“Notice what kind of car they drove, Andy?” Nick asked.
“Yep. Gave ’em gas. They was drivin’ a Chevrolet. Looked to be a ’56 or a ’57; black, it was. Blacker’n th’ inside of a coal bin, with th’ shiniest chrome y’ever saw.”
“Sounds like them,” Nick told him, enlarging the lie. “One of them short and the other medium?”
“Not exactly. The one did all the talkin’ had a funny accent. Anyways, he was about six feet, three or four, and heavy. Goodlookin’, with blond [p30] hair. The other guy was about your build, with sandy hair. Never talked, that guy.”
“They’re the ones,” Nick lied and shook a cigarette from a half empty pack. “Thanks for not giving me away.”
Andy nodded, lapsing into silence, while Nick concentrated on coming home to a strange woman, and the two men who had been asking after him. For some reason, he got the feeling that Beth Danson was his wife and he accepted it that way. She couldn’t be his sister ... besides, a man his age would be married, in all likelihood. He wondered vaguely how she would welcome him, but cast the thought aside. He’d know soon enough.
As they approached Everett, in the gathering twilight, Andy turned to him.
“Where d’ye want off, son?”
“Weisman Drive. Know it?”
“Yep. We’re almost there. Suburban area, just north of town. Y’got friends there?”