If she and Mike hadn’t had problems.
If she had not started up that perverted dance with Freddy Sykes.
If she had not looked out that window when Eric Wu was there.
If she had not opened the hide-a-key and called the police.
But right now, as she passed the playground, the dominoes were falling more in the present: If Mike had not woken up, if he had not insisted she take care of the children, if Perlmutter had not asked her about Jack Lawson, well, without all of that, Charlaine would not have been looking in Grace Lawson’s direction.
But Mike had insisted. He had reminded her that the children needed her. So here she was. Picking up Clay from school. And Perlmutter had indeed asked Charlaine if she knew Jack Lawson. So when Charlaine arrived at the schoolyard, it was natural, if not inevitable, that she would start scanning the grounds for the man’s wife.
That was how Charlaine came to be looking at Grace Lawson.
She had even been tempted to approach—hadn’t that been part of the reason she had agreed to pick up Clay in the first place?—but then she saw Grace pick up her cell phone and start talking into it. Charlaine decided to keep her distance.
“Hi, Charlaine.”
A woman, a popular yappy mom who had never deigned to give Charlaine the time before, now stood before her with a look of feigned concern. The newspaper had not mentioned Mike’s name, just that there was a shooting, but small towns and gossip and all that.
“I heard about Mike. Is he okay?”
“Fine.”
“What happened?”
Another woman sidled up to her right. Two others began to mosey over. Then two more. They came from every direction now, these approaching mothers, getting in her way, almost blocking Charlaine’s view.
Almost.
For a moment Charlaine could not move. She stood frozen, watching as he approached Grace Lawson.
He had changed his appearance. He wore glasses now. His hair wasn’t blond anymore. But there was no doubt. It was the same man.
It was Eric Wu.
From more than a hundred feet away Charlaine felt the shiver when Wu put his hand on Grace Lawson’s shoulder. She saw him bend down and whisper something into her ear.
And then she saw Grace Lawson’s whole body go rigid.
• • •
Grace wondered about the Asian man walking toward her.
She figured that he would just walk by her. He was too young to be a parent. Grace knew most of the teachers. He wasn’t one of them. He was probably a new student teacher. That was probably it. She really did not give him much thought. Her mind was concerned with other things.
She had packed enough clothes for a few days anyway. Grace had a cousin who lived near Penn State, smack in the middle of Pennsylvania. Maybe she would drive out there. Grace had not called ahead to see. She did not want to leave any trail.
After throwing clothes in the suitcases, she had closed the door to her bedroom. She took out the small gun Cram had given her and set it on the bed. For a long time she just stared at it. She had always been fervently anti-gun. Like most rational people she was scared of what a weapon like this could do lying around the house. But Cram had put it succinctly yesterday: Hadn’t her children been threatened?
The trump card.
Grace wrapped the nylon ankle holster around her good leg. It felt itchy and uncomfortable. She changed into jeans with a small flare at the bottom. The gun was covered now, but there was some room down there. There was still a small bulge in the area, but no more so than if she were wearing a boot.
She grabbed the Bob Dodd file from his office at the New Hampshire Post and drove to the school. She had a few minutes now, so she stayed in the car and started going through it. Grace had no idea what she expected to find. There were plenty of desk knickknacks—a small American flag, a Ziggy coffee mug, a return address stamper, a small Lucite paperweight. There were pens, pencils, erasers, paperclips, whiteout, thumbtacks, Post-it notes, staples.
Grace wanted to skip past that stuff and dive into the files, but the pickings were slim. Dodd must have done all his work on a computer. She found a few diskettes, all unmarked. Maybe there would be a clue on one of those. She’d check when she got access to a computer.
As for paperwork, all she found was press clippings. Articles written by Bob Dodd. Grace skimmed through them. Cora had been right. His stories were mostly small-time exposés. People would write in with a complaint. Bob Dodd would investigate. Hardly the sort of stuff that gets you killed, but who knows? The little things have a way of rippling.
She was just about to give up—had given up really—when she located the desk photo in the bottom. The frame was facedown. More out of curiosity than anything else she flipped the frame over and took a look. The photograph was a classic vacation shot. Bob Dodd and his wife Jillian stood on a beach, both smiling with dazzling white teeth, both wearing Hawaiian shirts. Jillian had red hair. Her eyes were widely spaced apart. Grace suddenly understood Bob Dodd’s involvement. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a reporter.
His wife, Jillian Dodd, was Sheila Lambert.
Grace closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she carefully put everything back in the package. She stuck it in the backseat and slipped out of the car. She needed time to think and put it together.
The four members of Allaw—it all came back to them. Sheila Lambert, Grace now knew, had stayed in the country. She had changed her identity and gotten married. Jack had taken off for a small village in France. Shane Alworth was either dead or in parts unknown—maybe, as his mother suggested, helping the poor in Mexico. Geri Duncan had been murdered.
Grace checked her watch. The bell would ring in a few minutes. She felt the buzz of her cell phone on her belt. “Hello?”
“Ms. Lawson, this is Captain Perlmutter.”
“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?”
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“I’m picking up my children at school right now.”
“Would you like me to come by your house? We can meet there.”
“They’ll be out in two more minutes. I’ll swing by the station.” A sense of relief rushed over her. This half-baked idea of running off to Pennsylvania—that might be too much. Maybe Perlmutter knew something. Maybe, with all she now knew about that picture, he would finally believe her. “Will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine. I’ll be here waiting.”
The very moment Grace snapped the receiver closed, she felt a hand touch down on her shoulder. She turned. The hand belonged to the young Asian man. He bent his head toward her ear.