Linda found coats and shoes, then called Carol. Carol Dwyer was a seventy-year-old widow who had taught school before retiring and had lived in the same modest house for nearly thirty-five years. Linda asked whether three people could spend some time with her without explaining every detail over the phone. Carol said, "Of course," in the steady tone of someone for whom an unplanned need was an adequate reason. She told Linda to use the side door and not to hurry the injured woman.
At Carol's house, a small garden of desert marigolds grew beneath the front window. The interior smelled of furniture polish and lemon tea, and there were framed photographs of grandchildren on every shelf. Carol guided Sarah to a couch, gave Rosie a stuffed rabbit that had belonged to a visiting grandchild, and showed Ethan where the bathroom was. She did not ask them what happened until Sarah had sat long enough to stop trembling.
"Linda said you needed a quiet place," Carol told Sarah. "You have one. We can discuss the rest when you feel ready." Sarah looked around the room, at the clean carpet and the closed curtains and the ordinary clock over the mantel.
"I'm sorry to arrive like this," she said. Carol shook her head. "I taught middle school for thirty-eight years. A frightened family is not a bad surprise. Sit down and let someone make you tea."
Marco stayed nearby long enough to make certain they were settled and then called Grim. "They're at Carol's," he reported. "Everybody made it in without trouble. Linda is here too. Sarah can walk, but she's tired, and the kids are looking at the television like they've forgotten people can watch one without somebody yelling at them."
Grim closed his eyes briefly. "Good," he said. "Keep that place quiet. Keene's coordinating an official arrangement."
As Grim and Danny reached the edge of Laughlin, Keene called with a new instruction. Investigators had traced Clay's truck toward the city, but they had not yet established his exact location. Grim was asked to wait at a public service lot near the main road where authorities could reach him, rather than riding between houses. Grim accepted the direction, though every instinct told him he should be moving. He and Danny parked their motorcycles beneath a faded advertisement and watched morning traffic pass.
It was a difficult kind of waiting. Grim could not hear Sarah's voice or see Ethan's face. Every ordinary pickup on the road seemed briefly capable of becoming Clay's, and each minute tempted him to call Marco again. Danny finally took the telephone from his hand and laid it on the motorcycle seat. "You call every thirty seconds, you won't make them safer," he said. "They'll have to stop watching what matters to answer you."
Grim looked at him. "I hate this part," he admitted. "That's because the part you can do with your hands is over for the moment," Danny replied.
"You did the road, the diner, the talking. Now you've got to stand still long enough for people with other jobs to do theirs." Grim stared toward the city. "You sound like Millie." "I consider that a compliment."
A dark pickup came slowly along the far side of the road. Grim recognized the battered front bumper before the driver turned his head. Clay Mercer was behind the wheel, with two men in the cab, scanning storefronts and side streets as they passed.