I shook my head.  "Nothing.  What do we do—"

"Everything okay here, Muriel?"  He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat:  he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.

"Trevor," said Muriel, shoving the poster at him.  "Mr. Sieber here has found Denise Harker."

"Hold on a second," I said.  "I didn't—"

"Well, I'll be damned," said Trevor.  Then:  "'Scuse the language, ladies."—this said with a nod toward Denise.  "Is she what you needed to see me about, sir?"  This said while clamping a congratulatory hand (so big I could have sat in it) on my shoulder.

"Yes," I managed to get out, offering the poster to him.  They were caught up in the excitement, and my trying to explain what had brought us all to this point suddenly seemed ridiculous; I'd have plenty of opportunity to explain everything to the police.

Trevor folded up the poster and tucked it into his pocket, then knelt down next to Denise.  "Denise, we've got to call an awful lot of people about you—"

"I wanna go home."

"Of course you, do," said Muriel, stroking Denise's hair.  "And that's just where you're gonna be by bedtime tonight."

Denise sucked in a sob and wiped her eyes.  "Promise?"

"I swear it, hon.  I swear it."

Denise gave a little shudder, then pulled her glass of orange juice closer and took a few sips.  The way she craned her neck to reach the straw broke my heart.

"Do you want to come with me?" asked Trevor.

Denise shrugged, glancing around with wide, panicked eyes.  A small crowd was gathering around the booth, people nearby having either overheard or figured out for themselves what was going on, and everyone wanted to see if it was true.

"Okay," said Trevor, turning around and raising his arms to hold people back.  "Go back to your seats, please, give 'em some room.  There's nothing to see here."  He looked over his should at me:  "Did I just actually say—?"

"Yes."

He shook his head.  "My wife's right, I watch too many cop shows."  He spent the next minute or so assuring people that everything was all right, that Denise was fine but they were making her nervous, cha-cha-cha.  When things calmed down, he bent over and whispered, "I think maybe we ought to move to someplace a bit more private."

"Denise can come in back," said Muriel.  "My apartments just behind the restaurant and she won't be bothered there.  I'll wait with her."  Then, to me:  "I'd offer to hide you there, too, but it's kinda small."

"That's okay.  I'll just go on back to my room."

"Well, hell," said Trevor, nodding toward the entrance.  "That didn't take long."

"Watch your language," snapped Muriel.

"Sorry."

Denise almost giggled at that.  Almost.

A reporter and camera operator were making their way into the restaurant.  I cursed under my breath; it hadn't even been ten minutes yet—God bless the age of cellular communication.  Denise was rattled enough without someone sticking a microphone and camera in her face.

"Take her back with you, Muriel," I said.  "I'll talk to them."

"The hel—heck you will," said Trevor.  "The State Police'll be here soon enough, and they won't be too chipper if you tell your story to the news people before talking to them."

I glanced at my food with regret.  Looked like it would have been really tasty.

"Go," said Muriel, tapping my wrist.  "I'll have one of the girls box it up and bring it over to you."

Trevor took hold of my arm and guided me to my feet.  "There's a delivery door in the back, you can go through there."  He dragged me toward it.  I barely had a chance to turn my head and see Muriel quickly usher Denise behind the counter and through the kitchen's swinging doors.  Denise looked at me and mouthed "I'm sorry," once again.

What was she apologizing for?

"Here, you go," said Trevor, pushing open the delivery door.  "Turn left for the motel.  I'll let Edna know that you aren't to be bothered until the cops talk to you."

"Except for my dinner."

"Right, except for your dinner.  Got it."

"Thanks for everything."

"I ought to be thanking you—and not just for finding that little girl.  This is the most excitement I've ever had on this shift.  I actually feel like I'm making a difference today, you know?  How often does a guy get to say that?"

I smiled and nodded my head as the reporter called out and Trevor closed the door between us.

I was just passing the motel office when Edna and her husband came out.

Edna, cigarette ash holding steady (I wondered if it was the same smoke from earlier), took my hand and said, "Is it true?  Did you find that little girl who got took from here?"

I didn't feel like launching into the whole explanation, so I nodded my head.

"Oh, that's wonderful!"  She threw down her cigarette, cupped my face in her hands, and gave me a grandmotherly kiss.

"Edna," said her husband.  "You're embarrassing the boy."

"Don't get your gruns knotted up the crack, Earl."  She still hadn't let go of my face.  "Oh, Mark, you don't know how sick we all felt after she disappeared.  Muriel, she cried for weeks over it."

"Edna," said Earl.  "The boy doesn't want to hear about your sister's problems."

So I was right, they were related.  Chalk one up for my side.

Edna let go of me, then Earl stepped up and squeezed both my shoulders.  "You done good, son.  You done good."

"Thanks," I said, trying not to wince from his car-crusher grip.  We stood there looking at each for a few more moments, until Earl saw another news van pull into the parking lot.  "You'd best get on to your room.  We'll make sure your dinner gets to you."

I was just walking away when Edna called:  "I almost forgot—your wife phoned a little bit ago.  She left a message; said she'd try back."

I double-timed it back to the room.  The red message indicator light on the phone was blinking.  The phone rang as I was reaching for the receiver.

"Are you naked, baby?" I said as I picked it up.

"No, but now I'm gonna think things," said Cletus.  "I hope to Christ you were expecting this to be someone else."

"Sorry.  Edna said my wife called and I thought you might be her calling back."

"That's a relief.  Listen, I gotta ask you a kind of personal question."

I figured he'd already heard about Denise and was expecting him to quiz me on that, but instead he said:  "Does your brother-in-law like you?"

"Not really.  Why?"

"Remember when I asked you about the 'Check Engine' light?  I been poking around in that heap and found out a couple of things you need to know.  Besides the master cylinder leaking, the coolant fan is shot—I don't know how many guys looked at this car before me, but there's no good goddamn excuse for them not to have caught this."

"You're losing me, Cletus; remember, I don't speak your language."

"Your brother-in-law knew you were pulling off his lot in a bad and probably dangerous car.  That engine was guaranteed to overheat on you, but that's not the thing I called to tell you about.  I called to tell you that the bulb—you paying attention here?  This's important—the goddamned bulb in the 'Check Engine' light was removed.  You got me, Mark?  Good old Perry had one of his mechanics get inside the panel and pull the bulb so that there'd be no way you could tell the engine was overheating."