped around a flowing creek and-like everything else in town-was lined with palm trees.

We played for nearly two hours. Betsy played first, and I tried to match whatever she had done on the hole to keep us close and make it more fun for her. It appeared to work, because on the last hole she was focused. She set the ball down on the plastic mat and backed away from it, then dropped into a crouch, balancing the putter against the ground, as if she were checking the break of the green.

“She’s watched her dad,” Julie said, but this time the memory brought a smile.

Betsy put the ball in the hole on her fourth putt, and I missed my fourth, making her squeal with a victor’s delight.

“You owe me an ice cream,” she taunted.

“It’s not fair,” I said, pointing my club at the plastic alligator that was watching over the hole. “He kept staring at me. It made me nervous.”

She laughed some more at that, and then we returned our clubs and left. It was early, but Betsy said she was hungry. Neither Julie nor I wanted dinner yet, so I took us on a drive to kill some time and build our appetites. I drove south on Business 17 out of Myrtle Beach. There were signs for a place called Murrells Inlet, and Julie recognized it from the brochures.

“They have charter fishing boats there,” she said. “Want to go to the docks and look at the boats, honey? Then we can go eat.”

Betsy shrugged. “We can watch boats. I’ll still be hungry, though.” Agreeable to the idea but not impressed with it.

I drove to Murrells Inlet, and we walked the docks. I’d done a fair amount of sailing on Lake Erie, but I’d never taken a boat out on the ocean. Most of the boats at these docks were powerboats, and all of them were large. I thought back to the small sailboat I’d seen just off the beach the day before, and I wondered what it felt like to have something so tiny on an ocean so large.

“I love the water,” Julie said, holding onto the railing of the dock and leaning backward, her eyes on the horizon line. “The ocean’s so big. It’s amazing. We could get on one of these boats, and if the weather was fine and there was enough gas, we could go all the way across it. Just go until we hit land again.” She said it as if she wished we really could. I looked down at her but remained silent. She sighed. “Can’t do that, though, can we? We have to stay here and face life. I didn’t mind that before. But then it got all screwed up. Now I don’t know what to do. Do we run, do we hide, do we go back?”

“It’ll be okay, Julie.” I said. “I’m going to help you get through this.”

She smiled at me, but her sunglasses shielded her eyes, and I couldn’t guess what she was thinking. She reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “I know you’re going to,” she said. “And I hope you have some idea how much that means to me.”

We ate dinner at a seafood restaurant in Murrells Inlet. It was the same type of food I’d eaten the night before, but it had been good then, and I saw no reason to seek variety. I ordered crab legs, and Betsy watched with interest while I cracked them and extracted the meat.