“What?”

“Sit tight,” he said.

“And wait for it to blow over.”

“Or burn itself out, or something. It shouldn’t take too long. A few days and either they catch the guy or they know he got away from them, and people stop giving a rat’s ass about what’s happening in Des Moines.”

“And then you can come home.”

“I could even do the job, as far as that goes. Or not. Right now it wouldn’t bother me to give the money back.”

“For perhaps the first time in my life,” Dot said, “I feel that way myself. Still, all things being equal—”

“Whatever that means.”

“I’ve often wondered myself. It does get a sentence started, though. All things being equal, I’d just as soon keep the money. And it’s the last job.”

“That’s what we said,” he said, “about the job before this one.”

“I know.”

“But then this one came along.”

“It was a special situation.”

“I know.”

“You know, if it really bothered you, you should have said something.”

“It didn’t really bother me until a few minutes ago,” he said, “when the radio switched from ‘The Girl with Emphysema’ to ‘This Just In.’”

“Ipanema.”

“Huh?”

“‘The Girl from Ipanema,’ Keller.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You said ‘The Girl with Emphysema.’”

“Are you sure?”

“Never mind.”

“Because why would I say that?”

“Never mind, for God’s sake.”

“It just doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

“Call it a slip of the ear, Keller, if that makes you happy. We’re both a little rattled, and who can blame us? Go back to your room and wait this out.”

“I will.”

“And if anything comes up—”

“I’ll let you know,” he said.

He closed the phone. He was sitting behind the wheel of the rented Nissan, parked at the first strip mall he’d come to since leaving McCue’s place.