The flash of the photographer's strobe made M. J. wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left M. J. feeling disoriented. She'd been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who, just a few short days ago, had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue, supported by Adam's arm, by his strength.
Only when a familiar voice called to her did her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lieutenant Beamis moving toward them.
"What the hell happened?" he asked.
"It's Esterhaus," said Adam. "He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and…"
Beamis glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. "When?"
"We got here around five."
"He's been dead awhile," murmured M. J. "Probably early afternoon."
"How can you tell?" asked Beamis.
She looked away. "Experience," she muttered.
The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Beamis. "Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one's technically ours, but they insisted I call you."
"So what've you got?"
"Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME'll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time."
"Dr. Novak says early afternoon."
"Yeah, well…" The detective shifted uneasily. "They're sending over Davis Wheelock."
Because they're not about to trust me on this one , thought M. J. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn't be sure of M. J.'s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to… what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.
Now Beamis began to ask questions, the same ones they'd already answered. No, they hadn't touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body-to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Beamis had finished, M. J. was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.
Esterhaus's body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters' cameras.
Adam and M. J. followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from a half-dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of M. J.'s face and asked, "Were you the people who found the body?"
"Leave us alone," said Adam, shoving the microphone away.
"Sir, can you tell us what condition-"
"I said, leave us alone."
"Hey!" another reporter yelled. "Aren't you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?"
Suddenly, the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed M. J.'s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.
The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.
Adam started the engine. "Let's get the hell out of here," he growled, and hit the gas pedal.
Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.
M. J. collapsed back in exhaustion. "I thought they were going to keep us there all night."
He shot her a worried look. "Are you all right?"
She shivered. "Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared…" She looked at him. "Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?"
He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road, his profile hard and white in the darkness. "I wish to God I knew."
They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.
"Mr. Q., thank heavens you're home! The reporters have been calling-"
"Tell them to go to hell," said Adam, guiding M. J. toward the stairs.
"But-"
"You heard what I said."
"Is that a… literal request?"
"Word for word. Just say, go to hell."
"Goodness," said Thomas, sounding most uncomfortable. "I don't know…" He watched them climb up to the second floor landing. "Is there anything you'll require, Mr. Q.?" he called.
"A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?"
Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. "Quantrell residence." He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: "Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell." He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.
"The brandy, Thomas!" called Adam.
"Right away," said Thomas, and went off toward the library.
Adam turned M. J. gently toward the bedroom. "Come on," he whispered. "You look ready to collapse."
It was not an exaggeration. He'd never seen her so white-faced, so shaken. The loss of her house, and then this murder-it was a cruel one-two punch that even a woman as strong as she was couldn't withstand.
Even worse than her look of exhaustion was her look of fear. It did not befit this woman; it sat upon her shoulders like some alien cloak, which even now she was trying to cast off. But she couldn't. She didn't have the strength.
He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.
Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.
"Leave it," said Adam.
Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.
Adam poured a glass and handed it to M. J. She looked blankly at it.
"Just brandy," he said. "A Quantrell family tradition."
She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, "You Quantrells keep fine traditions."
He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, as cool as a corpse. But the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.
"If only I knew," she said. "If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn't be so afraid." She looked at him. "That's what scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil."
"Not the whole world. There's me. And I'll take care of you-"
"Don't make promises, Adam."
"I'm not promising. I'm telling you. As long as you need me-"
She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Don't. Please. You'll back yourself into a corner. And then you'll feel guilty when you can't keep your word."
He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. "M. J.-"
"No promises."
"All right. If that's what you want, no promises."
"From either of us. It's more honest that way."
"You'll stay here, though. As long as you need to. Unless… there's some other place you'd rather go?"
She shook her head.
He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be. With me.
"There's no other place," she said softly.
The way she looked at him then, her eyes wide and moist, all her defenses gone, was enough to make a man's heart break. He had not planned to kiss her, but at that moment, she looked so badly in need of a kiss. He drew her closer, cupped her face in his hands.
It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.
And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so needy, so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn't want.
He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying oxygen, and pulled away from her. "You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer." He rose to leave. "I'll sleep in yours."
"Adam?"
"In the morning, we'll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight-"
"I want you to stay here," she said. "In this room. With me."
The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked softly.
Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.
He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly she came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.
They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact.
Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.
He forced himself to pull back. "M. J.," he said. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.
He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. "What's wrong?"
"I want you," was all she said.
"But you're crying."
"No, I just want you…"
"And you're afraid."
There it was-the briefest of nods, as though she didn't want to say it. "I'm afraid of everything," she said. "Everyone. The whole world."
"Even me?"
She swallowed back another flash of tears. "Especially you," she whispered.
Gently he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll prove it to you. I'm absolutely harmless." He kissed her again, this time on the lips. A slow, lingering kiss. He could tell from her sigh, from the way her fingers reached eagerly to undress him, that she was beyond caring about fear, about anything but having him. Tonight she wanted to forget, to be lost in the amnesia's frenzy of lovemaking.
His shirt slid off his shoulders. Her fingers moved enticingly down his abdomen, to fumble at the cold metal of his buckle, and he too was suddenly soaring beyond rational thought. It was too late to consider what he should or shouldn't do, too late to worry about the regrets of morning. They were both pulling at each other's clothes. A few more buttons undone, another parting of fabric, and her blouse was off, her breasts bared. She gasped in a sharp breath of pleasure as he trapped her wrists, pinned her arms above her head, against the pillow. Her gasps melted to warm and liquid whimpers as his mouth explored her neck, her throat, her breasts. She was moaning now, struggling against his imprisoning grasp, longing to trade torment for torment, but he denied her the satisfaction. He was both too cruel and too generous. First he would drive her mad, his lips seeking all the tender, needy places of her body. She strained against him, that wild mane of hair tumbling at his face, drowning him in its heady animal scent.
Then, suddenly, her hands were free and their clothes were off, and he was plunging deep into her. Not gently, as he'd wanted it to be, as he'd thought it would be, but with a fierce and frightening violence. She did this to him, this witch with her animal hair and her scent of hunger and her hands clutching his back. She had driven him to this, and now she was reveling in the madness she'd unleashed, joining in it with a mindlessness of her own. There was no need for words, no place for words. This was instinct, the ancient language of touch and smell and hard, driving need.
And rapture. Oh yes, the rapture.
He felt it now, felt it rush through his body, through her body, as though they were connected, as though souls were joined.
It swept through them, over them as they clung together, helpless against its power.
And then, like shipwreck survivors who have ridden an incoming wave, they were left stranded, exhausted on some wide, warm beach.
Slowly he eased off her and pulled her into his arms. What a fever she had stirred in him! He still felt weak from its aftermath. But what a joy it was now, to feel her curled up against his chest.
She shivered and he eased the covers over their bodies, hugged her closer. "I'll keep you warm," he said. "Trust me."
"I want to," she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head, buried his face drowsily in her hair. "Give it time. Things work out."
"One way or another."
For a long time M. J. lay in his arms, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing, and she realized he was sleeping. They were both exhausted, but he was the lucky one-he was able to fall asleep, untroubled, unafraid.
He wasn't the one falling in love.
She burrowed closer, wondering about the man whose heart she felt beating against her cheek. The man who had everything.
Now he has me, as well.
How had it happened? How could she have let it happen?
She felt helpless, trapped, not only by her own heart, but by circumstances. Rule number one for the independent woman: Never let a man become indispensable. It was the rule she tried to live by, and already she'd violated it. What she ought to do was step back, take a breath, put some time and distance between them.
Right. And where would I go? My house is up in smoke. Someone out there would love to blow me away. For the time being, Novak, you're stuck.
As in quicksand. And sinking deeper, fast.
She looked at Adam, sleeping soundly beside her, and felt yet again that stirring of hunger. And something else, having nothing to do with desire. Tenderness. Joy. He was a troubling man. What was she going to do about him?
She drifted, tossed about on the edge of sleep, felt herself pushed and pulled between wanting to believe in love and knowing better. She was too smart to believe, and too stupid to give up the fantasy.
When she finally did sleep, it was like falling into some small, dreamless space, a prison without windows.
She was the first to awaken. Sunlight was shining through the curtains. Adam slept on, his golden hair tousled beyond help of any mere combing. She left him and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she came out again, bundled in his robe, that he stirred awake and gazed at her with amusement.
"Good morning," he murmured. "Are you an early riser or am I just lazy?"
She smiled. "Since it's already eight-thirty, I guess that makes you lazy."
"Come here." He patted the bed. "Sit down with me."
Reluctantly she complied and was reminded yet again of how susceptible she was to his attractions. Already, those hormones were doing their dirty work; she could feel them flooding her face with heat.
"I dreamt about you last night," he said, his fingers lightly tracing the length of her spine.
"Adam," she said, "What happened last night-" She felt a shudder of pleasure as his hand moved upward, crept under the flap of the robe to graze her breast. At once she stood up and moved away from the bed. She shook her head. "It's not going to work."
He didn't say a thing. He just watched her, his gaze too searching for comfort.
She began to move around the room, anything to avoid that look of his, "I walk into your bathroom," she said. "And everything's marble and-and gold. The soap's French. And the towels all match." She stopped and laughed. "Adam, in all my life, I've never had towels that matched."
"You're saying it won't work because of my towels?"
"No, I'm saying I can't see myself… fitting in here. I can't see your friends accepting me. Or you accepting me. Right now, maybe, I'm exciting for you-"
"Without a doubt."
"But it doesn't last, the novelty of a girlfriend from South Lexington. Look, you're a nice guy. I know you don't mean to hurt me. Maybe you'll even feel guilty about it when it falls apart. But I'm not the kind of woman who gets hurt, okay? I refuse to be hurt. And that's why I'd much rather stay your friend."
"Because it's doomed? A foregone conclusion, that sort of thing."
"Well, yes. I guess."
For a moment he considered that statement without apparent emotion. Then he said, quite calmly, "I suppose it is better for you. We both know how it is with these rich bastards. Love 'em and leave 'em."
"Oh, Adam." She sighed. "Please."
He rose from the bed, angrily snatched up his clothes. "I'm insulted. I'm really insulted. We make love-what I thought was love-and then you hand me the script to the rest of the affair!"
"Because I've played this part before. With Ed. With other men-"
"Also rich bastards?"
The knock on the door startled them both.
"What is it?" snapped Adam.
Thomas entered, looking quite taken aback at his employer's tone of voice. "I… thought perhaps you should know. The police are downstairs."
"What?"
"Lieutenant Beamis and that chubby sergeant. Shall I set breakfast?"
Adam sighed. "Go ahead. Lay on the bagels for Shradick."
"And some extra cream cheese," Thomas added and withdrew.
Adam and M. J. looked at each other. The tension was still there, crackling between them. So was the desire.
Push and pull. Attraction and fear. That was what she felt when she looked at him.
She picked up her clothes. "I'll see you downstairs," she said. Then she left to get dressed in the other room.
The two cops were sitting at the dining table, Beamis nursing a cup of black coffee, Shradick wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages. Both men seemed quiet, maybe a little cautious this morning. As though they had to be careful about what they said.
Something has changed , thought M. J, studying them.
She and Adam sat across the table from the cops. Though Adam was right beside her, he didn't touch her, didn't glance at her. She felt the distance between them widen with every minute that passed.
Beamis said, "It's about the Esterhaus murder. Rockwood Precinct's handed the case to us."
"Why?" asked Adam.
"Because of what's come to light." Beamis lay a large envelope on the table and slid it across to Adam. "I'm sorry to be the one to show these to you. But I need you to confirm the identity."
Puzzled, Adam pulled out a dozen photographs. At his first glimpse of the woman in the pictures, he paled. They were nude shots, in grainy black and white, amateurish and obviously home-processed. In one, the woman was sprawled suggestively across a bed, her hair fanned out, her hands cupping her breasts. In another, she pouted seductively from a bar stool, a whiskey glass raised to the camera. More photos, some taken with an apparent effort at artistic shading, others blatantly prurient. Adam stared at the thin and girlish face gazing back at him from an array of poses. Then he looked away and dropped his head in his hands.
Beamis asked: "Is it her?"
"Yes," murmured Adam. "It's Maeve."
Beamis nodded. "I thought so. I recognized her face from the photos you gave me earlier."
Adam looked up. "Where did you find these?"
"In Herbert Esterhaus's bedroom."
"What?"
"They were in in a bureau drawer. Along with a lot of other… interesting things."
Adam stared at him, shocked by the revelation. "Esterhaus and Maeve…"
"We're trying to find her, bring her in for questioning. But we can't seem to get near her. That's a tight group she hangs out with in South Lexington. It's only routine questions, of course. Ex-girlfriends are always on the list-"
"You don't think Maeve had anything to do with it?"
"As I said, it's routine. Just a drill we go through-"
Adam pointed to the photos. "I'd say Maeve is the victim here, Lieutenant!" he shot back.
"I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Q.," said Beamis. "I've got a little girl of my own, and I'd want to wring the neck of any bastard who used her like this. But a man's been killed. And now we have to go through the paces."
"I know Maeve! She wouldn't-"
"Did you know about her and Esterhaus?"
Adam paused. "No," he admitted at last. "I didn't."
Beamis shook his head. "There's a lot you never know about people. Even your own family. I'm not saying you should get panicked or anything. You're probably right, she had nothing to do with it. With the evidence we found, I'm ninety-nine percent sure she didn't. Still-"
"What evidence?" asked M. J.
"Things we found. In the victim's house."
"Aside from nude photos of ex-girlfriends?"
"Yes." Beamis looked at Adam. "What did you know about Esterhaus when you hired him?"
"Just what was in his resume. As I recall, he came well-qualified. Excellent references. Had a research position somewhere out in California."
"That shoulda tipped you off right there," said Shradick, spearing another sausage. "Who in his right mind leaves sunny California and moves to Albion?"
"You mean his references were falsified?" asked M. J.
Beamis nodded. "Courtesy of the U.S. government."
"What?"
"See, the name Herbert Esterhaus was an alias. We found his old IDs in his house. His real name was Dr. Lawrence Hebron. Oh, he was a biochemist, all right, but he didn't work for a company in California. He worked in Miami. A designer drug lab owned by the mob. A real genius, so I hear. Then he got busted and turned state's evidence. They put him in the Witness Protection Program, gave him a new name, a new resume. And a new job, with Cygnus. Where, I take it, he was working out just fine."
Adam nodded. "He was one of our best."
"And you think that's why he was killed?" asked M. J. "Old mob connections?"
"There are folks in Miami who aren't happy with him. If they traced him to Albion, then he was a dead man."
"We figure," said Shradick, wiping sausage grease from his mouth, "Esterhaus is the key to it all. Maybe he needed some extra cash, so he rips off a few grains of Zestron-L from the lab, sells it on the street. A few junkies die as a result. Then his old buddies from Miami get wind of his whereabouts, come up, and perform a little thirty eight caliber justice."
There was a silence as M. J. and Adam considered the theory. "So we're supposed to believe that Miami boys drove up and did your job for you?" said M. J. She shook her head. "Too neat. And who blew up my house?"
"Esterhaus was a biochemist," said Shradick. "He could put together a respectable bomb."
"Why? Just to shut me up?"
Beamis laughed. "There are times, Novak, when I would love to shut you up. Consider what the man was faced with, if you kept pushing your investigation. Charges of theft. Manslaughter, for those junkies. Plus, you'd blow his cover identity, so his life was at stake as well."
"And Maeve?" said M. J., glancing at the nude photos. "How does she figure in?"
"We don't know," said Beamis. "We thought maybe Mr. Q. could shed some light."
Adam shook his head, troubled by what he'd heard. "Maeve never said a word to me about any of this."
"You had no idea she was seeing Esterhaus?"
"She had her own life, her own apartment. I suspected there was a man, but I didn't know his name. And she wouldn't bother telling me." In disgust, he swept up the photos and stuffed them back in the envelope. "I'd strangle him myself, if he weren't already dead."
M. J. caught the glance that flew between Beamis and Shradick. Careful, Adam, she thought. They're looking for suspects. Don't provide them with one.
She said, quickly, "Do you think Maeve knew about his real identity? We know she and Esterhaus weren't getting along-those arguments at the lab, remember? Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was personal. Maybe she learned the truth about him. And she walked out. Not on the job, but on him."
"She could have told me," said Adam. "But she didn't. Lord, what a disaster I've been as a father."
M. J. touched his arm. It wasn't enough to close the gap yawning between them; perhaps nothing could close that gap. But it let him know she cared. "Maybe she couldn't tell you. Maybe she was ashamed she had fallen for the guy in the first place. Or scared."
"Of what?"
"The man she was sleeping with had a price on his head. And he was pushing poison on the street. That would scare a lot of people."
"Then why didn't she come to me?" said Adam. "I would have kicked him out of Cygnus so fast, he wouldn't know what hit him."
"You may have answered your own question," said M. J. "If she had any feelings at all for Esterhaus, she wouldn't expose him. So she just walked away. Went some place he couldn't find her."
"South Lexington?" Shradick snorted. "I can think of better neighborhoods to hide in."
Beamis scooped up the envelope of photos and rose to leave. "We'll keep trying to find her," he said. "But I'm afraid it's turned into a game of hide-and-seek. And Maeve's pretty damn good at it." He glanced at Adam. "As you already know."
Adam shook his head, a weary gesture of acceptance. Defeat. "You won't find her," he said. "No one will. Not unless she wants to be found."
They spotted Celeste a block away, her curlicued hair bouncing up and down as she skipped rope. She didn't break stride as they drove closer and pulled up next to her. She was counting to herself in a soft, flat drone: "One twenty-eight, one twenty-nine, one thirty…"
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Adam whispered to M. J. "Maybe we should try Anthony again."
"And get dinged for another two hundred bucks?" M. J. shook her head. "This lad knows her way around. Let's see if she'll help us out."
"One thirty-eight, one thirty-nine…"
"Hello, Celeste," M. J. called through the open car window. "Can we talk to you?"
"One forty-four, one forty-five."
"We need a little help."
"One forty-eight…" The rope suddenly fell limp, snagged by Celeste's shoe. She stamped her foot in annoyance. "I was goin' for a record, too." Resignedly she turned to M. J. "So what ya need?"
"We want to talk to Jonah," said M. J. "The big man."
"What for?"
"Just talk. About what's coming down."
"Jonah doesn't talk to outsiders."
"Maybe he'll talk to us. A new jump rope says he will."
"I'd rather have a watch. Y'know, with all those fancy dials and things."
"And you thought Anthony was steep," muttered Adam.
"Okay," said M. J. "A watch. But only if he talks to us."
Celeste grinned. "Wait here," she said, and trotted off down the street. She turned left, into an alley, and vanished.
"Is this going to work?" said Adam.
"We can't get to Maeve any other way. So we have to try going to the top. If she's Jonah's lady, that's where she'll be. With him."
"Maeve won't talk to us. She won't let us anywhere near her."
"But things have changed. Esterhaus is dead. She's a suspect. So she'd better talk to us. Before the police make her talk." She looked at Adam. "Besides, this is your chance to call off the feud, or whatever it is between you two. It's gone on long enough. Don't you think it's time for you and Maeve to be a family again?"
He gazed down the street, at the alley where Celeste had vanished. "You're right," he said softly. "It's time…"
They waited. Ten minutes, fifteen.
Instead of Celeste, it was their old escort Leland who emerged from the alley. He sauntered over to their car and peered inside.
"You two again," he said.
"We want to see Jonah," said M. J.
"What for?" demanded Leland.
"This place is gonna be thick with cops. I thought the big man might want to know what's coming down."
Leland looked skeptical. "You doin' him a favor? Sure."
"I got one to ask in return."
An exchange of favors-that concept, Leland could grasp. He opened M. J.'s door. "Okay, you're on. Just you, not the dude."
"Now wait a minute," said Adam, climbing out of the car as she did.
"It's the chick or nobody."
"She's not going in there without me."
"Then she ain't goin' in at all."
"If those are the terms, then we're not-"
"Adam, can I speak to you?" M. J. grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. "Don't ruin it."
"You don't know anything about this Jonah character!"
"And I never will, if I don't go in."
Adam glanced at Leland, who was standing by the rear bumper. "He's twice your size. No, he's twice my size. If he wanted to, he could-"
"Do you want to contact Maeve or not?"
"Not if it means sending you off with Bigfoot."
She laughed. "I'm not afraid of him, you know."
"Which says something about your sanity."
"There's a code of honor here, Adam. You may not believe it, but people do play by the big man's rules. Jonah says I'm in, then I'm in. And no one touches me."
"What if the rules have changed?"
"I'm gambling they haven't."
"There's the word for it. Gambling."
"Are you comin' or what?" said Leland.
"I'm coming," said M. J., and turned to follow him.
Adam caught her arm. "One question, M. J. Why are you doing this?"
"Because you need your daughter. And I think she needs you. Besides." She laughed. "I'm a sucker for a warm fuzzy, remember?" With that she pulled away and followed Leland up the street.
They turned left, into the alley, then right, up another alley. There Leland halted. He pulled out a bandanna and tossed it to her. "Put it over your eyes," he said.
"You boys got a secret hideout?"
"We wanna keep it that way."
Stupid kid stuff , she thought as she wrapped the bandanna over her eyes and tied it in back. The cloth stank of cheap after-shave. "Okay. I'm blind as a bat. Now don't screw up and let me trip on anything."
"You, lady, I'll be happy to throw out a window. Come on." She felt his paw take hold of her arm-not gently, either.
They moved forward. She felt glass skitter away before her blindly shuffling feet. Leland's grip remained firm, her only link to the world. She tried counting paces, then gave up after awhile, knowing only that they'd traveled a long way-maybe in circles. She stumbled over a threshold, was dragged back to her feet. They were in a building, she realized, listening to their footsteps echo across the floor. Too many turns to keep track of now. Up some stairs, then back down. Cold air on her face-outside? A walkway, perhaps? Back inside-those echoing footsteps again.
The echoes elongated, bounced off widely spaced walls. There were others here; she could hear footsteps and a murmur of voices.
Leland halted.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"My castle," said a voice-one she didn't recognize. It boomed forth, like an actor's from the stage.
"Are you Jonah?" asked M. J.
"Why don't you see for yourself?" said the man. "Take off your blindfold."
M. J. hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached up and pulled off the bandanna.