A HOME FOR THE HUNTER

by Christine Rimmer

  "Okay. She left the hotel there at 9:30 a.m."

  "You followed?"

  "Yeah. I tailed her up through Tonopah and Reno. Then she crossed back into California. She got off the main highway and drove in circles on side roads until she ran out of gas. I picked her up. That was around seven-thirty tonight." He digressed enough to tell Larrabee exactly where they'd left Olivia's car.

  Larrabee said he'd have the car taken care of. "What happened next?"

  "I brought her back here."

  "Where's here?"

  Jack gave the general location of the Highway Haven, but nothing specific. The last thing he wanted was Lawrence Larrabee showing up there. "We were both beat. I was planning that we'd spend the night here and probably head for L.A. tomorrow."

  "So she's with you now."

  "Well—"

  "Let me talk to her."

  Now came the unpleasant part. Jack confessed, "That isn't possible."

  Larrabee was silent again, as if keeping himself carefully reined. Then he inquired, "Why not?"

  "She isn't here."

  "What?"

  "She disappeared when I went to get the room. I've been to the police, and I've combed the area. Nothing. So far."

  There was another lengthy silence. Larrabee talked to someone on his end. Then he asked, "Are you saying that my daughter has vanished into the Northern California woods somewhere?"

  "For now, yes."

  Jack heard a woman's voice from Larrabee's end. Probably the girlfriend, Mindy Long. The voice was making those soothing sounds women make when their men are about to go through the roof.

  Larrabee said, "Consider yourself fired, Roper."

  Jack gave a wry chuckle. "Get current, Lawrence. You already fired me this morning, remember?"

  Larrabee sputtered and huffed a little, then he asked, "Well then, why are you still out there, if you know you're not getting paid?"

  "None of your damn business," Jack said. "But I'm on my own time with this, and if I tell you what's going on, it's only because I think that somewhere in that pompous, overly possessive heart of yours, you love your daughter and want the best for her."

  "Well, of course I love my daughter, you—"

  "Save it, Lawrence. I'll call you when I've got more to tell you."

  Jack found it very satisfying to hang up on Larrabee for a change.

  And after that, not knowing what else to do, he kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the bed and grimly waited for sleep.

  Near dawn, Jack sat bolt upright.

  He'd dreamed of the motel sign, blinking in the windshield of a big truck. In his dream the truck had pulled out and driven away. He'd watched it go.

  It was a fancy rig, glossy maroon in color, with a giant painting of a big-eyed blonde on the trailer. A rig just like the one that had been pulling out of the lot when Jack turned around and saw that Olivia was no longer in his car.

  "Damn," Jack muttered under his breath. It was a long shot. But right about now, it was the only shot he had.

  He got up and pulled on his clothes. Then he went to the coffee shop and ordered breakfast.

  There, for five long hours, he made a complete nuisance of himself, asking question after question of anyone who would talk to him.

  Finally, around eleven in the morning, after he'd drunk so much coffee his molars felt as if they were floating, he described the maroon rig to a trucker, who answered, "You must mean the Sweet Amy."

  Jack's heart, already speeding from all the caffeine, raced a little faster. But he tried to keep his voice calm. "The truck has a name?"

  "It sure does. The owner, Brendan, named it after his wife."

  "Brendan who?"

  Now the trucker became wary. "Brendan's a good man. I wouldn't want to be sendin' no trouble his way."

  "Look." Jack did his best to make his expression sincere. "I don't even know the man. And this has nothing to do with him, really. It's only that I think he might have picked up a hitchhiker here last night."

  "You're after the hitcher?"

  "Yeah."

  "Woman or man?

  "Woman."

  "Yours?"

  Jack made a quick decision to play this for sympathy. He nodded. And then he looked away.

  The trucker, as Jack had suspected from a certain sensitivity in his bleary eyes, had a soft heart. "Hey. You'll work it out. Me and my wife, we have our battles. But we come back around. We get through it."

  Jack stared at the dusty plastic flower in the bud vase at the end of the table, as if he couldn't trust his own emotions. And then, as if he had to force himself to do it, he looked the trucker in the eye. "I have to find her first. Before we can work this out."

  "Hell." The other man took a swig from his coffee mug. "Okay. The trucker you're lookin' for is Brendan Jones. Out of North Magdalene. That's about twenty miles above Nevada City on Highway 49."

  When she woke, it took Olivia a moment to remember where she was.

  And then it came to her. The blue room. In the home of some people named Sam and Delilah.

  Though the room was dim, she could see that it was sunny outside. There was a rim of bright light around the shades.

  Olivia pulled herself to a sitting position and was just rearranging the covers a little when the door opened a crack.

  "Ah. I see you're awake at last." Delilah bustled in. She went to the window and ran up the shades.

  Bright midday sun poured into the room. Olivia squinted and looked away. But her eyes adjusted swiftly to the light, and then she turned back to look out the window. She could see the top of a maple tree, whose leaves had turned the browns and oranges of fall. The sky was a clear, pristine blue.

  "The rain," Delilah said, gazing out the window. "It does wonders. Makes everything seem new." She turned to Olivia, a smile on her rather exotic face. "Last night it seemed more important to get you warm and dry and rested than to make introductions. I never told you my name."

  Olivia gave the other woman a shy smile. "Your name was mentioned though, I think. Delilah, right?"

  Delilah nodded. "Delilah Fletcher. I'm a teacher. My husband, Sam, owns Fletcher Gold Sales on Main Street

  ." Delilah came and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Olivia knew Delilah was waiting for her to introduce herself. Instead, she asked, "What town is this?"

  "North Magdalene."

  "In California?"

  "Yes."

  "And what time is it?"

  Delilah shrugged. "After noon. How are you feeling?"

  "Much better."

  Right then the brunette from the night before appeared in the doorway. She was carrying a tray.

  "Here's your breakfast," Delilah said and stood so that the brunette could set the tray across Olivia's legs.

  Olivia looked down at raisin toast, two nicely poached eggs and a mug of coffee. The coffee smelled wonderful. "I'm starving. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," the brunette said. "What do you take in your coffee?"

  "Black is fine."

  The brunette stood, backing up until she was beside Delilah. The two of them watched, smiling, as Olivia sipped her coffee and started to work on the eggs. After a moment the brunette volunteered, "I'm Regina Jones." She gestured at Delilah. "Delilah's brother, Patrick, is my husband."

  Olivia nodded. "I remember Patrick drove me here last night." She took a bite of toast. The simple food tasted like heaven. It occurred to her that she hadn't eaten at all yesterday.

  Right then the doorbell rang.

  "That'll be Amy or Eden," Delilah said, and left to answer.

  "They're both here," Delilah announced a few moments later. She introduced the blonde as Amy. And the redhead was named Eden. They were the Jones women, Regina explained with a wry grin. Except for Delilah, who'd been born a Jones, each of them had married one of the Jones men. The old man whose birthday party she'd interrupted was named Oggie Jones. He lived here with Delilah and Sam—in the back bedroom downstairs. H
e was the patriarch of the Jones clan.

  Now they'd introduced themselves, the four women looked at Olivia expectantly.

  Finally Regina pointed out in her gentle voice, "You haven't told us your name yet."

  Olivia looked from one face to the next. She had no idea why she was holding back. These people had been so kind to her. She certainly owed them an explanation.

  She swallowed the last bite of egg and said, "I'm Olivia Larrabee. As in Larrabee Brewing?"

  "The beer company?" Amy asked.

  "Yes. That's my father's company."

  The women nodded.

  "Ah."

  "Yes."

  "We see."

  "But what brings you here, to North Magdalene?" Regina wondered.

  Olivia confessed. "I'm on the run."

  The women nodded and clucked among themselves some more.

  Then Delilah asked, "From whom?"

  "From everything."

  "Everything?" Regina repeated.

  "Yes, everything."

  "What is everything, specifically?" Amy asked.

  "Everything," Olivia said once more with an expansive gesture. "Everything includes my father, who loves me a lot but won't let me lead my own life. And my father's money, which I never earned. And also my completely pointless life. And last but not least, a man named Jack."

  "Ah." The women nodded to each other.

  "A man."

  "Yes."

  "Of course, a man."

  "Look." Olivia pushed the tray away. "Can we talk?"

  "Certainly." Regina took the tray and set it on the dresser by the door.

  "Talk," Delilah said.

  Amy added, "Please do."

  And Eden chimed in. "Get it all out."

  Which is precisely what Olivia did.

  For well over an hour she talked.

  She poured her heart out. She told them everything, from her overbearing father's loving domination to her unfulfilled dream of becoming a chef, to her ex-fiancé's betrayal, to the sad and tender story of her brief, heartbreaking affair with Jack.

  The women listened and clucked their tongues. They nodded and shook their heads at all the right places. Olivia felt that for the first time in her life she was fully understood.

  And when at last she said, "So that's how I ended up at Oggie Jones's seventy-seventh birthday party last night." Her heart seemed to be purified and her soul felt cleansed.

  For a few minutes, once the story was told, everyone was quiet. Amy patted Olivia's hand and Regina gave her a sympathetic smile. And then Eden looked at Amy, who glanced at Regina, who gave a nod to Delilah.

  Delilah said gently, "Well, then. I suppose that the question you have to ask yourself next is…"

  "Yes?" Olivia wondered eagerly.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  An hour and a half after the trucker told him where to look for Brendan Jones, Jack parked his car on Main Street

  in front of Lily's Café.

  Experience had taught him that the best places to go for information were bars and coffee shops. In North Magdalene, he found one of each. He'd passed the bar just a moment ago. It was across and down the street right next to a restaurant called the Mercantile Grill. He would try asking questions there as soon as he was through in the café.

  He got out of the car and stretched a little, working out the kinks from the drive. Then he headed for the café.

  He was just about to pull the door open when it opened from inside. Two older women came out. Both were tall. One was very thin and the other was big boned and deep breasted. They wore dark-colored dresses with little white collars and looked like what they probably were: two good Christian ladies who'd just enjoyed a leisurely Sunday lunch after spending a pious morning in church.

  They came out chattering together. And then they saw Jack.

  They both snapped their mouths shut and stared. It would have been comical, Jack thought, if it wasn't so strange.

  The thin one muttered, "Oh no. Linda Lou, it can't be. Not another one."

  And then the big one seemed to shake herself. "Come along, Nellie," she intoned. "The resemblance is only coincidental, I'm sure. And it's rude to stare." She took the skinny one's hand and pulled her off down the street.

  Jack watched them go, wondering what the hell that was all about. Then he shrugged and went inside.

  He took a seat at the counter, ignoring the sudden hush that seemed to settle over the room as one and then another of the customers glanced his way.

  "Do you want to see a menu?" the young waitress asked. Jack looked in her eyes and wondered where he'd seen her before. There was something vaguely familiar about her. "Coffee?" she prompted.

  He shook his head. She seemed to be studying him, looking him over closely. He sensed that she found him familiar, too.

  Well, so what? He had to find Olivia. Whether or not he and this waitress had met before was unimportant.

  "I'm looking for a man," he said. "A trucker, name of Brendan Jones. You know him?"

  The waitress turned and set down the coffeepot on a burner. Then she faced him again. "I'm Heather. But folks call me Sunshine. Who are you?"

  In the second before Jack replied, the café was eerily silent. Jack felt as if all the eyes in the place were focused on his back, as if they all waited, holding their breaths, to hear who he was.

  He told them. "My name's Roper. Jack Roper."

  Was it only his imagination, or did he hear them all start breathing once again?

  The waitress took the pencil from behind her ear, looked at it and then stuck it back in. "I've never heard of you."

  Jack shrugged and kept to his objective. "How about Brendan Jones? Have you heard of him?"

  The waitress didn't answer. She just looked at him, eye to eye. Then she said, "Wait a minute. I'll be right back."

  She disappeared through a door at the end of the counter—to make a phone call, he assumed. It was a long five minutes before she returned.

  When she marched over and faced him again, he took the initiative. "Well? Now do you know Brendan Jones?"

  The waitress gave him a bright smile. "Yes. He's my uncle." Before he could demand to know more, she instructed, "You go on over to the Hole in the Wall. That's the bar, down the street and on the other side. Ask for Oggie Jones."

  "What about Brendan Jones?"

  "You ask Oggie. He'll tell you what you need to know."

  The Hole in the Wall was dark and cool and very well kept.

  The same thing happened there as had happened at the café. The few customers at the bar all turned and stared when Jack pushed through the double doors.

  "Hell," one man muttered. "If that ain't a Jones, then I'll swear off drinkin'."

  "Don't make promises you'll never keep, Rocky," the handsome young bartender advised with a show of even white teeth.

  Jack decided to ignore the remarks. He wasn't going to get sidetracked from his goal.

  "Oggie Jones?" he asked the bartender.

  The bartender flipped a thumb over his shoulder toward a curtain that was strung across one wall. "Through there."

  When he went through the curtain, Jack found himself in a windowless alcove, the bar's back room. There was a round table, covered with a green felt cloth, and a number of bentwood chairs. The light came from a cone-shaded light bulb suspended from the ceiling.

  At the table sat an old man. He was idly shuffling a deck of cards.

  The old guy looked up.

  And that weird feeling came over Jack again, that feeling of familiarity, the same as with the waitress at the café. Jack had never seen the old guy before. He was sure of it. And yet there was something about him that made Jack positive they'd met in the past.

  And Jack could have sworn that the old fellow was thinking just the same about him—only more so. The man looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

  But then the shock i
n the beady eyes passed. "I'm Oggie," the old man said in a voice of gravel and dust. "Park your butt right there, son." He pointed at a chair.

  Jack gave a brief shake of his head. "No, thanks. I'll stand."

  "Suit yourself." Oggie Jones pushed the deck of cards to the center of the table and sat back. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for a trucker named Brendan Jones."

  "So I've been told. What d'you want with my boy?"

  "This Brendan's your son?"

  "Yep." Oggie pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. "Smoke, Mr.…?"

  "Roper. No, thanks."

  "Ah, yes. Roper. That's right. Sunshine told me the name. But I'm seventy-seven yesterday. The memory fails."

  Looking into the crafty dark eyes, Jack didn't believe the memory had failed one bit. He explained, "I think your son may have taken on a hitchhiker at a truck stop up near Donner Summit last night."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Timing. I turned my back and this person disappeared. Right at that moment your son's truck was pulling out of the parking lot where it happened."

  "This person. Is it a man?"

  "No, a woman. A woman named Olivia Larrabee." Jack took out the snapshot Larrabee had given him when Jack took the job of tailing Olivia. It showed Olivia in front of a Malibu restaurant with Cameron Cain. Jack handed the picture to the old man.

  Oggie studied it closely. When he looked up again, his road map of a face revealed nothing. "She your woman?"

  The word "Yeah" was out of Jack's mouth before he even stopped to remind himself that he was getting out of Olivia's life just as soon as he made sure she was okay.

  Oggie took a moment to bite the end off his cigar and light up. Then he asked, "She a good woman?"

  Jack didn't like the direction of this. "What do you mean, a good woman?"

  The old coot did some puffing. At last he elaborated, "I mean the kind of woman a man wants to hang on to. A woman of heart and intestinal fortitude."

  Jack grunted. "Intestinal—?"

  "Has she got guts, son? Guts."

  Jack thought of Olivia, of how fanciful and frail she was. Not someone a man would describe as having "guts," not by a long shot. But even if she didn't have "intestinal fortitude," she was good. "Yeah," he said, ruing the slight huskiness that crept into his voice, a huskiness that the shrewd old man would be sure to note. "She's a good woman."