No. She would still like him and have tremendous respect for him.
And possibly want him every time he walked into a room.
Maybe that part would be dealt with easily; maybe she’d never see him again.
For now, they had their work. And from now on, she determined, they could have their nights together.
Even if that night for them was short.
“Amy?” Hunter murmured.
“Thank you, nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins. I love the inn—you’ve made it absolutely charming,” Amy told him.
Perkins seemed to glow along with his smile. “Thank you!”
They headed out.
“We’re going to the bar you’ve talked about?” Amy asked.
“Yep.” Hunter cast a glance her way as he turned the key in the ignition. “And let’s see that forewarned is forearmed—there are indeed a lot of guns down there. Let’s be way above wary, okay?”
“Absolutely,” Amy promised.
“The place is called Bikes and Brews,” Hunter said. “They do get bikers. They get clients from Maclamara, of course, sometimes people from Ocala, Micanopy and even Gainesville.”
“You’ve been in there already?”
“Yes, but just as a customer. I didn’t announce myself. I wanted to take a look at the place and the clientele.”
“Of course. That’s why we’re dressed as we are?”
He’d asked that morning that she wear something casual. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers; she had opted to do the same, but her shirt had a slight V at the neck instead of being flush to her throat. She hated clothing that came right to her throat, but her T-shirt was still quite a respectable one, the design of it being that of a popular cartoon character.
“That’s the reason,” he said.
“You think someone might approach us?”
“Maybe not, but it’s possible. Oh, by the way, you don’t believe in any kind of gun control. And you think we need major reform on most of our policies as a nation.”
“I do?”
“Today you do.” He glanced her way. “What Pete was saying is this—Micanopy residents may manage to get along and respect one another, despite differing beliefs. But when you get down to Maclamara, you’re entering a den of white supremacists.”
“Ah,” Amy muttered. “Understood.”
“Let’s get all our calls made. You get in touch with John, I’ll work my end.”
She pulled her phone out and called John. He was home. His son, Johnny Jr., was with him for a few days. Then Brenda would be back.
He was behaving, being an excellent patient, he promised her.
Amy told him about the shack—though he knew about it because he’d already read Aidan Cypress’s reports. She told him about their meeting with Casey and explained why they feared Billie had been taken north somewhere—possibly to Maclamara—and they were on their way there now. She also shared what he didn’t know—Hunter was convinced he recognized the brands on the dead women, that were double Ps, and the situation might relate back to someone who had been involved with a cult a quarter of a century ago.
John thanked her for the call, and she hung up.
“John’s doing okay?” Hunter asked.
“He sounds as if he’s being a good patient and not even driving those around him crazy.”
“That’s a relief. John is a good agent for Florida—and a good man.”
“He is. And a good partner. Oh, and you’re a great partner.”
He grinned.
“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t like me at first.”
“No, I didn’t know you. I just thought you were...young.”
“Young doesn’t mean bad,” she said.
He was smiling as he looked ahead at the winding road. The country they traveled now was rich with tall oaks, and all those oaks dripped moss. It was a beautiful drive, though the road hadn’t been repaved in years.
“Young can mean all kinds of good,” he told her. “Not far now...we should be there in about five minutes.”
“Five minutes? Shoot. I hope you have time to tell me why you think this is related, why you think you know so much about the People’s Paradise.”
He looked over at her, slowing the car, then looking at the road again.
“Because I lived at the commune as a kid. I was a member of People’s Paradise.”
16
Hunter had thought he owed it to Amy to tell her about his past. It just wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.
He had studied so much at college, and he had spent time speaking with his parents, of course.
They were good, normal people.
So how had they gotten mixed up in it all?
All that he had learned about behavioral sciences still left him at a loss. He tried to understand; on the one hand, he did. He knew the logic and he knew there was usually a progression in “brainwashing” an individual. It was still harder than he thought to go back.
He pulled into a parking space on the dirt-and-pebbled drive in front of the biker bar.
He turned in his seat and looked at Amy. “When I was six years old, my parents were instrumental in bringing down the leader of People’s Paradise. But they were members when I was a small child, and while I didn’t understand everything going on, I knew they revered Brother William, and then they had come to fear him. When we got out, we were put into the witness protection program. My parents are still in it and will be until they die. The feds got most of the people involved in the higher echelon, but there are a few of his acolytes, if you will, or enforcers, who were never found. The assumption was that they fled to Mexico.”
“Oh,” Amy said.
“We’ll talk about it more later, if you want. For now, we should go listen and observe in the bar.”
They got out of the car; Hunter’s phone rang.
Caller ID showed him it was his boss, and he paused. “It’s Garza. I have to take this.”
“That’s fine. I’ll head on in,” Amy said.
Hunter watched her go. Inwardly, he shook his head—at himself. He was really falling into frightening territory; he was enchanted with the sway of her hips as she walked. Her jeans seemed to emphasize the fact that she had long, long legs.
“Hunter?”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything you’ve discovered?”