Eleventh Hour

NINETEEN

Dane had volunteered to drive the two hours up to Bear Lake to see what they could find out about Weldon DeLoach from the staff and, they hoped, from his elderly father. “Hey, maybe,” Fly

Dane pulled onto the freeway, then turned to Nick. “I forgot to tell you. Fly

She nodded, stared down a moment at her clasped hands. She had a jagged fingernail and began worrying it. “I wanted to tell you that I was really sorry I couldn’t be with you at the cemetery. I wanted to say good-bye to Father Michael Joseph, too, but they rushed me off so fast I didn’t have a chance to speak to you about it.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t come, too. At least the media didn’t catch up with you. But you can bet some enterprising souls are trying their best to put this all together. Something will leak soon from the studios, if it hasn’t already. Then it’s going to be really rough, with you at the epicenter.”

She looked, quite simply, terrified.

Dane, impatient, said, “Look, Nick, you know this is an international story. For God’s sake, you’re the eyewitness to my brother’s murder.”

“Not really. I haven’t been any help at all.”

“We’ll see. Now, the media thing. It’s going to happen. You really need to reconsider telling me what’s going on with you.”

“No, I don’t.” She still hadn’t come to a decision about what to do. She knew she couldn’t be a homeless person forever; it wasn’t any sort of solution at all, but what she would do, she just didn’t know yet. “You made a deal. Keep your questions to yourself.”

He shrugged, and she knew he was irritated, probably more than irritated. He changed lanes to avoid being stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler. He looked over at her, his expression serious. “I’m sorry, but the shit will hit the fan. It’s coming. Okay, no more questions, but when you’re ready to tell me, just let me know.”

She said nothing, just stared at the dashboard.

“I want to thank you, Nick, for the way you’ve stuck with me over the last days. It’s-it’s been difficult, and you really helped me.”

She nodded. “It’s hard to believe that so little time has passed. It’s been very hard for you.”

“Yes.” He was silent, to keep control. Damnation, it was so hard. He said, “It’s been difficult for you as well.”

She said, surprising him, “I remember when my father died-it was in a hunting accident-some idiot took him for a deer up in northern Michigan. Death like that, so sudden, so unexpected, you just can’t figure out how to deal with it.”

“Yes,” Dane said, eyes on the road in front of him. “I know. How old were you when your dad died?”

“Nearly twenty-two. It was really bad because my mom had died just two years before. Sure, I had lots of friends, but it’s just not the same thing.”

He said slowly, “I never really thought of you as a friend.”

She felt a punch of hurt at his words. “I would have thought that we’ve been through enough to be friends, haven’t we?”

“You misunderstand me,” Dane said. “No, I didn’t think of you as a friend precisely, I thought of you as someone who was there for me, who understood, someone important.”

She was silent for a moment, but to Dane it seemed an aeon had passed before she said, “Maybe I agree with you.”

Dane smiled as he slowed for a car coming onto the freeway. “Hey, you got any relatives at all?”

“Yes, two younger brothers, both Air Force pilots. They’re in Europe. All these questions. Are you trying to trip me up? Is this one of your famous FBI strategies to make a perp spill her guts?”

“Nah. If I wanted to interrogate you, I’d be so subtle, so consummately skilled that you wouldn’t even be aware of what I was doing.”

“I’ve also got two uncles who drill for oil in Alaska.”

“I’m sorry about your folks.”

“Thank you. I think they were both surprised when I ended up with a Ph.-Well, that’s not important.”

Yeah, right, he thought. “What do you think of Savich and Sherlock?”

“Sherlock showed me a photo of Sean. He’s adorable.”

“Sean is nearly a year old now, ru

“They’ve been here less than twenty-four hours-it’s like I’ve known them for much, much longer. Sort of like you, only not exactly.”

“I know what you mean.”

“How long have you been an FBI agent?”

“Six years now. I came out of law school, went to a big firm, and hated it. I knew what I wanted to do.”

“A lawyer. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“You mean I don’t look slimy?”

“Close enough.” A lawyer, that was all she needed. Both a lawyer and an FBI agent. She’d nearly spilled the beans about her Ph.D. It looked like he didn’t even need to exert himself particularly to get information out of her.

Nick didn’t tell him anything more about herself, eventually just looked out her window at the passing vegetation that was getting greener as they gained altitude.

They finally arrived at Bear Lake. Set amid groves of pine trees, up a beautiful long sloping lawn that stretched up about fifty yards from Bear Lake, was a lovely old two-story building of weathered wood, each room featuring glass doors and a small terrace that gave onto the lake. There were several piers that went some fifty feet out into the calm blue water, where half a dozen canoes and several powerboats were tied up. Lovely white-painted chairs and benches were scattered over the manicured lawn. But it was winter, and even though it was in the high fifties today, no one was outside to appreciate it.

They left their rented cherry-red Pontiac Grand Am in a small parking lot set amid a grouping of pine trees and walked on a flagstone path to the discreet entrance. Nick looked up at the crystal-clear sky, at the cumulus clouds that were sweeping lazily overhead. She turned a moment to look at Bear Lake glistening beneath a noonday sun, snow glinting on the peaks in the distance. There was only a light spray of snow around Bear Lake.

Nick stood still a moment, staring out toward the lake. It was as still as a postcard. She said, “I think this is a beautiful place, but somehow, I don’t know why, I just don’t like it.”

She turned, sped up, and entered the double glass doors, which led into a large lobby. In the center was a large wooden counter with offices behind it.

Behind the counter stood a stout woman with curly black hair and a very pretty smile. The name on her tag read Velvet Weaver. With the thin black mustache over her upper lip, she didn’t look much like a Velvet.

Dane introduced both himself and Nick, showed her his FBI shield.

“Oh dear, I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

“This is just routine, Ms. Weaver,” Dane said easily. “Just a couple of questions we hope you can help us with. Could you please tell us about one of your patient’s sons, a Mr. Weldon DeLoach?”

Velvet nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. Yes, a lovely man, Mr. DeLoach, a wonderful son. You know, he’s this big TV writer in Hollywood and so it’s only the best for his father.”

“Is Mr. Weldon DeLoach here right now? Visiting with his father?”

“Oh no, Agent Carver, Weldon hasn’t been here for a week, at least not that I know of. Of course, he could have visited when I wasn’t on duty. I’ll ask around for you. I was wondering just the other day when he was coming to see his father again. Not that Captain DeLoach knows when his son is here, poor man. Dementia, you know, for about the last six years now. Is something wrong with Weldon?”