She lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a one-inch spit of flame, not as bright as a flash camera, and a tremendous crack.
She recoiled from it, dropped the gun, hands to her ears, eyes wide. She looked out through the back window. The gunshot had sounded like the end of the world, but the world, a hundred feet away, seemed to go on. A car passed, and ten seconds later, a man on a bicycle with a leashed Labrador running beside him.
Leslie was lying back on the seat, and in the dim light, looked terrifically dead. “Damn gun,” Jane muttered into the stench of gunpowder and blood. She had to kneel on the seat and reach over the back to get the revolver off the floor. She wiped it with a paper towel, then pressed it into one of Leslie’s limp hands, rolling it, making sure of at least one print.
Leslie kept his cell phone plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter. She picked it up, called Amity Anderson. When Anderson picked up, she said, “Can you come now?”
“Right now?” The anxiety was heavy in Anderson’s voice.
“That would be good.”
“Did you…”
“This is a radio,” Widdler said. “Don’t talk, just come.”
SHE CHECKED for watchers, then let herself out of the car. Shut the door, locked it with the second remote. That was a nice piece of work, she thought. Locked from the inside, with the keys still in Leslie’s pocket. These keys, the second set, would go back in the front key drawer, to be found by the investigators.
She walked away into the dark. She was sure she hadn’t thought of everything, but she was confident that she’d thought of enough. All she wanted was a simple “Not guilty.” Was that too much to ask?
AMITY FOUND her on the corner.
Jane wasn’t all that cranked: Leslie had been on his way out. His actual passing was more a matter of when than if. And though she was calm enough, she had to seem cranked. She had to be frantic, flustered, and freaked. As she came up to the corner she brushed her hair forward, messing it up; her hair was never messed up. She slapped herself on the face a couple of times. She muttered to herself, bit her lip until tears came to her eyes. Slapped herself again.
Amity found her freshly slapped and teary eyed, on the corner, properly disheveled for a recent murderess.
JANE GOT in the car: “Thank God,” she moaned.
“You did it.”
“We have to go to your house,” Jane said. “For one minute. I’m so scared. I’m going to wet my pants. I just…God, I can’t hold it in.”
“Hold it, hold it, we’ll be there in two minutes,” Amity said. Down Cretin, left on Ford, up the street past the shopping centers, up the hill, into the driveway.
IN THE BATHROOM, Jane pulled down her pants, listened, then stood up and opened the medicine cabinet. Two prescription bottles. She took the one in the back. Sat down, peed, waddled to the sink with her pants down around her ankles, looked in, then turned around and carefully and silently pried open the shower door. Hair near the drain. She got a piece of toilet paper, and cleaned up some hair, put it in her pocket.
Almost panting now. The cops might be on their way at any moment: a passerby happens to glance into the car, sees a shoe…and she had a lot to get done. She sat back on the toilet, flushed, stood up, pulled up her pants. Lot to get done.
AMITY WAS SHAKY. “When do you think, ah, what…?”
“Let’s go,” Jane said. “Now, we’re in a hurry.”
IN THE CAR, headed west across the bridge, Jane said, “I mailed you the map. You should get it tomorrow. Don’t wait too long before you go. Leslie owned the land through a trust, and they’ll find it pretty quick. Make sure you’re not being followed. Davenport’s talked to you, if he knows anything else, if he’s investigating the quilts…then you might be followed.”
Amity looked in the rearview mirror. “How do you know we’re not being followed now?”
Jane made a smile. “We can’t be,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because if we are, we’re finished.”
AMITY LOOKED at her, white-faced. “That’s it? We can’t be because we can’t be?”
“Actually, they’d be much more likely to be following Leslie and me,” Jane said. “If they were, they probably would have picked me up back at Davenport’s house, don’t you think?”