She stared at him.
“What?”
“If you’re staying, I’m staying.”
“Look, Amy, there might be nothing to pursue here. You don’t have to bunk out here just because I am. You’re going to want to check on John—”
“His kids are there. I’m good. If you’re staying, I am, too.”
Ryan was out of the car, awaiting his orders from Hunter.
Amy was stubborn; that was clear. She wasn’t moving, and he didn’t have the right to move her.
“All right,” he said simply. “May I have the sketch? I sent a picture, but I’d like the drawing to get to Carver so he can really study and compare it.”
“I may need the notebook,” she said. She tore out the sketch and handed it to Ryan. Hunter explained to the other agent that they had more to do, and Ryan could go home—but get the sketch to Carver first thing in the morning. Amy thanked him again for the ride.
“Special Agent Larson, my pleasure,” he told her. He looked around. “I’m a born Floridian—Broward County. And I’ve never been out here before. It’s an eye-opener.”
“Glad to bring you something new. We may be calling you out again,” Hunter told him.
“I’ve been told to obey your every command, so you just say when,” Ryan told them. Then he keyed the ignition, waved to them and backed out of the parking space.
“Do you think it matters? A phone pic or the real thing?” Amy asked Hunter as they watched Ryan leave.
“I don’t know. But Ryan is available and wants to work. And I’m starting to think we need to get that image around to all local law enforcement.”
“Just because a woman is shy and nervous doesn’t mean she’s part of a cult.”
He looked at her. “And it might well mean she’s trying to get out of a cult. I know that you go on your gut feelings sometimes—all cops do. And on this...well, the behavior pattern fits. Go with me on this, will you?”
Amy nodded. “Okay. We don’t have anything else.”
“I just thought of something,” Hunter said. “You probably haven’t eaten all day.”
She laughed softly. “Not true. Microwave sandwich for breakfast.”
“I think you need to see the diner. After we get rooms.”
“It’s a plan.”
* * *
Amy knew Hunter hadn’t thought the little motel could be full, and it wasn’t. And it was much as he had thought it would be—established in 1930, probably enjoyed a heyday in the 1950s and, now, clean but very outdated.
The man at the counter was pleasant.
“One room?” he asked.
“Two,” Hunter told him. The man arched a brow. “I’m traveling with my sister,” Hunter said lightly.
Amy tried not to frown. The man gave them two old-fashioned keys with plastic tags bearing the motel logo dangling from them.
“Sister, eh?”
He shook his head and told the man, “We’re both law enforcement.”
“You’ll be about that murder,” the man at the check-in desk said sagely. He was middle-aged, with a pleasant face and mostly gray hair that fell nearly to his shoulders.
“Yes,” Hunter told him.
“Damnedest thing! Can’t believe it. Why, I think we had one murder out here years and years ago—in the 1970s. Some guy got mad at his wife’s driving, pulled a gun from his glove compartment and shot her. They careened into a canal—and he quickly paid the price. If he thought her driving was bad when she was living...well, he should have figured shooting her wasn’t going to help it any!”
Amy smiled. “Have you had any strangers through here lately?” she asked.
He smiled back, a fatherly smile. But his words were dry when he told her, “Honey, this is a motel. Everyone who stays the night is usually a stranger. Have I seen any stranger than normal strangers? Well, I don’t think so. Folks just check in here when there’s been a few bad accidents on the highway. When the turnpike and I-95 get bottled up, this road still goes north and south. Oh, and some like the back roads and might be heading for the dude ranch on up before you get to Orlando. Families, usually, with kids who still like things you do outside and not just video games.”
Hunter drew out his phone and showed the man the picture of Amy’s sketch he had taken earlier.
“Have you possibly seen this young woman? Did she check in here?”
“I... No... Wait! Yes, she did start to check in here...maybe a week ago?”
“She started to check in?” Amy asked.
“She was really nervous-like. And I know we may look like something dredged out of the Dark Ages—my grandfather built and started this place—but I must have a credit card for a deposit. Some biker-musicians checked in here once with cash only, trashed a room and took off. Funny world we live in, huh, when plastic beats cash. But it does.”
“She didn’t want to give you a credit card?” Hunter asked him.
He shook his head. “She said she didn’t have one. I felt sorry for her—she was so nervous, like a lost little waif. I was going to let it go, but she ran out of here too fast. Is there a reason you’re looking for her? Do you think she did something wrong?”
“No, we’re just worried about her,” Amy said.
“Now, after what’s happened... Well, I’ll keep a lookout for her, and next time I see her, I’ll just make sure that she’s in and safe,” the man said.
“And call us,” Amy said.
He nodded. “And call you.”
“Thank you,” Hunter said, lifting his key. “I think we’ll just need the night. But—”
“Go day by day, and stay as long as you like,” the clerk told them.
They headed out of the office.
Hunter took in the building. “Remind you of anything?”
“The Bates Motel, right out of Psycho?” she guessed.
He grinned. “Yep. Except there’s no two-story Victorian mansion looming on a hill. That fellow—” he paused, looking at his key “—Mr. Martin Sanders of the Sanders Inn, must live in the ranch house just in back of the motel.”
“It’s hard to have a house on a hill in Florida,” Amy said lightly.
They looked down the line of the outdoor path that led to the ten connecting rooms. “Well, we’re next to each other if there is...anything.” He turned to look at her. “I don’t have any luggage to bring in, and neither do you. Do you want a minute in the room, or are you ready to just head to the diner?”