When She Was Bad

7

What to do, what to do, what to do? Pender’s initial instinct was to grab a phone and call 911-then he remembered what MacAlister had told him about Carson yesterday: dirty as can be, fingers in everything from meth to money laundering. And no doubt Mama Rose was up to both wrists in the same illicit pies. If he summoned help, the cops would be swarming all over the place in a matter of minutes-he pictured Mama Rose being led away in handcuffs.

But why, he asked himself, should that make a difference to him? So what if he’d grown fond of her? He’d been a lawman his entire adult life-he should have been jumping at the chance to help put her and what was left of her gang away. Besides, if he didn’t make the call, he’d be helping Maxwell escape, or at least extend his head start, which was already close to twelve hours and counting.

So why was he feeling so goddamn guilty, as if he were about to do something dishonorable? Which instinct should he turn his back on, the professional or the personal? Was it once a cop, always a cop, or did being retired give him some wiggle room, ethically speaking?

The answer, he already knew, was no, it didn’t. But having come to that conclusion, Pender found himself asking: Do I give a flying fuck? Then he realized he already knew the answer to that question as well.

Rather than use his own or one of the house phones, he knelt down next to MacAlister and went through his pockets-rigor mortis was just beginning to loosen its hold on the stiffened limbs-until he’d found Mick’s cell phone, which he used to dial the FBI tipline from memory.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Ulysses Maxwell left Shasta County around eleven o’clock last night driving a red, late-model Cadillac convertible with white upholstery and California plates. The owner’s name is MacAlister, first name Michael or Mick. He’s not with Maxwell though. The DeVries girl is with him, but she’s a hostage, not an accomplice-she seems to be in some sort of trance state.”

“Sir?” said the tipline operator. “Sir, don’t-” Pender pressed the End Call button.

“Good choice,” said Mama Rose. “For a second there, you had me worried.”

Pender looked up, saw her holding a handsome nine-millimeter Colt with a blue-steel barrel and a fine-grained hickory grip. His eyes went from the gun to the phone in his hand, then back. “Likewise,” he said.

“Are you going after him?”

In the past, Pender’s mind had always summoned up pictures of the victims to drive himself; now the first image that came to his mind was of himself, lying there helplessly while Maxwell trussed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. “Oh, yes.”

“Here, you’ll probably need this.” She turned the gun around and handed it to him butt-first. Their eyes met in ironic recognition of all they’d been through, and of the mutual, and extremely unlikely, bond of trust that had been formed; then Mama Rose looked away, embarrassed. “I’m going to drive Dennie to the hospital in her car. You can take the pickup in the driveway-the keys are on the bureau there. I have to warn you, though-when you’re done with it, don’t keep it or try to sell it. Just park it someplace and walk away.”

“I understand,” said Pender. “And thanks-for everything. But there’s one more problem.”

“What’s that?”

He jerked a thumb in MacAlister’s direction. “He had a wife, too.”