Stranded
BOOK 4
Stranded
Lorena McCourtney
© 2006 by Lorena McCourtney
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCourtney, Lorena.
Stranded / Lorena McCourtney.
p. cm. — (An Ivy Malone mystery)
ISBN 10: 0-8007-3138-7 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-8007-3138-0 (pbk.)
1. Malone, Ivy (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—
Fiction. 3. Older women—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: McCourtney,
Lorena. Ivy Malone mysteries ; bk. 4.
PS3563.C3449S77 2006
813’.54—dc22 2006017014
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
1
Squawk. Scr-e-e-e-ch.
Not good.
Thud. Thump. Thunk.
Worse.
Clankety, clunkety, clank-clank-CLANK!
The clanks vibrated right up through the driver’s seat of the motor home, jarring my teeth and rattling my bones. Only one sound is worse, and it came next, right after a dying wheeze of engine.
Silence.
I’d automatically braked at the screech, but it was an unnecessary gesture. The motor home was dead on the highway. Motionless as a dinosaur fossil. Lifeless as roadkill.
Abilene woke and jolted upright in the passenger’s seat. She’d been traveling with me since Oklahoma. “What happened? What’s wrong? Where are we?”
She shook her head and blinked, looking disoriented and bewildered as she peered out at the heavily forested mountains rising into a whiteout of falling snow on either side of the road. Where were we? We’d been in a Wal-Mart parking lot when she’d fallen asleep, after being awake most of the night with a toothache. Now we were smack in the middle of a narrow, winding highway somewhere in the mountains of Colorado on a winter afternoon. With falling snow rapidly obliterating the yellow dividing line ahead.
“When did it start snowing?”
“About half an hour ago. The engine just quit—”
I broke off as lights shot out of the veil of falling snow behind us and blazed in the rearview mirror. Panic froze my hands on the steering wheel. The car barreled straight at us.
With no more than inches to spare, the driver squealed his brakes, screeched around our stalled vehicle, skidded across the highway, and careened back into the right lane. The angry blast of a horn trailed the red taillights as they disappeared into the falling snow.
“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered gratefully. I used the fingers of one hand to pry the cramped fingers of the other off the steering wheel. My possum-gray hair felt as if it were standing on end.
Abilene’s knuckles gleamed white as she clutched the armrest beside her seat. “We’ve got to get out of the middle of the road before someone hits us!”
Right. This had all the makings of a demolition derby. I tried the starter. Maybe those weren’t fatal clunks. Maybe they were just warning twinges or a temporary glitch.
Wishful thinking. The engine momentarily made a sound like a garbage disposal trying to chew up a stray spoon, and I quickly turned the key off again.
But we did have lights, at least until the battery gave out, and I turned on everything from turn signals to warning blinkers so other vehicles could see us.
Abilene unbuckled her seat belt. Koop jumped from her lap to the ledge below the windshield, lone eye alert, orange stub of tail twitching.
“Maybe we can roll backward to a turnout and at least get off the road,” she said. “I’ll run back and see what’s there.”
She grabbed a jacket, and an icy flurry of snowflakes swirled inside when she opened the door. Another car came up behind us but spotted our carnival of lights in time to pull around. I offered another thanks that traffic was not heavy on this mountain highway, and that it was only midday. But where was a patrol car when you needed one? One had showed up quickly enough to give us a warning ticket when a taillight had gone out a few days ago.
I slid out of the driver’s seat and went back to turn on lights within the motor home in hopes they’d help make us more visible.
When I returned to the seat I spotted something I’d been too shaken to notice before. A red light on the instrument panel, a red light where no light should be. A red eye glowing like some evil messenger of doom.
Abilene returned a minute later. “Nothing back there. The shoulder is barely wide enough to stand on.”
“Look.” I pointed to the red light. She leaned over, and we studied it together.
“It’s the oil pressure,” she said.
“Right. There isn’t any.”
“We’d better call for help on the cell phone.”
Yes, the cell phone! We’d bought it only a couple of weeks ago, one of those prepaid kind where you purchase so many minutes and use them as you need them. This was exactly the kind of emergency for which we’d bought the phone. I congratulated myself on our foresight.
Abilene grabbed the phone from the drawer and handed it to me. I yanked up the little antenna and hit the “on” button. After a series of blips, the two words I got on the tiny screen were both chilling and final: no signal.
The reason was fairly obvious. We’d been on a downhill stretch, but the road rose steeply ahead of us. We were deep in a valley here, surrounded by high mountains, modern cell phone technology zapped by geography. At this point the cell phone was no more useful than a battery-powered salami. Foresight, shmoresight.
“Now what?” Abilene asked. She peered ahead. “Maybe I should start walking. How far since we went through a town?”
“I’m not sure. Twenty miles anyway.”
“How far to the next town?”
“I’ll have to look at the map.” I was stalling, of course. The idea of Abilene hiking even a mile or two along the narrow shoulder of this mountain road in the swirling snow gave me cold shudders.
She grabbed a map out of the pocket behind the driver’s seat, and we studied it together.
“At least ten or fifteen miles,” I said. The map showed the next town as a minuscule dot with the unlikely name of Hello.
Abilene peered out the windshield, but she didn’t rush off to start walking. I was relieved she could see that even with her youthful strength and energy, hiking off into the snow was not a wise course of action.
“I take it this is one of those times we’re supposed to pray and depend on the Lord?” she suggested finally, her tone on the disgruntled side.
Since Abilene has joined me in my travels, with a reason as good as my own for keeping on the move, we’ve had several discussions on Christian matters. Sometimes she seems to be heading toward the Lord, but the path is definitely circ
uitous and potholed.
“I think that’s a good plan.” The Lord has seen me through a good many problems and trials over the years. His promise never to leave or forsake us was surely good here on this snowy mountain road. I offered the prayer.
We sat there. Abilene impatiently rubbed a forearm across a steamed-up window. A few more cars detoured around us, some quietly, some blasting complaints. The motor home was already beginning to feel chilly. Abilene turned up the thermostat, and the propane heater kicked on. The fan would run down the battery fairly quickly. I clicked the switch that turned on the generator to provide electricity and keep the battery charged.
“The Lord seems to be taking his own sweet time,” Abilene muttered.
True, I had to admit. How long had we been stuck here? Logic said a few minutes, nerves screamed hours. But God, I reminded myself, isn’t tied to time the way we in this realm are.
Several more hour-long minutes passed. The motor home warmed comfortably. The propane tanks had been filled only yesterday. We had food in the refrigerator and gasoline for the generator. In the wilderness, disconnected from modern services, we could probably survive for a considerable length of time.
How long we could survive stranded in the middle of a mountain road with cars and trucks coming at us from both directions was another matter.
2
More minutes trickled by. Koop prowled restlessly from one end of the motor home to the other, occasionally jumping up on something to peer outside. Abilene tapped a toe on the carpet and fingers on the dinette. She looked at the battery-operated clock over the door. Another car screeched around us, and I wondered apprehensively if we’d be safer standing out there in the snow under the trees.
“Does depending on the Lord mean sitting around twiddling your thumbs until he does something?” Abilene demanded suddenly.
“Sometimes it does mean waiting. Sometimes it means listening for his guidance about what he wants us to do—”
Abilene jumped up. “Good. Because what I hear is that I should get out there and flag someone down. We need help.”
“That could be dangerous!”
“This isn’t?” she retorted when a truck roared by us close enough to vibrate the motor home into an oversized version of shake, rattle, and roll. Before I could say more she ran to a closet, grabbed something, and slammed out the door.
The rate of snow falling had let up, I realized thankfully as I peered out a window. Lord, keep her safe out there! Visibility was up to maybe a hundred feet now.
And Abilene was definitely visible. What she’d grabbed was a bright red towel, and she jumped up and down and flapped it as if practicing for matador tryouts. In spite of Abilene’s energetic waves, the first three vehicles ignored her, but finally a motor home slid to a stop behind us.
Abilene dashed around to their door. Several minutes of conversation ensued. Then the motor home, one of those big, expensive diesel pushers, went on, and Abilene returned.
“Their cell phone wouldn’t work either,” she reported. “But they’ll send help back from the next town.”
“Good.”
She leaned over to shake the snow out of her short blond hair. “I suppose we owe God thanks for making them stop.”
I was surprised and gratified by this comment, even though it did sound a bit grudging. Though I suspected she might be thinking, Why didn’t God just send a tow truck instead of going the long way around? I waited a moment, hoping she’d offer the thanks herself, but when she remained silent I did it. One step at a time.
“Now,” she added in a grimmer tone when I was done, “all we have to do is survive traffic until help arrives.”
I made coffee. I can’t say I was serenely unworried about being squashed by a truck or rear-ended by an SUV before rescue arrived, but I was out of panic mode. And a couple of minutes later two guys in a beat-up green pickup stopped. Unasked, they set out warning flares in front and back of the motor home and then stood out in the snow directing traffic around us. I was amazed. No more ear-shattering screeches or bone-rattling near misses. Abilene took them coffee and cookies.
The two guys stayed until the tow truck arrived, although I never did get to thank them myself. One minute they were there, the next they were gone.
Can angels come disguised as two scruffy guys in beat-up boots and baseball caps turned backward, both scarfing down peanut butter cookies as if they were new and improved manna? Could be.
The tow truck driver was fiftyish, uncommunicative and unsmiling but efficient. He did not ask what our problem was, but he did peer underneath the motor home. A grunt apparently meant the motor home was at least in towable condition. Within minutes he had the motor home’s front end hoisted in the air, like a big, dead fish dangling on a hook. We rode in the cab of the truck with him, me in the middle, Koop in the kitty carrier on Abilene’s lap.
I made a couple of attempts at conversation. Printing on the side of the tow truck said “Hello Trucking, Luke Martin, Owner,” so I said, “You’re Luke?”
“Nope.”
“Then you are … ?”
“Paul Newman.”
“Like the movie star? The one married to Joanne Woodward?”
“I’ve heard of that guy,” he said darkly. “Don’t seem fair, these movie people grabbin’ real folks’ names to use.”
So far as I knew, movie star Paul Newman’s name was his own, but this did not seem like an overly productive line of conversation, so I switched subjects. “Have you lived in the area long, Mr. Newman?”
“Yep.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“Nick’s Garage.”
“In Hello?”
“Yep.”
Apparently his own name was the only subject on which Paul Newman got beyond one-or two-word answers. I’d run into taciturn types before. They always made me want to say something such as, “Have you stopped making moonshine in your backyard?” Try a yep or nope on that one. Instead I shushed myself and asked politely, “Is Nick a good mechanic?”
“Yep.”
With that glowing recommendation, how could we go wrong?
We passed through a couple of heavy snow flurries, but the storm clouds had lifted to expose snow-clad mountaintops and a few splotches of blue sky by the time we dipped into the narrow valley where the town lay. Nick’s Garage was on the north side of town, so we didn’t get to see the main part of Hello before Paul Newman dragged the motor home into a big yard enclosed by a solid wooden fence. Doors yawned open on a metal shop building, doors I was relieved to see were large enough to accommodate the motor home.
The place wasn’t spotless, but it looked as good as most such establishments. Junk engines and other dismembered vehicle parts lay off to one side of the shop, near them a red pickup with the silvery figure of a bucking Brahma bull mounted on the hood. Oil and grease spots decorated the puddled ground between patches of snow. A newer Dodge Durango was up on a hoist inside the shop. A couple of guys were working under it.
No one came out to meet us. Apparently Nick was accustomed to nonworking lumps of machinery being dumped in his yard. Paul Newman unfastened the motor home, accepted my money, and departed.
Abilene, Koop in his cat carrier, and I went in through an office door. Inside was a cluttered counter and cash register, a row of red vinyl chairs, a coffee maker, and shelves of car parts and supplies. An older man with bifocals, thinning gray hair, and a plaid shirt crisscrossed by green suspenders stood at the window, regarding our motor home with interest. A vintage Newsweek magazine lay open on a chair.
“Looks like you got troubles.”
“I’m afraid so. But the tow truck driver told us Nick was a fine mechanic. Are you Nick?”
“No, Nick’s out there working on my Durango. Been having brake troubles, but it should still be under warranty. Unless they squeak out from under some way. You know how those big car outfits are. Get your money, and then it’s bye-bye, sucker. You folks from …” He leaned
closer to the window and adjusted his bifocals to peer at our license plate. “Arkansas?”
I sometimes wished we could have a license plate that read “None of your business where we’re from.” Since that wasn’t possible, and I did use a mail-forwarding address in Arkansas, I said, “More or less.”
He turned to study us instead of the motor home. “Just the two of you traveling alone?”
“Us and Koop here.” I motioned to the cat carrier Abilene had set on a chair. Koop’s one good eye peered out suspiciously.
“Snowbirds headed south for the winter?”
“We don’t seem to be going anywhere at the moment.” As usual, I didn’t want to leave a trail of information about where we were headed just in case anyone came inquiring. In the interest of avoiding further questions I added the same question I’d asked the tow truck driver. “Have you lived around here long?”
“Oh, yeah. I was the police chief in Hello for over twenty-five years.” His voice held pride. “Name’s Ben Simpson. Retired now.” He stuck out a hand, and Abilene and I both shook it. He gave me a questioning look, obviously expecting our names in return. He didn’t seem to take offense when I didn’t oblige, however, and continued cheerfully. “I’ve got some friends who spend winters at an RV park down at Apache Junction, out near the Superstition Mountains in Arizona. You ever been there? I can get you the name of the place if you’d like. Good rates and a nice pool, they say.”
“We haven’t been to Arizona before, but we’ve heard about a place called Snowbird’s Retreat down near Tucson—”
I broke off as I realized what I’d just done. Told him where we were headed. He’d probably been a very good police chief, I decided grumpily. With that garrulous, disarming manner he’d likely had the crooks spilling their secrets before they realized what they were doing. And he was probably more shrewd than his somewhat hayseedy surface appearance suggested.
Nick himself came in through the shop door, a young, tall and skinny, red-haired guy in grease-stained coveralls with his name embroidered in red on a pocket. I explained what I could about our breakdown noises and the oil light. “We’re hoping you can take a look at it before too long … ?”
Stranded Page 1
