“Keep digging,” I said. “Great work, too. Any more word from LAPD? Jeanne?”

“A cruiser went by the Bell house. No answer.”

“Did they go inside?”

“No. But they were pretty sure nobody was home. The house is under surveillance.”

“All right. I’ll call when I stop again. Probably out near the airport. Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck here for the night.”

I didn’t want to spend the night in Vermont, especially now, but it didn’t look as though I had much of a choice. I thought about stopping into the small store at the gas station, buying something awful like chocolate cupcakes, or M&M’s with peanuts, but I mustered all of my willpower against it. God, I am impressive occasionally.

I turned toward the rented car and started to walk with my head down against the wind. It was getting nippy up here. A few feet away from the car, I looked up and stopped dead in my tracks.

I had company.

James Truscott was sitting in the car’s passenger seat.

Chapter 117

Chapter 117

THIS MADE NO SENSE TO ME, not at first anyway. What the hell was Truscott doing here? Obviously, he’d followed me again. But why?

I was seeing red as I yanked open the car door on his side. My mouth was open to start to yell, but nothing came out, not a word.

Truscott wasn’t here to cause me any trouble—at least not now. The writer was dead, propped up in the front seat like a statue.

“Just get in the car,” said a voice from behind me.

“Don’t cause a scene out here. Because then I’ll have to go in and shoot the nice old biddy who runs the country store, too. I really wouldn’t mind, y’know.”

I turned and saw Michael Bell.

Bell appeared haggard and disturbed, and he’d lost a lot of weight since I’d last seen him at his house. He looked like hell, actually. His light-blue eyes were badly bloodshot; with his ragged, bushy beard, he looked like a local woodsman.

“How long have you been following me?” I asked, trying to engage him if I could, feel him out, gain some kind of leverage.

“Just get in the car and drive, will you? Don’t talk to me. I see through you.”

We both got in, Bell in the back, and he pointed out to the road, the direction heading away from the interstate. I started the car and drove where he wanted me to, my mind racing backward and forward. My gun was in the trunk. How could I get to the trunk? Or how could I get inside his head in a hurry?

“What’s the plan, Michael?”