The blonde took the first stool at the counter right next to the cash register. Possibly she was too tired to walk any farther. She had her head propped up with both hands when I passed behind her. I made no attempt to sit near her. In fact, I sat as far away from her as I could get, at the last stool around the bend of the L-shaped counter. So I could see her face.
With brisk efficiency the waitresses filled coffee cups and took orders. The blonde was served first. Hot tea and English muffins don't require a lot of preparation time. She swished the tea bag around listlessly then folded her hand in front of her and stared at the muffin. My order arrived—steak and eggs and hash browns, orange juice, and a second cup of coffee. I didn't waste any time staring at it.
The next time I looked at the girl, she was nibbling around the edge of a muffin half. She put it down on the plate, carefully adjusted the position of the plate in relation to her tea cup, then abruptly got up and headed for the ladies' room. Her sweater slid off the back of her stool when she stood up and I thought she looked down at it but she didn't stop to pick it up. The old man sitting next to her retrieved it, carefully arranging it over the back of the stool.
When she came out of the restroom a few minutes later, the girl had a bright spot of color on each check and her hair was still a mess. In fact, it was worse. The loop on the nap of her neck had worked loosed and she now had about as much hair straggling down as she had caught up in the clasp.
Curiouser and curiouser. From years of intense study, I had gleaned three hard facts about women. If the temperature drops below seventy, they're cold. If they get more than a block away from the nearest bathroom, they immediately have to pee. And it takes a whole lot of trouble to make them forget about their hair.
The girl didn't sit down again. She paid her bill, grabbed her sweater, and left. I looked out the window and watched her walk to the end of the parking lot. She looked carefully in both directions, crossed Bunyard, and headed west. There was nothing in that direction but several miles of lonely country road.
Well, it was none of my business.
I sat there for five minutes telling myself it was none of my business. I might have sat there longer if I hadn't thought of Cindy Amsberry, who was sixteen and naked the only time I ever saw her.
That had been on another hot summer day after I drove down another lonely stretch of country road with a rookie cop named Dan Fogel chewing off his thumbnail beside me and two green-faced young brothers and their mother huddled on the back seat behind the wire barrier. I parked where the boys told me to and Fogel and I left them with their mother in the patrol car.
Two hundred feet into the woods we found the BB guns the boys had dropped in their haste to get away from Cindy. Another twenty feet and we found Cindy herself. She wasn't hard to find. A blind man could have found her and she looked worse than she smelled.
Dan Fogel vomited into the dry brush behind me as I looked down at the low-budget horror movie corpse. Only the blond curls bore any resemblance to the pretty cheerleader who had been reported missing several days earlier. A gentle summer breeze lifted the curls and rustled Cindy's scanty blanket of old leaves, giving a gut-churning illusion of movement to her body. I pulled Fogel to his feet and headed him toward the car to call for the men with the body bags.
Cindy Amsberry could ruin anyone's appetite. I signaled the waitress for my check.
Chapter Six
She was a fast walker. I was beginning to think she had gone off the road into the woods when I rounded a curve and there she was, on the right, walking quickly up the gentle slope with her head down.
I slowed as I passed but didn't stop because another driver rounding the curve would have plowed into the Nova's rear end. I went another two hundred feet before the shoulder was wide enough for me to pull off the road. I started to shut the engine off but decided to leave it running, thinking it might reassure her. A rapist wouldn't waste gas while he dragged a tall blonde into the woods, would he?
I got out and stood by the car door. The girl had stopped walking. She looked back over her shoulder, took a couple steps toward me, then stopped again.
“Do you need a ride?” I called to her.
She shook her head. Something shiny fell to the ground and the rest of hair fell around her shoulders. She stooped to retrieve her hair clasp and shoved it in her purse.
I walked to the rear of the car. She looked into the woods. They didn't look very inviting. I started toward her, walking slowly, wishing my car looked a little more upwardly mobile and that I was wearing something else instead of a white T-shirt tucked into faded jeans. And that I wasn't so damn big.
I covered about half the distance then stopped and asked again if she needed a ride. The long golden hair swung from side to side. She looked into the woods again.
“This isn't a very good place to be walking,” I said.
She looked across the road. More woods. I started toward her again. She waited, not quite looking at me, until I was about thirty feet away and then she started running. But not away from me. She ran diagonally across the road then toward me and past me on the other side of the pavement.
I had some vague idea that if I just stayed put, she'd realize I was harmless. So I stood there. And I watched her run. And I watched her legs flashing in an easy long-legged lope. And I watched her blue skirt swirl up above her knees. And I watched her come even with my car, which was idling nicely.
My car! I said, “Oh, shit” and started running, knowing it was useless. Without slowing, the girl veered across the road, yanked the door open, and got in. I saw her push the locks down on both doors. I stopped running. There was no way I could get there before she got it in gear and took off.
The Nova's brake lights lit up. I turned toward Allentown. The state troopers would pick her up easily enough on the Interstate. There was nowhere else for her to go. The troopers weren't going to like hearing about the gun in the suitcase. After a few steps, I turned around and walked backward. She was taking her time.
The brake lights went off and the car rolled backward and the lights lit up again as the car stopped suddenly enough that I saw the girl's head jerk forward. The lights went off and the car rolled backward again and came to another jolting stop. I laughed and started jogging up the hill. God looks after old cars and fools.
Just as I reached the car, the girl managed to find some gear and instead of rolling backward, the Nova bucked forward and the engine died. I felt around inside the back bumper, pulled off the strip of tape, and peeled the spare key off it. The engine started. After a rough gear-grinding noise, the car bucked and died again.
I peered into the window. She had the brake and the clutch pressed to the floor and was jiggling the gear shift. It looked like neutral to me. She glanced my way without meeting my eyes then turned the key. The engine started smoothly. The car rolled downhill. At the rate she was going, she'd be back in Allentown before long.
She was fiddling with the shift again when I caught up with the car. Even if she found first, she'd never get it going on a hill but I wasn't sure how much abuse the old car would tolerate. I waiting until she ground the gears again and killed the engine, then I unlocked the door and swung it open.
The door handle jerked out of my hand as the Nova rolled down the hill, engineless and damn near driverless. I followed it at a trot. The girl hit the brake, yanked the swinging door shut, and punched the lock back down. I sighed, unlocked the door again, opened it again, and said, “Keep your foot on the brake.”
She didn't look at me. She had her lower lip clamped in her teeth, a death grip on the steering wheel, and both pedals pressed to the floor. Her knees were shaking. She didn't really seem to be afraid of me or maybe she was just more afraid of moving her feet and letting the car loose. I squatted in the open doorway and reached inside to set the parking brake.
“I'm going to put it in gear, and then it won't go anywhere, okay?”
She didn't answer but she dropped her ha
nds from the steering wheel. I reached across her and shoved the shift into first. “You can move your feet now,” I said.
She moved her feet, cautiously, and pressed her hands hard against her knees, bending her head so her hair swung forward and hid her face from me. I rested my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands and waited patiently. The dress sure looked like silk to me. Her jewelry had the gleaming depth of good gold. The slender watch had probably cost ten times as much as my very functional-looked digital. Money can't buy everything. Her watch had the wrong time.
My legs were starting to cramp by the time she finally pushed her hair behind her shoulder and turned those wonderful midnight blue eyes to me. Sounding like a tired child, she asked, “Why couldn't you have an automatic?”
I almost apologized.
“How about sliding over and I'll do the driving?” It sounded like a reasonable suggestion to me. She thought it over for a bit then asked, “Are you taking me to the police?”
“No. I don't want to be laughed at this early in the morning.”
She slid over and I got behind the wheel. “Where to?” I asked.
The question must have been harder than it sounded. She stared at her clenched hands, then out the windshield, then out the side window into the woods.
“How about home?” I suggested. “Where do you live?”
Another hard question. I'd almost forgotten what I asked by the time she said, “Portland.”
“Portland it is,” I said. “Buckle up, babycakes.”
She reached automatically over her right shoulder and I felt pleased when she found the strap right where she expected it to be. I had only been a few weeks since I had finally had the worn lap belts replaced with new seatbelts with shoulder harnesses. She was the first person to use the passenger belt. For some obscure reason, that also pleased me.
“Are you really going to take me all the way to Portland?” she asked. “In your car?”
“Yeah, well, my Lear jet's in the shop for a tune-up.”
She regarded me quite seriously. Maybe Lear jets were an everyday fixture in her world. Her voice was low and pleasant and she had no particular regional accent as far as I could tell, but her speech was a bit more clipped and precise, a little more cultured-sounding, than the soft Northwestern dialect I was so accustomed to hearing, and speaking, that I no longer noticed it except in its absence.
I told her I was on my way to Portland anyway and asked what part of town she lived in. While she thought that one over, I got us back on the road. During its backward travels, the Nova's right side tires had gone off the shoulder and sunk into soft dirt. The car didn't want to make the effort but I coaxed it along and got all four tires on the pavement.
We were about a mile down the road when my passenger said, “If you could just take me downtown, I can get home from there.”
“Okay by me. What's your name?”
“Allison… Smith.”
I grinned out the windshield. “As good a name as any. How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Nineteen and definitely five-ten. Damn, I was good. “Aren't you going to ask me what my name is?”
Apparently she hadn't planned to. Several yawns and half a mile later, she said, “What's your name?”
“Zachariah,” I said. “Smith.”
I glanced over at her, smiling. She didn't look as though she believed me. Smiths get that look a lot. I steered one-handed while I pulled my wallet out and flipped it open so two credit cards showed. She squinted at them and sighed heavily.
“What's your real name?”
“Allison. Not Smith.”
“Well, Miss Allison Not-Smith, there's a down jacket on the seat behind you. Why don't you grab it and use it for a pillow and I'll wake you up when we get to Portland.”
It took her at least thirty seconds to fall asleep.
The next couple hours were uneventful except for the time I almost drove into the Columbia River because my leggy passenger shifted in her sleep and I became so entranced with the curve of her thigh that I forgot I was hurtling through space faster than the speed of legal travel. Soon after that, I pulled off the Interstate.
Allison slept through a stop at a gas station. I parked by a restaurant and shook her gently. She uncurled and blinked at me.
“Hi, remember me? We're in Hood River. You think you can try to eat something?”
She said “Mm,” and opened her big purse. I could see Crest toothpaste in a pump dispenser, Johnson's Baby Shampoo, Secret deodorant, and a tube of aloe vera lotion. And that was just the top layer. The edge of a blue leather wallet was visible down amongst all the tubes and jars and bottles. She found a natural bristle brush and yanked it through her hair a couple times. It didn't help much. She shoved the brush back into her purse and folded her hands in her lap. After a moment, I got out and opened the door for her.
While I worked my way shamelessly through my second breakfast of the day, Allison ate half a piece of toast and the whipped cream off the top of a cup of hot chocolate. When I was waiting for a final coffee refill, I asked if she had a pen in her purse. I expected something gold-plated at the very least. She handed me a blue plastic EraserMate minus the cap. I printed WILLAMETTE neatly on a paper napkin and slid it over in front of her. “Read that,” I said.
She looked at the napkin then looked at me suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
She studied the napkin, searching for tricks and failing to find any among the innocent letters. She shrugged slightly and said, “Willa-met.”
The waitress appeared to refill my coffee cup. After she left, Allison asked, “What does it mean?”
“It means you don't live in Portland. Or anywhere in Oregon.” I tapped the napkin. “It rhymes with dammit. WilLAMette. The Willamette River runs right through downtown Portland. It's a big river. You can't miss it. There's also Willamette Valley, Willamette Falls, Willamette Boulevard, and a few hundred businesses all called Willamette something-or-other. Out-of-state tourists say Willa-met.”
Allison had been busy destroying the evidence of her deceit. She put the shredded shibboleth in the ashtray. I asked how much money she had.
“I can pay for my food if that's what you mean.”
“I don't want you to pay for your food. I want to know how much money you have.”
“I'm not sure.”
“Well, count it.”
She picked up the salt and pepper shakers from the center of the table and lined them up neatly on her side of the napkin holder. “I have thirty-seven dollars,” she said, without counting anything.
“Any credit cards?”
“No.”
“What are you planning to do in Portland with thirty-seven dollars and one blue dress?”
She pushed the shakers a quarter-inch closer to the napkin holder. “I'll be all right.”
“What were you doing in Allentown?”
“Nothing.”
“How'd you get there?”
She put the salt shaker on my side of the napkin holder, poking it gently back so it balanced the pepper shaker.
“Were you with someone who went off and left you there?”
“No.”
“You walked?”
“No.” She put both shakers in front of the napkin holder, aligning them with military precision. “I asked a man to give me a ride.”
“Why'd you want to go to Allentown?”
“I didn't. I mean, I did. Well, I didn't exactly. I heard him say he was going there. I thought it would be bigger.” She gave the pepper shaker a vicious little jab. “I don't know why they call it a town anyway.”
“Mr. Allen was an optimist. If you were already hitchhiking, why try to steal my car? I offered you a ride.”
“He was old.”
“Jack the Ripper could have been ninety for all anyone knows. Where were you when he picked you up?”
“I was in Pendleton.”
“
What were you doing there?”
“Nothing.”
“You do a lot of that. Do you know someone in Pendleton?” She shook her head and I asked, “How'd you get there?”
“On a bus.”
“From Portland, right? You flew into Portland from somewhere in the eastern time zone and took a bus to Pendleton.” She looked at her watch then covered it with her right hand. “Am I right?” She nodded, just barely. “Why go to Pendleton if you don't anybody there?”
“Just… because.”
“Nobody goes to eastern Oregon just because.”
She stared out the window and chewed on her lower lip. I finished my coffee and picked up the check. “You ready to go?”
She turned to face me. “I went to Pendleton to meet someone. It didn't work out. So I left.”
“Without your luggage?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Her gaze dropped to my chest. “The airline lost my suitcase.”
“We can stop by the airport when we get to town and see if they found it.”
She turned a nice shade of pink. When she spoke, she stared at the wall behind my head. Maintaining eye contact while lying is an acquired art. “I already called them. I told them to send it back to… to where I live.” Her hand hovered over the pepper shaker briefly then she made a minute adjustment of the napkin holder's position. “I told them I was going home. I want to but I don't have enough money.” She twisted a strand of hair around finger then yanked it loose. “I don't suppose you could lend me some money,” she said, looking me right in the eye. “I can pay you back.”
“I could do that.” The look of relief on her face was painful to see. It was even more painful to watch it fade as I said, “There are some conditions though. I want to know your real name and where you live and I want to talk to your folks and be sure they know what you're doing.”
“You can't go home again” is the runaway's creed. She resumed her lip-chewing and window-gazing. I tapped the check on the table and considered what she had told me. If she'd gone to Pendleton to meet someone, the someone was undoubtedly a man and he could have made her mad enough or upset enough to walk off without her luggage. If there wasn't anyone in Pendleton, she had either left home in a mighty big hurry or she couldn't leave with a suitcase without being stopped. I was inclined to believe there was someone in Pendleton. Otherwise, it would have made a lot more sense for her to stay in Portland when she got off the plane instead of wasting money on a bus trip to the boondocks. Either way, she was alone and broke and thousands of miles from home. And she was wrong. She wouldn't be all right in Portland.
Cat's-Paw, Inc. Page 5
