“Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes.” Peter glanced at the young woman in the passenger seat. “Can I ask you to talk to Helene? She doesn’t exactly trust me. Having met her husband, I can’t say I blame her.”

“My pleasure. Give her the phone and don’t eavesdrop.”

Peter did what he was told.

When it came to June Cassidy, he’d found that was usually the best course of action.

42

June was good with people. It didn’t take long before the words were pouring out of Helene. Peter wasn’t going to drive with his fingers in his ears, so he couldn’t help but listen. It wasn’t hard to get the picture.

A young woman tried to get herself free of a predatory boss and took a chance on the wrong person. A worse predator. The fact that she’d joined Roy in robbing houses was on her, for sure. Legally, the murder was, too. Peter understood why the law was written that way, but he wasn’t going to dwell on it. Not when Roy was still out there, looking for Helene. And Peter, too.

They talked for less than ten minutes. Peter didn’t know what June had said, but whatever it was, it seemed to have helped. Helene still kept hold of the black revolver, but she wasn’t pointing it at Peter anymore. At least not directly.

After that, they drove in silence.

Bobbie had told Peter that she lived south of Highway 52, off the Tabor Rec road. He didn’t have to look long to find her mailbox and the modest hand-carved sign for dirt works excavation and drainage.

Flanked by broad, muddy fields, the long driveway led past a modest brick ranch-style house to an enormous metal barn, painted hot pink and lit up like daytime by a half-dozen bright sodium lights. The buildings were tucked into a notch in the trees, so you couldn’t see the road, and behind them the land fell away in wrinkled folds toward Lewis and Clark Lake, formed at a wide spot in the Missouri River when the Corps of Engineers dammed the river at Gavins Point.

He nosed the truck into the trees beside the barn, then turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. Whatever else Helene might be, she was also clearly some kind of outlaw, and Peter didn’t want his truck stolen twice in one day. He got out and pulled a fleece-lined blanket from behind the seat, and handed it to her. “Would you mind staying put? I’ll just be a minute.”

He didn’t see Bobbie’s Yamaha anywhere. He walked to the back door and knocked. No answer.

They were thirty miles from the bridge. The night was quiet. The temptation to stay a few minutes was strong. He still hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he was willing to bet Helene was hungry, too. If he pulled the bad guys out of the back, he could get to his cooler and cookbox, make sandwiches and coffee, find Helene some warmer clothes from his duffel.