“Yeah, what are you going to do?” Mrs. Mayhew asked as Trimble ushered her up the stairs, his gun out and poking her in the side.

I couldn’t stand by and let him kill her, if that was what he planned, although I didn’t know how I’d stop him. The gun I’d borrowed for the evening was out in the car.

I grabbed at his shoulder. “Can’t you just tie her up or something, till you can get to the hotel?”

He looked at me, weighing things. I could see he didn’t want to kill Mrs. Mayhew, but there was a risk in letting her live. Trimble knew Eddie Mayhew would likely be dead by morning, and a police investigation would lead to Mrs. Mayhew and her tale of two nighttime visitors.

“Shit,” he said quietly to himself. He pushed Mrs. Mayhew ahead, back into the bedroom, and went over to the dresser. He rummaged through the drawers and tossed out a couple of pairs of pantyhose onto the bed. He whirled around, looked at me, pointed the gun, and said, “Do it.”

“What?”

“Tie her up.” Mrs. Mayhew’s eyes were darting back and forth between us.

“I hardly know her,” I said.

“Would you rather I shot her?”

Mrs. Mayhew looked back at me. “I’d rather not be shot,” she said, and I proceeded to do as I was asked, tying her wrists together and securing them to the headboard.

Trimble, not trusting my handiwork, double-checked that Mrs. Mayhew was secure, then grabbed the second pair of pantyhose and gagged her.

“Fuck,” he grumbled. “Let’s take a drive.”

Chapter 33

33

“Trimble!” I said as we stepped out the door. I had just glanced at my watch. It was one minute past two. “You have to call in! Right now!”

“Let’s get on the road first, then I’ll call.”

“No,” I said, with more forcefulness than I knew I had. “Now.”

“Fine,” he said, and got out his phone. “This is a huge pain. Now that Barbie’s got to prove himself, he’s got all these little plans and procedures. Fucking intercoms and phone-ins and—”

Someone picked up. “Yeah, it’s me, checking in, talk to you in thirty.”

As we walked back to the car he said, “Mayhew must have already made his deal. He’s got his money, and he’s getting out of the country.”

“Am I still driving?” I asked, sounding positive, like I was happy to help, but mostly wanting to make sure Trimble didn’t see the gun down by the accelerator pedal.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, waving his hand.

Once we were both in the car and back on the road, Trimble shook his head. “Man oh man, things are not unfolding the way they should.”

“What?”