“Fine. Friends?”
Monty blew out his breath. “Sally and I have been divorced for fifteen years. The kids would be more current on her friends. I can give you the name and phone number of the nursery school she works for. As for relatives, she’s got a sister, Carol. Divorced. Fifty-one. Lives abroad, in Rome. She’s bilingual, and works for some Italian exporting company. Also, Sally’s parents. They live in Orange County. But go easy on them. They’re in their late seventies, and this is their daughter. They don’t know a thing about what’s happened. I’d appreciate if you’d give me a chance to break the news to them before you drive down there and start asking questions.”
Jakes nodded, glancing over at Monty’s car. “I’d like to speak to your daughter before you leave.”
Monty’s protective-father instinct roared to life, and he had to bite back the urge to refuse. But that would be stupid. Jakes’s request was a mere formality. He was going to question Meredith with or without Monty’s permission. Plus, as Meredith had pointed out a few minutes ago, she was an adult now. Monty couldn’t shield her from the world. On top of which, she’d want to help.
“Yeah, okay,” he agreed tersely, jerking his head in the direction of the car. “Talk in there. It’s warm. Meredith and I will hit the road when you’re through.”
NONE OF THE Montgomerys got much sleep that night.
Lane’s plane landed at JFK around nine. He grabbed a taxi and headed straight for Devon’s. Meredith and Monty were already there. It was a bittersweet reunion, and a toss-up as to who was the biggest emotional wreck.
Both Devon’s siblings bunked at her place. They urged their father to join them, but somehow Monty wanted to be alone. So he drove the thirty-five minutes to Queens, to the little house where he and Sally had been so happy—and so unhappy—and plopped on the couch, throwing an arm across his eyes. He didn’t bother turning on a light or changing his clothes. He just lay there, wide awake, trying to fit together some pieces.
It was a little after 7 A.M. when his cell phone rang. Not his regular cell phone, but his prepaid TracPhone—the “Bat Phone,” as the kids called it, because it was as close to a hotline between select callers and Monty as you could get. It was damned near untraceable. Monty had paid cash for it in a drugstore, and was careful to vary the 7-Elevens he went to to buy additional minutes, also paid for in cash. There was virtually no paper trail leading to him. And very few people who had the number.
He jumped up and grabbed the phone, punching it on. “Montgomery.”
“Pete—it’s me.”
Sally.
Her voice was raspy and weak, but it was the most wonderful sound Monty had every heard.
A flood of relief surged through him. “Thank God. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I guess so.” She coughed. “I’m shaky, dizzy, and exhausted. But I’m alive. I shouldn’t be calling you, but I didn’t know where else to turn. Is this line still…okay?”
“Yeah. And you sure as hell should be calling me. This way your call can’t be traced. Besides, no one can do a better job of keeping you safe.”
She didn’t negate his words. “So you know what happened?”
“That Pierson’s dead and the cabin was torched? Yeah, I know.”
A shaky sigh. “I’m in a phone booth, using a calling card. It’s only got fifteen minutes on it.”
“Give me the number.” Monty grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen. He listened, and scribbled. Judging from the area code, she was somewhere in Vermont. Good. That would make things nice and easy for the plan he had in mind. “Hang up. I’ll call you back,” he instructed.
He disconnected the call and punched up the number she’d given him.
“Pete?” she asked tentatively when she picked up.
“It’s me. Before we get into this, how bad are you hurt and where?”
“My head. It’s pounding like a drum. I’m dizzy, and I’ve got a huge bump. But my vision’s okay, so if I’ve got a concussion, it’s a mild one. Other than that, it’s just aches, pains, and some tightness in my chest from the smoke. I’ll heal.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis. But I’d prefer getting it from a doctor. I’ll make arrangements to have you checked out later today. Now tell me what happened.”
Slowly, and with obvious physical discomfort, Sally relayed the events of the previous morning. “Once I got out of the cabin, I panicked,” she concluded. “I didn’t know if the killer was still around, or if he’d seen I was alive. I was terrified he’d come after me. So I took off. I cut across to Glens Falls. More people. More traffic. Less chance of being noticed. I bought a bus ticket at the diner, and took the two thirty Greyhound. I didn’t get in till almost eleven.”
“Into where?”
“Middlebury. I figured a college campus would be about the best setting I could pick to be invisible in.”
“Smart girl. College kids don’t notice anything on a Friday night. They’re too drunk. And Saturday morning at seven—they’re dead to the world.”
“Exactly. I checked into the Marriott Courtyard. I was lucky they had a vacancy during ski season. I paid cash. I don’t remember much of the night; I must have passed out. I woke up a little while ago, stopped off to buy this phone card, and came straight here.” Her voice broke. “Pete, I’m scared.”