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"Better grab garbage bags, too."
Evelyn knocked on the motel room door. She hadn't altered her disguise from earlier--blue-rinse hair, pince-nez, polyester slacks, a flower-dotted cardigan and a purse big enough to defy airplane carry-on regulations.
When no one answered, she rapped again and called out in a querulous voice.
"Harold? Harold? I can't find my key."
The door cracked open, the chain jangling, then snapping taut with a click. Standing by the hinges, I could see nothing of the person inside, meaning he couldn't see me, either.
"No Harold here, lady."
"What?" Evelyn leaned forward, blinking nearsightedly. "Who are you? Where's my Harold?"
"You've got the wrong room."
The man started to close the door, but Evelyn's foot darted into the gap, leaving him no choice but to keep it open or crush her. Even cold-blooded killers have their limits.
"Look, lady--"
"Stop whispering, young man. I can't hear you. Where's my Harold? Open this door right now."
"You've got the wrong--"
Her voice rose to a screech. "Open this door!"
I tensed, listening for a certain sound...
"Lady--"
"If you don't open--"
Click. He'd disengaged the chain. I kicked the door open.
* * *
TWENTY-THREE
As the door crashed open, the man flew back. I swung in, gun raised, Evelyn covering me.
"On your knees," I said.
The man froze, but didn't drop. His gaze flicked down, presumably to the gun holstered under his jacket.
"Hands up and get on your knees," I said as Evelyn closed the door behind us.
Still he hesitated, and I knew what he was thinking. He wasn't about to drop for a couple of women--and one a senior citizen. Better to take the risk, pull the gun and trust that he could get the drop on us.
I pretended to glance toward Evelyn, as if getting her opinion. The moment I moved, he went for his gun. I kicked his kneecap and he dropped down with a grunt. When he looked up and saw my gun pointed in his face--and Evelyn's at the side of his head--he decided to raise his hands.
I ordered him onto his stomach, hands to his sides, palms up. Evelyn motioned that she'd stand cover while I bound him, but I shook my head. I wasn't lowering my gun and my guard while she had a gun. Not after that stunt in the parking lot.
As she bound him with the duct tape, I took a closer look at the man. Did he bear any resemblance to Manson? It was hard to tell, since I presumed he was wearing makeup. He was certainly bigger than Manson, but that could come from his mother. The age seemed reasonable.
Evelyn patted him down, removing a 9mm, a hidden switchblade and a wallet. When she finished, I repeated the pat down. If she was offended at my double-checking her search--and her binding job--she gave no sign of it.
I took the wallet. Inside were a half-dozen twenties, some smaller bills and a Virginia driver's license
. The name and the license were fakes, but I had no idea how good a forgery it was. That's the beauty of using out-of-state licenses. If you get pulled over, chances are the officer who writes up your ticket wouldn't know a real license from a fake.
