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“Eat your applesauce,” Trapper said over his shoulder, “you’ll be out of here in no time.”
“Damn it, come back. I apologize.”
Trapper stopped and turned around but stayed where he was.
The Major made a placating gesture. “What I said was uncalled for.”
Unmoved, Trapper said, “But what? You think I’m delusional?”
“No, I think you’re pigheaded and can’t stand to leave anything alone. You want answers about the Pegasus and—”
“I got answers. Everybody got answers. The problem with those answers is that they’re crap.”
“And you can prove that? I asked you three years ago if you had proof that the one who confessed was acting on someone else’s orders. You admitted then that you didn’t have enough. Do you now?”
“Working on it.”
“Working on it,” The Major repeated in a woeful mutter. “For how long, John? At what point will you give this up and take on a life?”
“I had given it up. Then you went back on TV and got yourself shot.”
The Major sighed and said quietly, “Glenn has a suspect in custody for Sunday night’s attack.”
“Hate to spoil your news flash, but I already know that.”
“Well? This man Duncan is far too young to have had any connection to the Pegasus. Meaning that it and Sunday night’s episode are unrelated. He and his buddy, whose identity is yet unknown, probably heard about my gun collection and came to the house to rob me.”
Trapper scoffed. “If it eases your mind, stick with that. But you know in your gut that’s not the case. This all goes back to the Pegasus.”
“All right, for the sake of argument, let’s say it does. The character that Glenn described to me isn’t a fifty-something bigwig millionaire.”
“I’m not saying that Wilcox himself was sneaking around your house.”
His frustration mounting, The Major looked up at Kerra, who had remained silent throughout their contentious exchange. Looking at it from The Major’s standpoint, without knowing what had occurred with Wilcox in Trapper’s office, without knowing about Berkley Johnson or the factory fire that had initiated Trapper’s covert investigation, the allegations against a wealthy and influential man would appear completely irrational.
“You’re a smart young woman, Kerra,” he said. “You deal in facts. Truth. Are you buying into this cockamamie theory?”
She looked across at Trapper before answering. “I went to Trapper’s office as a total stranger. I caught him…not in prime form. I showed him the photograph that has been seen by millions of people over the course of two and a half decades. In a matter of hours, he puzzled it through and figured out who I was. So, Major, in answer to your question, I think his pigheadedness works for, not against him, and I wouldn’t dismiss any of his theories as being cockamamie.”
Kerra came out of the bathroom to find Trapper just as he’d been when she’d gone in.
He was lying on his back on the bed nearest the door, but he didn’t look relaxed. His body was as taut as a piano wire. His jaw was locked and barely moved when he said, “I didn’t need you to defend me.”
“Well, at least now I know why you’re angry and have barely spoken to me since we left the hospital.”
“Don’t come to my rescue, Kerra. With anybody, but especially not him. I didn’t need—”
“I heard you the first time.”
After leaving the hospital, he’d checked them into a motel—not the same one they’d stayed in before. She’d remained in the car but witnessed his transaction with the clerk through the dusty glass windows of the office. Trapper had paid with cash. The registration process was conducted with such efficiency and detachment by the attendant that, when Trapper returned to the car, she’d asked if he’d bribed the man to see nothing, hear nothing, remember nothing.
“Not necessary. He caters to a clientele desiring anonymity and privacy. For twenty minutes at a time.” That was followed by a snide “But you can relax. The room’s got two beds.”
Almost as soon as they had cleared the door to the room, he’d shed his coat, pulled off his boots, and flopped down onto the bed, all without acknowledging her. She’d gone into the bathroom, taking with her the bag she’d brought from her condo, having stuffed into it a couple changes of clothes, a t-shirt and pajama pants, and some toiletries. She’d cleaned her face, brushed her teeth, and swapped the tight jeans for the much roomier and more comfortable PJs.
Now, after their brief but antagonistic exchange, she pulled back the covers on the second bed. The sheets were dingy, but they smelled of laundry detergent, which was reassuring. She climbed in, rolled onto her side,
and looked across the narrow space separating the beds.
