Dottie turned left down the small street where she lived, and abruptly Mary wondered what Dottie was doing walking around alone. Every woman in town should know better. Surely she had enough sense to be cautious.
Mary drove slowly up the street. She craned her neck when she reached the street where Dottie had turned and saw the woman hurrying up the steps of her house. Her eyes fell on the faded sign: Bay Road.
Bay Road was where Wolf thought the rapist had dodged into a house. It made sense that he wouldn't have entered a house that wasn't his home, unless he was a close friend who came and went just like a family member. That was possible, but even a very close friend would give a yell before just walking into someone else's house, and Wolf would have heard that.
Dottie was certainly acting odd. She'd looked as if she'd been stung by a bee when Mary had asked about her son… Bobby, that was his name. Mary was pleased that she'd remembered.
Bobby. Bobby wasn't "right." He did things in a skewed way. He was unable to apply logic to the simplest of chores, unable to plan a practical course of action.
Mary broke out in a sweat and had to stop the car. She'd only seen him once, but she could picture him in her mind: big, a little soft-looking, with sandy hair and a fair complexion. A fair, freckled complexion.
Was it Bobby? The one person in town who wasn't totally responsible for himself? The one person no one would ever suspect? Except his mother. She had to tell Wolf.
As soon as the thought formed, she dismissed it. She couldn't tell Wolf, not yet, because she didn't want to put that burden on him. His instincts would tell him to go after Bobby; his conscience would argue that Bobby wasn't a responsible person. Mary knew him well enough to know that, no matter which decision he made, he would always have regrets. Better for the responsibility to be hers than to push Wolf into such a position.
She'd call Clay. It was his job, after all. He'd be better able to deal with the situation.
Only a few seconds passed as her thoughts rushed through her mind. She was still sitting there staring at Dottie's house when Bobby came out on the porch. It took him a moment, but suddenly he noticed her car and looked straight at her. A distance of less than seventy-five yards separated them, still too far for her to read his expression, but she didn't need a close-up for sheer terror to spurt through her. She stomped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward, slinging gravel, the tires squealing.
It was only a short distance to the Hearst house. Mary ran to the front door and banged her fist on it. Her heart felt as if it would explode. That brief moment when she had been face-to-face with him was almost more than she could stand. God, she had to call Clay.
Mrs. Hearst opened the door a crack, then recognized Mary and swung it all the way open. "Miss Potter! Is something wrong?"
Mary realized that she must look wild. "Could I use your phone? It's an emergency."
"Why—of course." She stepped back, allowing Mary inside.
Pam appeared in the hallway. "Miss Potter?" She looked young and scared.
"The phone's in the kitchen."
Mary followed Mrs. Hearst and grabbed the receiver. "What's the number of the sheriffs department?"
Pam got a small telephone book from the countertop and began flipping through the pages. Too agitated to wait, Mary dialled the number for Information.
"Sheriff's department, please."
"What city?" the disembodied voice asked.
She drew a blank. For the life of her, she couldn't remember the name of the town.
"Here it is," Pam said.
Mary disconnected the call to Information, then dialled as Pam recited the number. The various computer clicks as the connection was made seemed to take forever.
"Sheriffs office."
"Deputy Armstrong, please. Clay Armstrong."
"One moment."
It was longer than one moment. Pam and her mother stood tensely, not knowing what was going on but reacting to her urgency. Both of them had dark circles under their eyes. It had been a bad night for the Hearst family.
"Sheriff's office," a different voice said.
"Clay?"
"You looking for Armstrong?"
"Yes. It's an emergency!" she insisted. "Well, I don't know where he is right now. You want to tell me what the trouble is—hey, Armstrong! Some lady wants you in a hurry." To Mary, he said, "He'll be right here."
A few seconds later Clay's voice said, "Armstrong."
"It's Mary. I'm in town."
"What the hell are you doing there?"
Her teeth were chattering. "It's Bobby. Bobby Lancaster. I saw him—"
"Hang up the phone!"
It was a scream, and she jumped, dropping the receiver, which dangled from the end of its cord. She flattened against the wall, for Bobby stood there, inside the kitchen, with a huge butcher knife in his hand. His face was twisted with both hate and fear.
"You told!" He sounded like an outraged child.
"Told—told what?"
"You told him! I heard you!"
Mrs. Hearst had shrunk back against the cabinets, her hand at her throat. Pam stood as if rooted in the middle of the floor, her face colourless, her eyes locked on the young man she'd known all her life. She could see the slight swelling of his lower lip.
Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he didn't know what to do next. His face was red, and he looked almost tearful.
Mary strove to steady her voice. "That's right, I told him. He's on his way now. You'd better run." Maybe that wasn't the best suggestion in the world, but more than anything she wanted to get him out of the Hearsts' house before he hurt someone. She desperately wanted him to run.