Page 116 of Blood Moon

“How about your place? Frank tells me it’s out in the boonies. What say we meet there in two hours?”

“See you there.”

“Hold on, hotshot. I’m not finished negotiating the terms.”

“What else?”

“If you resist arrest, I won’t be responsible for what happens to either you or your girl. No tricks. And you had better be as meek as a fucking lamb. Frank’s a bit testy after sitting in his car all day outside the high school, said it gave him hemorrhoids. If I were you, I wouldn’t test his mood.”

“I’ll be there. But if I see that Molly’s been hurt—”

“She hasn’t been.”

“—or if she gets hurt—”

“She can blame her daddy. Her future is entirely up to you.”

Barker hung up and smiled smugly. “In two hours, Frank.”

The ogre shook his large head, looking troubled. He’d even stopped chewing. “Boss, you sure about this?”

“Don’t ask me that again.”

Beth had been able to follow John’s conversation with Barker. After its abrupt end, John immediately called Mitch, who answered on the first ring. John said, “How soon can you get here?”

“To the fishing camp? Half an hour.”

“Make it twenty. Barker and the ogre have Molly.”

“Leaving now.”

As John disconnected, Beth said, “John, you and Mitch can’t go meet them. Just the two of you?”

“You heard Barker. He wants to keep it between us. You know why? Because he has every intention of killing me.”

“All the more reason for you to call the police.”

“They are the police.”

“Then the FBI, like you threatened.”

“That was a bluff. By the time they got into play, Molly could be dead.”

“Youcould be dead.”

“We can’t argue about this, Beth.”

He sidestepped her to walk over to the wall where the shotgun hung on the gun rack. He took it down and scooped a handful of shells from the cigar box and dropped them into the pocket of his black rain jacket, which was hanging on one of the hooks inside the front door. He propped the shotgun against it.

From the top drawer of a bureau, he took several clipsfor his .45 and placed them in the other side pocket. A knife was stored in another drawer. He took it out of its scabbard, tested its razor-thin blade against the pad of his thumb, then bent down and slid it into his boot.

“You carry a knife in your boot?” she asked.

“It fits in a scabbard. When we were partners, Mitch had them made for us.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t trust the bad guys.”

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