by Bill H Myers
The cool water from the bottle wouldn't hurt him, but he didn't like getting wet. So as soon as he saw the spray coming, he'd jump down and sulk off.
The spray definitely worked; it would get him off the counter, but neither of us felt good about it. I didn't like doing it and he didn't like getting wet.
He was still on the counter, so I grabbed the bottle and gave it a good shake to get his attention. He looked over at me, a sad expression in his eyes, but he didn't get off the counter. He just starred at me, flicking his tail back and forth.
It'd been a long trip for him, and he had to put up with the two strange women that had ridden with us. He was clearly stressed and didn't want to get sprayed. But he was up on the counter where we prepared our meals. His feet had been in his litter box and had touched his nightly deposits. Those same feet were up on the counter, leaving no telling what behind.
I shook the bottle again and was thinking about giving him a short spray when Abby came to his rescue. She got up off the couch, picked him up off the counter and started rubbing his head. She whispered, “Bob, the kitchen counter is off limits. You can go anywhere else, but not the kitchen counter. Understand?”
He didn't answer, but he did start purring. Maybe he understood what she was saying. Or maybe he just liked being held by a woman. Whatever the reason, he had avoided getting sprayed. He was off the counter and safe in her arms.
With Abby holding Bob, I figured it was a good time to run the slide out. It had lots of moving parts, and I didn't like the cat running free while it was moving. With him safely in her arms, I pushed the magic button that set the wall behind the couch in motion.
When it finally settled in its fully out position, Abby, with Bob still in her arms, took a seat on the couch. She seemed relaxed and in no hurry to check on Kat's motorhome. She patted the space beside her and said, “Have a seat.”
I shook my head. “I don't want to sit. I've been driving all day and had plenty of sit time. What I want to do is to find Kat. I'm going to start by checking out her motorhome. You coming?”
I reached for the door and waited for her answer. I expected a “Yes,” but that's not what I got.
Instead, she said, “No. We’re not going over there yet. It'll be better if we wait. Come sit by me and I'll tell you why.”
We'd driven over a thousand miles to reach Kat's motorhome, and I couldn't see any reason not to immediately go check it out. But Abby persisted. “Don't go over there. It'll be better if we wait a few minutes. Trust me.”
I was still standing by the door, tempted to go out and check Kat's RV on my own. But something about the way Abby had said to trust her gave me pause. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Maybe her 'gift' was telling her we should wait. Maybe that was it.
I decided not to push it. I walked away from the door and sat down on the couch beside her. She patted me on the knee and said, “Don't worry; we'll go over there in a few minutes. In the meantime, just relax.”
Yeah, right. Relax while sitting next to a woman who could read minds, see the future and come up with the winning numbers in a game of chance.
She probably knew what I was thinking. I was even more sure of that when she patted me on the knee again and said, “Relax. And, no, I can't read minds.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I had dozed off. The last thing I remembered was Abby telling me to relax. I didn't want to relax, but when she placed her hand on mine, calm had come over me, and I had gone to sleep.
The pop, pop sound of a small two-stroke engine had woken me. At first I thought it was a chainsaw in the distance, maybe someone cutting firewood. But the volume wasn't constant. It was getting louder. Whatever it was, it was coming our way, getting closer and closer.
I figured it was a motorbike. You see a lot of them in campgrounds. People with big RVs haul them around so they can get out and explore. Usually, they carry the newer and quieter bikes, the kind that won’t disturb other campers.
The one I was hearing was louder than it needed to be and would definitely disturb other campers. Just as I was about to get up and see if I could see it, Abby tapped me on the leg and said, “Go ahead, take a look.”
It was spooky how she seemed to know what I was thinking. No matter what it was, she knew. It was starting to get weird. But at that moment, it didn't matter; I was getting up anyway. I went to the window and looked out.
I was right about it being a motorbike. It looked to be an old Honda Trail 90, or a cheap imitation of one. Mustard yellow and leaving a long trail of blue smoke in its wake, it sounded like it was on its last legs.
I watched as the bike struggled to get up the hill leading into the campground, the trail of blue smoke thickening behind it. The rider, who was wearing a pair of oversized army surplus aviator goggles, a matching army surplus field jacket and dirt-covered camo pants, took the first loop into the campground and headed in our direction.
When he got to the trailer next to Kat's, he pulled in and parked. He got off the bike, unstrapped a black plastic egg crate filled with white rocks from the back and carried it to the trailer's front door.
Setting the crate down, he unlocked the door and went inside, leaving his collection of rocks on the deck.
From behind me, Abby asked, “That was him, right? The guy living in the trailer next to Kat.”
I nodded. “Could be. He had a key and went in like it was his place.”
She stood. “Good. That's what I was hoping for. I'm going to change clothes, and then we can go look in Kat's RV.”
She headed back to my bedroom where she kept her clothes.
The temps were in the eighties when we left Florida, cutoffs and T-shirt weather, but we'd driven almost a thousand miles north. Being late November, the fall weather had taken hold. Highs in the low sixties, lows in the forties. A lot cooler than Florida.
I figured the chill in the air was the reason she wanted to change clothes; to get into something warmer, maybe jeans and a sweater.
I was right about the jeans but wrong about the sweater. When she came up front, she was wearing an almost see through low-cut tank top, white, no bra, showing lots of skin.
I tried not to stare but failed miserably. She noticed and said, “You have a problem with the way I'm dressed?”
I shook my head. “No, not at all. In fact, I'm all for it. As long as you don't mind being cold, wear whatever you want.”
She smiled. “Thank you, I'm glad I have your approval. Now it's your turn. Go change.”
I was wearing the same thing I'd had on when we left Vicksburg earlier in the day; shorts and a lightweight shirt. Not ideal for the cooler temps in the mountains, but I was a man. I could handle it.
When I hesitated, she said, “Go change. Put on long pants and a sweatshirt. You'll thank me later.”
She was doing it again. Pretending to know the future. Pretending to know that I'd be cold if I didn't change.
Rather than argue, I went back to my bedroom. Her clothes were carefully hung in my closet. Mine had been folded into neat piles and stacked on the floor. Her doing. A pair of my jeans and a gray sweatshirt had been laid out on the bed. She had picked out what I was going to wear and somehow, she'd gotten it right. She found my favorite jeans, well-worn and comfortable, and same with the sweatshirt. Both were what I would have chosen if she hadn't picked them out for me.
I dropped my shorts, pulled on the jeans and grabbed the sweatshirt. I was pulling it over my head as I headed back up front where Abby was waiting for me.
She nodded her approval but didn't say anything about what I was wearing. She walked to the door and said, “Let's go.”
We went outside and over to Kat's RV. Hers, like mine, was a Class C, which meant it was built on a cut-away truck chassis. It still had the driver and passenger doors up front in the cab, and another side door on the passenger side of the coach.
I tried the driver and passenger front doors first, but both were locked. The same was true with the coa
ch door. It was locked as well. I would have been worried if they hadn't been. Being locked meant Kat had the time and presence of mind to secure them when she left. A good sign for her. But not for us.
With the doors locked, we couldn’t get in. We wouldn't be able to see if Kat left a note or anything that could tell us where she was.
I turned to Abby. “Doors are locked. What do you suggest?”
She smiled and said, “Wait here.” Then she walked around to the other side of the RV. I couldn't see what she was doing, but I could hear her open one of the lower compartment doors then close it a few moments later.
When she came back, she held up her hand and showed me a key ring that had four keys on it. “I'm pretty sure we can get in with these.”
One of the keys had a Ford logo, which meant it probably opened the front door. I pointed to it and said, “That one. Let me try it.”
She twisted it off the ring and gave it to me. I tried the front passenger door first, and with a simple twist, the key unlocked it. I pulled the door open and started to go in, but Abby stopped me. She grabbed the back of my sweatshirt and said, “I'm going in first. You wait out here for a minute.”
She climbed in over the passenger seat and headed to the back of the motorhome. I stood outside for a few moments, and then without waiting for her permission, followed her in.
I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but what I found surprised me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There were no dead bodies inside and no signs of a struggle. It was surprisingly clean. It did look like it had been recently traveled in, but nothing suggested any kind of foul play. No clothes thrown about. No broken furniture, nothing askew. The floors appeared to have been recently swept and there was no trash in the trash can.
It looked like Kat had cleaned up before she left.
The only odd thing was the cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter near the sink. Abby saw it and picked it up. She showed it to me. “Does this look like Kat's?”
I'd seen Kat's phone before. From what I could remember, it was a black Samsung Galaxy; no case and nothing about it that made it stand out or would identify it as belonging to her.
That was the way she liked things. Low profile. No “look at me” clothes; no fancy “rob me” jewelry; no bejeweled phone that someone would want to steal or remember as being hers.
She preferred a plain black phone. Like the one Abby had found on the counter. She was still waiting for me to answer her question, so I gave it my best shot. “Yeah, it's probably hers. See if it'll power up.”
She pressed the button and waited for the vibration that would tell her the phone was coming to life. But there was no response.
She tried a second time, this time holding the power button down for ten seconds. Again, no response from the phone. She shook her head and said, “It's dead. We'll have to recharge it before we can see what's on it.”
On the counter behind her, she found the charger plugged into a wall outlet. She connected it to the phone and waited until the charging light came on. Then she put it down on the counter and headed toward the back bedroom.
Kat's motorhome had the same basic floor plan as mine, a mid-kitchen with a dinette, a bedroom in the back, and a bathroom to the right of the bedroom.
Kat checked the bedroom first and saw that the bed was made. A little wrinkled, suggesting someone might have been napping on it before they left; nothing unusual about that. She then checked the closet and saw Kat's clothes hanging neatly inside. Shoes arranged on the floor, everything in order.
Next, she checked the bathroom. As with the bedroom, everything was where it was supposed to be. No sign of anything amiss.
While Abby was doing this, I checked the driver's area, looking for any clues to Kat's disappearance. There were no notes, no blood, no money, no credit cards. But there was a Garmin GPS sitting on the dash. I had one just like it in my RV and knew that it kept track of the roads it had been on, and where it was programmed to go next.
Hers wasn't plugged into the power port on the dash, which was good because if her motorhome were like mine, the outlet would be powered even when it wasn't running. Not a problem if you're driving, but if left plugged in for a long time when the motorhome wasn't in use, it could drain the battery. Kat probably knew this; that's why she had unplugged the GPS.
Even unplugged, it would retain information about previous routes and travel stops. I wanted to see those, so I plugged it in and powered it up. I went to the menu and had it show me the most recent travel route. It took a few seconds to pull it up, but it was still there.
There were no surprises. Kat had traveled from the same casino campground we had stayed in Vicksburg to the campground at the crystal mine. No route deviations, no travel since arriving.
I powered the GPS off and unplugged it from the power port. Like Kat, I didn't want to leave it plugged in and risk her returning to a dead battery.
Still up front, I looked around and noticed a bit of red clay on the floor mats on both the passenger’s and driver's side. This suggested two people had gotten in the motorhome after digging in the crystal mine.
I called back to Abby. “You find any boots or digging tools back there?”
She came up front. “Sorry, I couldn't hear you. What was the question?”
I asked again. “You find any boots or digging tools back there? The kind they would use in the mine.”
She thought for a moment then shook her head. “No, no tools, no boots. You know what that means?”
I had a pretty good idea what it meant, but I wanted to see if Abby thought the same thing.
She said, “It means they left here planning to go crystal mining. Now all we have to do is find out where they went and why they haven't come back.”
She turned to the phone on the counter. “It was totally dead. Probably take at least thirty minutes before we can get into it. We'll have to come back later.”
She pointed outside. “Look.”
The man who'd gone into the trailer next to Kat's had come back outside. He was no longer wearing aviator goggles or the surplus field jacket, so we were able to get a better look at him.
He was probably in his late thirties, around five foot five, and skinny. Spiked black hair up front with a gray streaked mullet in the back. The faded blue Molly Hatchet t-shirt he was wearing could have been worth something to a collector had it not been oil stained. His ragged camo pants and dusty, work boots suggested he might work in the crystal mine. Maybe full time.
We watched as he walked over to his bike, lifted his arms high in the air and stretched. His T-shirt rode up giving us a clear view of his white belly. Had he been facing the other way, we would have probably been graced with a view of his butt crack. Fortunately, we weren't.
He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then bent over and picked up a rock off the ground. He examined it closely then shook his head and tossed it away. He turned and walked over to the tumble-down porch on the front of his trailer, crossed his arms and stared out toward to the crystal mine.
Abby put her hand on my shoulder and asked, “Shall we go meet the neighbor?”
Instead of waiting for my reply, she opened the door facing the trailer and stepped out. She took a few steps, waved at the man and called out, “Hey, how you doing?”
The man, not knowing that anyone else was around, turned to see who had spoken. When he saw Abby and how she was dressed, he smiled and said, “I'm doing well, especially now that you're here.”
She was halfway over to his place before I stepped out. The neighbor was watching her and didn't notice me until I closed the door of the motorhome. He looked up at the sound and his smile instantly faded. He liked it better when it was just him and Abby.
Before he could ask, she said, “Yeah, he's with me. But don't let it bother you. We're here to have fun.”
The man grinned. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood then.”
He was looking at Abby
when he said it and kept looking at her when I reached out to shake his hand. He grabbed mine, gave it a quick shake and let go.
All three of us were standing in front of his trailer. He was up on the deck, about a foot above us and we were on the ground in front of him. He had a great view down Abby's shirt and she knew it.
Looking at her, he asked, “You folks here to dig crystals?”
She nodded. “Yeah, we heard this was a good place to find them.”
Still grinning and looking at Abby, he said, “This place ain't bad. You go over there to the mine, kick some dirt, and you'll find crystals. They won't be museum quality, but you'll definitely find them.”
Abby smiled. “Good to know. But what if we want to find some really nice crystals, the kind we can sell? Where should we look?”
Before the man could answer, Abby stuck out her hand and said, “My name is Abby. What's yours?”
I was surprised she gave him her real name. She had done the same with Grace and her brother Daniel. Maybe we were back to real names now. I'd have to ask her about it later.
The man grinned and took her hand. “Name's Byron, but everyone calls me Digger ’cause I'm the man you want to see when you're looking to dig the best crystals.”
Abby smiled. “Really? You're the guy? So, if I want a crystal digging lesson, I come see you?”
He grinned. “Yep, I'm the guy. I can give you the best dang digging lesson you'll ever get.”
The way he said it almost sounded dirty, kind of like he was coming on to her. I couldn't blame him if he was. She was wearing a nearly see thru top and almost throwing herself at him. Still, I wasn't sure I was comfortable with the way things were going.
He was still grinning when she said, “I'd like that, a digging lesson from you. But I got to find my friend first. Maybe you've seen her. Woman about my age, staying in the motorhome next to yours?”
