Page 21 of Safeguarding the Witness

“Like what? A payoff?” Mollie hated the idea that her friend could be bribed but had to admit that Spence was correct. She ought to be suspicious of everyone and everything, even if it meant stepping back and letting him do his interrogation. “I can’t imagine that Erin would sell me out, but I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

“Rossi asked me to pass on a message from Erin,” he said. “She wants you to know that she brought the teal blue dress with lace sleeves that you like. You can wear it at the memorial.”

“But it’s really old. I don’t even know if it fits anymore.”

“Got a better idea?”

Beggars can’t be choosers. After all, teal was one of her favorite colors. She remembered the stalker in Salt Lake City who sent her a pair of teal shoes and a matching purse. She almost regretted throwing them away.

Spence’s route continued south, passing through neighborhoods that ranged from mansion-sized manors overlooking the riverside to clustered groups of smaller homes and businesses until he crossed a bridge near Independence and drove into forested land.

Any attempt to figure out their final destination would be futile. The arching branches and moss-covered trunks seemed familiar, but Mollie couldn’t say for sure where in the Willamette Valley they were. Getting close to Cloverdell? She was so ready.

“Tell me about Erin,” he said. “What was she like in high school?”

The first thing that popped into her mind was Erin’s glorious smile. “She had a great sense of humor and was always laughing. People liked to be around her. She was a cheerleader. A great dancer. The life of the party.”

“A good friend,” he said.

“And a matchmaker. Always fixing me up with dates.” Mollie recalled several of those dates as disasters. “There was this one guy who stole a skeleton from the biology department on Halloween and went around scaring little kids who were trick-or-treating. Sounds funny, but it was horrible and mean. Then, there were a couple of drunks. And a jerk who insisted on taking me skinny-dipping.”

“I heard about the skeleton thing. Didn’t the guy get arrested?”

“Yep.” She shook her head as she tried to balance the good dates against the bad. Far more ranked high on the bummer scale. “I guess Erin has really bad taste in men.”

“We could have figured that from her ex-husband, Smitty.”

“Bad boys.” Mollie shuddered. She’d never found that type of man to be attractive in the least. “Erin just kept hooking up with these losers and trying to reform them, change them into responsible human beings.”

“Any chance she knew Julio Flores?”

“Yes, she did.”

The memory still stung. After Madison had been abducted by the Peligro Cartel, she sent a text to Erin with an attached photo of her and Julio in bathing suits on a tropical beach. They looked spectacular together. “My sister and Erin both had a thing for dangerous men. Erin tried to convince me that Madison was better off living with a criminal than staying with WITSEC.”

“Did Erin ever mention contacting anyone in the Peligro Cartel?”

“Never.” But Erin wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell Mollie about a clandestine connection with the thugs who were responsible for Madison’s death. Not to mention that when Mollie went into WITSEC to care for Dad, her life had been shredded. Her plans and dreams…destroyed. “Why are you asking about this? Julio can’t be the person who’s after me. He’s dead.”

Unless he somehow escaped the explosion and staged his own death. Which would mean her sister was still alive. Mollie wanted so much to believe that version of the truth. Fumbling in her pocket, she grasped the envelope with the familiar handwriting. Maybe she’d find the answer in this note. Maybe she should open it and tell Spence. Not yet. She had to read it first, and then she’d make that decision.

* * *

The safe house nestled in the forest was larger than Mollie expected. Spence made it sound like a cozy nest, but this residence looked more like a hunting lodge. The two-story log cabin with dark green shutters had a long, wide porch that stretched all the way across the front. About twenty feet from the cabin was a plain, brown four-car garage with a flat second floor that was probably an apartment. Just beyond the cabin, a creek meandered through the trees.

Leaving the Escalade parked in a grove of Douglas fir, they entered the house through a side door that opened into the kitchen. The aroma of fresh-baked bread greeted them. The baker—a woman wearing a pink apron over her camos and holster—introduced herself as Liz Quintana, Spence’s assistant, and asked if they wanted something to drink.

Mollie took a bottle of water and followed Spence through the dining room and front room to the center staircase. The interior of the safe house heightened her impression of a hunting lodge with knotty pine walls and a huge moss rock fireplace. Though the curtains were drawn, light from floor lamps showed a number of paintings instead of the typical taxidermy display of animal heads—elk, moose and bear. A three-foot-by-five-foot acrylic landscape of Mount Saint Helens caught her attention. She took a closer look at the dreamlike swirls that held secret images of wildlife and indigenous people. “This is by Selma Firebird. I’d recognize her style anywhere.”

“Another of her works is upstairs in your bedroom.”

Memories of her life before WITSEC tumbled into her mind. In college, Mollie had studied art history to broaden her base of knowledge. Through her father, she had connections and mentors who helped her find a pathway into the world of contemporary artists after she graduated. Selma Firebird, who lived in Yachats on the coast, had worked with Mollie to set up her first curated art show in Salem at a gallery owned by her great-aunt Irma.

“I’ve been away too long.” She allowed her gaze to sink into the painting, feeling the colors and imagining their reality. “Everywhere we lived in WITSEC locations, I made a point of visiting the museums and galleries. But Dad and I both needed to stay detached from the art community. Because of his books with a photo of his face on the back, he’s well-known, easily identified. Anybody looking for him or me would check into the art scene.”

“He mentioned that you might need an artsy fix,” Spence said. “Suggested that the best way to make you feel at home in the safe house was to take down the animal heads and find a couple of paintings you’d appreciate.”

“You did this for me?”