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He kissed her, trying to win a concession through sheer sensual power.
"No," she said, lowering her eyes from his. "I can't. Not when I have to... go like this."
She turned and fled.
At dinner that night, Valentine and Gonzalez decided to leave with the first light of dawn. A morning departure, with a quick good-bye to the Breitlings, would seem less suspicious than a midnight escape.
After a final farewell talk with the Carlsons, Gonzalez and Valentine lay in the basement, their guns and packs stored for the last night in the secret room. Gonzalez hid his anxiety about his injured arm well, but Valentine knew the worry dragged at his scout. Gonzalez worked best when the only thing worrying him was what might be around the next bend or over the next hill, so he talked frankly about how they would accommodate his injury on the trip home. The rest of the household had long since retired, and they burned only a foul-smelling tallow dip for light.
"You'll ride," Valentine said after rolling his maps back up into their tube. "I wish we could hang around longer, but it might be months before your arm is totally healed."
"You think it will get better?"
"Of course, Gonzo. Nerve tissue just takes forever to heal."
Gonzalez moved two painful fingers. "I don't know about that. Might never grow back."
"Well, you can move your hand a little. I think that's a good sign. In fact... Hey, an engine."
Both Wolves used their hard ears. It sounded like a truck engine. Perhaps one of the semi drivers was passing through with another foundling. But it stopped in the road, idling with thick coughs of exhaust.
Valentine and Gonzlalez exchanged looks. Without another word, they got up and moved to the secret door. They carried the tallow lamp behind the false wall with them and shut the panel behind. They ignored their packs, grabbing knives and guns. A crash sounded from above through the air vent, the house-shaking sound of a door being kicked in.
A whisper came from the other side of the secret door.
"Guys, are you in there?" Frat whispered.
Shouts from upstairs, a man's voice issuing orders to search the house.
"Yes," Valentine answered softly.
"Two men in a big van and two more in a patrol car. They're all armed and coming in. Gotta go," Frat said. Valentine finished tying his parang sheath on his leg and picked up his rifle.
"Hey, kid," an unknown voice barked. "Get outta that bed and get up here."
"I'm coming," Frat answered, voice cracking from strain. "Don't point that shotgun at me, okay?"
Gonzalez blew out the tallow dip in case the smell was wafting up to the living room.
They heard Mr. Carlson's voice, angry and scared, as he descended the stairs from the second story into the living room. "What in the heck is all this, Toland?"
"Orders. You're wanted for questioning."
"Orders? We'll see what Major Flanagan has to say about that!"
"He gave the orders, pard," the harsh voice answered. "Think your days of being under his wing are over. Your little girl stuck a steak knife into Mr. Brass Ring's neck-"
"Oh, my God!" Mrs. Carlson gasped.
"-a couple of hours ago," Toland continued. "Your brother is fucked, and he knows it, and he thinks the only way out of the jam is to arrest everyone here."
"Can I at least tell my hired help to take care of things while I'm gone?"
"The Breitlings? We're supposed to arrest them, too. Where's those two from up north, the guy who was seeing your daughter? The major wants him brought personal to his office."
"They left after dinner," Frat volunteered. "David was pissed about the whole thing with Molly."
"Shuddup, Sambo. If I want your opinion, I'll slap it out of you. Carlson, is he right?"
