He was Erasmus Jones.
The boy came into her vision. It was Martin.
They weren't in Ohio. They were both right there, in her kitchen.
34
HI, MARTY. HOW'S TRICKS?"
Dillon would miss her in another forty minutes, maybe thirty-five minutes. He'd be worried. It would be an unspecified worry, but worry he would. He might wait another five minutes, then he'd come here. She looked from father to son. She smiled, praying that only she realized it was a smile filled with unspoken terror. "Hey, tricks is just fine, Marlin. How long have you and your dad been squatters in my house?"
Erasmus Jones answered as he hunkered down to be at her eye level. "Three days now. That's how long it took us to get from Boston to here. We had to be real careful, you know?"
"I would imagine so. Lucky I wasn't here."
"Oh no," Marlin said. "I wanted you to be here. I wanted you, Marty, but you'd gone. Were you with that cop? Savich is his name, right? You sleeping with him?" He said to his father, "He's a big fella, real big, lots of muscles, and he fights mean."
"I bet he ain't as mean as your mama were," Erasmus said and poked the tip of the knife into the sole of Lacey's shoe. It was so sharp that it sliced through the sole and nicked her foot. She winced, but kept quiet.
"Mama was a bitch, Pa. I remember her. She was a bitch, always cussing and back-talking you, always had a bottle in her hand, swigging it even while she was hitting me in the face."
"Yep, Lucile were a mean one. She's dead now, did I tell you that?"
Another rabbit hole, Lacey thought. Forty minutes, max.
Dillon would come over here in no more than forty minutes now. Then what? He wouldn't be expecting trouble; there was no reason for him to. Erasmus and Marlin were supposed to be in Ohio. So he'd think she just needed help moving stuff. He'd be vulnerable. She wouldn't let them hurt him. No, she had her Lady Colt. She'd do something. She wouldn't, couldn't, let anything happen to Dillon.
"Ma's dead?" Marlin asked as he sat down on one of Lacey's kitchen chairs.
"Yeah."
His father was telling him this now?
Marlin said, "No, you didn't tell me that, Pa. What happened?"
"Nothin' much. I just carved her up like that Thanksgiving turkey she didn't make me."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then. She deserved it. She never was a good wife or mother."
"Yeah, she was just like all those women who walked the walk for you, Marlin. That maze of yours, I sure do like that. You got that from that game we used to play in the desert."
"Yes, Pa."
"Well, we got this gal here now. Let's off her and then get out of here. There's no more food anyways."
"No," Marlin said, and his voice was suddenly different-strong and determined, not like the deferential tone he'd used with his father since he'd come in. "Marty's going to walk the walk. She's got to be punished. She shot me in the belly. It hurt real bad. It still hurts. I got this ugly scar that's all puckered and red. It's her turn now."
Erasmus said, "I want to just kill her here, now. It ain't smart to hang around here."
"I know. I got my maze all fixed up for her. She'll like it. She already knows the drill. Only this time when she hits the center, she'll have a big surprise."
Thirty minutes, no more.
"You fix up another warehouse, Marlin?"
"Hey, Marty, I fixed it up real good. You'll like it. I had lots of time so it's really prime."
"Why would I walk the walk when you get me there, Marlin I know you'll be at the center waiting to kill me. I'd be a fool to go into the maze."
"Well, you see, Marty, you'll do anything I ask you to. I got myself a little leverage here." Dillon. No, not Dillon. Who?
"Let me go get my little sweet chops," Erasmus said and rose slowly. He stretched that skinny body of his. His legs were slightly bowed. He was wearing cowboy boots. Without boots he'd be no more than five foot six inches. "You keep a good eye on her, boy. She's tricky. Look at her eyes-lots of tricks buried in there. I bet you the FBI taught her all sorts of things to do to a man."
Marlin calmly pulled a .44 Magnum out of his belt. "I like this better than your FBI gun, Marty, although I'll take it with me, as a souvenir. This baby will blow a foot-wide hole out of your back if I shoot you in the chest. I don't think you would survive that, Marty." He assumed a serious pose, rubbing his chin with his hand. "You're real tough, but you couldn't live through this, could you?"