Nine

Over the speaker, there was the sound of laughter coming from within the restaurant, then a voice said, “That’s okay. We can only accept cash.”

Mortified, for a few seconds Kit wished he was not boxed in between two other cars, or he would have driven away without the food. Then he stopped thinking about his own embarrassment and considered what it might mean that she felt it necessary to say such a thing at her age.

“Well,” she said, seeing his embarrassment, “that’s what Bo

Kit thought of the years of terror spent under his stepfather’s control and said, “If I have anything to say about it, no one is ever going to make you do anything that’s-anything sexual without your permission, and they’re not going to even ask for your permission before you’re an adult.”

She studied him for a moment, then said, “Where are you going?”

“To Denver, and then to my home in the mountains.”

They moved up a car length.

“Will I like it?”

“Will you-? Wait a minute. I don’t think you should be living with me. I’ll help you all I can, but I’m no parent.”

“You could do better than Bo

He didn’t doubt it, but said, “Let’s think about other options. Tell me the truth-you don’t have any other family you can go to?”

She shook her head. “Just Bo

“We’ll look for Bo

“I don’t think so, or Bo

He paid for the food. He ignored the cashier’s grin.

He turned on the radio as they drove away. It was tuned to an oldies station. She didn’t object to this.

“I’m Kit. What’s your name?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

“Not going to tell me?”

“No. If I change my mind about you, I don’t want you to know who I am.”

“Okay. Make one up, then. I’ve got to call you something.”

She smiled, obviously enjoying the power this gave her. The song on the radio was a Classics IV tune from the sixties-“Spooky.” As it reached the refrain, she said, “That’s my name. Spooky!”

He smiled and said, “All right, Spooky.” He thought that would last about five minutes. He would learn how stubborn she could be. It had helped her survive.

Eventually, she told him enough about her recent life to allow him to be thankful for her hardheadedness. She had started dressing and acting like a boy to make herself unattractive to one of Bo

Kit put Moriarty, a longtime friend of his family-who on most days would tell people that he was a private security specialist-on the job of learning Bo

Moriarty learned that Spooky’s real name was Emily, but Kit didn’t let on that he had been given this information for almost two years. He never called her Emily except when they had to pass muster with the court system. Away from judges, lawyers, and social workers, they pretended he had never heard her real name.

Bo

When Kit told Spooky her sister was dead, Spooky didn’t cry. But she demanded that Kit teach her how to swim. She was now a strong and avid swimmer.

She had also learned how to defend herself.

She was intelligent, and when Kit realized that she wasn’t ready to cope with school, or schools to cope with her, he hired a private tutor to home school her-a retired teacher who knew just how to handle Spooky’s rebelliousness. Through the tutor Spooky also met some of the kids who lived nearby, but Spooky preferred the company of Kit or Moriarty. He noticed that she seemed better able to form friendships with those who were her own age than she had been three years ago, but she was at her best when she felt safe, with Kit.

Although the legal aspects of becoming Spooky’s guardian were complex, the court proceedings were not as difficult as he had feared they would be. Moriarty did locate an aunt, but the aunt did not want a pickpocket runaway who started the occasional fire living under her roof.

Over the next three years, Spooky gradually set aside most of her thievery and arson. Only in times of high stress would Kit feel the need to hide matches from her.

He looked over at her now and figured that soon no one would mistake her for a male. Her brown hair was still cut short, in a boy’s style, but her face was losing its childishness-those brows now only accented her brown eyes, her cheekbones were becoming more prominent-although the pout she wore at the moment was pure kid. She crossed her arms over her denim jacket. He looked away then. She was small for thirteen and didn’t really have breasts yet, but they were on their way.

He hated himself for even considering this fact. He felt no attraction to her, but he did not trust himself where women-and she soon would be one-were concerned. These days, he saw less and less of the tomboy child he had taken under his protection. She was acting more and more like a teenaged girl. He pulled back onto the highway, thinking that thirteen was an unlucky number. He decided that the first person who said thirteen was an unlucky number was raising a female child.

Rain began to fall, and he turned on the wipers.

She stayed silent for five minutes-so far, a record on this trip.

When she finally spoke, she asked in a low voice, “Did she-you know-suffer?”

He swallowed hard but was glad to be able to tell the truth. “No.”

“She was a good dog.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to get another dog?”

“Not right away.”

“Good.” She opened the can of Coke. “Will we see movie stars in California?”

The child again. He would have smiled, but he knew she would have resented it. “Maybe. Some live near the house.”

“Where is it again? I keep forgetting the name.”

“Malibu,” he said.

“How far is it?”

“Far.”

“Can I drive some of the way?”

“No.”

“You never let me drive.”

“So why do you keep asking?”

She smiled and shrugged. “Nothing wrong with trying, is there?”

“No. But save yourself some trouble and wait a couple of years to ask again.”

She rolled her eyes.

“How far to Denver?”

“Not much farther.”

“How long can we stay there?”

“Not long. Just tonight.”

She put the Coke back in the holder. Within a few minutes, she was asleep.

He watched the rain and wondered if he should leave her with someone, someone who might keep her safer than she would be with him or his staff in Malibu. He knew of one or two people he could trust to be good to her, to be patient with her, who could even cope with her tendency to start fires and her practice of picking pockets. But they could not keep her as safe as he could, because he knew his enemies.

He passed Denver International Airport and found his grip tightening on the steering wheel. He forced himself to relax his hands, and kept driving.

The one who had killed Molly was long gone by now, he was sure.

He felt grief for the dog swell within him and fought it off.

Drive, he told himself. Just drive.

So he drove and turned his thoughts to the problem of how his enemies had found the cabin.