Huntington’s phony lines? Nonetheless, she felt it now. Either it was real, or she had been duped yet again by a convincing criminal.
For two nights in a row she had slept poorly, and it required a cold shower and plenty of black coffee to get herself kick-started and chase the cobwebs fromher mind. Often she met her family at church on Sunday, then went home with them afterward for breakfast. But this morning she made a beeline to the TV set. The station in Helena featured an “Early Bird Advisory” at seven and eight o’clock, state news, local weather, and sports.
Remote in hand, she plumped down on a corner sofa cluttered with throw pillows her mother had made for her, thick with satin stitch and French knots. She wondered if the Loudon story would lead the news again. Instead, the newscaster—an info-babe with sculpted blond hair—droned on and on about a spectacular twenty-two car pile-up on the interstate near Ironwood.
Constance tuned out the quick-paced images of twisted metal and overturned vehicles. Impatience made her antsy, so she immediately stood up again and began watering her plants, one eye on the TV screen.
Her home was a tidy little two-bedroom of vine-covered brick, nothing elegant but comfortable and efficient. It was actually the yard sprawling all around it that had sold her on the place—a yard that was also home to the most magnificent white-birch trees in Mystery Valley. She had plenty of privacy, her nearest neighbor a quarter-mile away. Yet downtown Mystery was only a ten-minute drive.
She was tilting the water can over a Boston fern in a macramé hanger when the newscaster’s voice suddenly riveted her attention.
“—latest on the widening manhunt for Quinn Loudon, the Assistant U.S. Attorney who escaped from authorities in Kalispell on Friday in a hail of bullets.”
A picture of Loudon filled the screen for a fewseconds. Constance watched, nervously chewing on her lower lip, while the story cut to a press-conference segment filmed late yesterday. A federal prosecutor identified as Dolph Merriday, the same spokesman she recalled from the radio report on Friday, was speaking into a clutter of microphones. The podium featured the seal of the U.S. Justice Department.
“We now have ample evidence that Loudon is an incorrigible criminal. Even as I speak, this fugitive’s probably out robbing poorboxes somewhere to finance his getaway.”
“But Mr. Merriday,” a reporter spoke up, “today I interviewed Quinn Loudon’s legal counsel, Lance Pollard. What about Loudon’s claim that Sheriff Cody Anders’s unexplained disappearance is linked to the investigation, and that he and Loudon overheard a bribe between two key legal players in Montana road construction?”
Constance frowned at the sarcastic twist of Merriday’s mouth.
“Yes,” he replied, “I’ve heard that claim, too. Perhaps this supposed ‘bribe’ was in fact what the paranormal experts call a clairvoyant experience?” he suggested with obvious scorn. “Or far more likely, it’s an obvious and pathetic attempt to point the finger of blame elsewhere.”
The prosecutor wore a blue suit, no doubt chosen, she told herself, to accent his silver hair and project an aura of unassailable authority. And no doubt he’d succeeded.
But something about Merriday’s remarks—on TV and radio—niggled at her. She couldn’t understand this great effort to spin the story so it always emphasized Quinn Loudon’s supposed criminal nature,rather than his alleged crimes. She realized, of course, that all lawyers attacked the moral character of their adversaries. But they did it in the courtroom, usually, not over the airwaves.
It was almost as if they wanted to convict him through the media as soon as possible. Perhaps, an inner voice suggested, that makes it much easier to quell the concern if Quinn Loudon doesn’t turn up alive. Just one more hardened criminal who “got his.”
The info-babe donned a playful smile