You Can't Go Home Again...
Mill Springs, 50 miles.
The hand-painted sign greeted her from the side of the
road, part of an advertisement for Hillside Gas & Food.
Beneath it perched a more precarious seasonal sign
declaring Hunters Welcome.
Meanwhile, no signs of further interest in the Taurus, no
random acts of stupid motorists in her path, no signs of
construction on roads turned classically wretched at the
state line...another hour and she'd be there. Not bad,
considering the state of the car--and that she'd turned
off the interstate to travel quieter roads as soon as the
opportunity arose. She'd also taken advantage of another
short break to apply a metallic blue eye shadow and pull
her almost non-existent bangs aside with a tiny plastic
barrette, and to play with her long-buried accent. I'm Baw-
nie Miller...
The hilly Pennsylvania woods unrolled before her, full of
waxing fall color; the number of dead deer by the road
reminded her that it was indeed the Whitetail's most
active season. Just another of the memories she'd put
behind her that now flooded back full force, erasing the
intervening years as if she hadn't crawled out of this
place on pure grit and desperation. Foolish to have
brought the camera...she needed no pictures of this area.
But she snarled back at those memories. This trip wasn't
about the past, no matter what Owen might think. It was
about the present, and a woman in danger. It was about the
way Kimmer had changed her life so she was the one who
could deal with such situations--instead of running from
them.
It was about the way she needed to put gas in this game
little car.
As promised, the entrance for Hillside Gas & Food appeared
just beyond the next curve, although the sign over the gas
pumps had taken some wear and now read Hillside Gas & Foo.
The pumps themselves were old enough that they didn't take
credit cards; gas purchase was purely via honor system.
Kimmer filled the nearly empty tank and pulled the car
away from the pumps and off to the side. She checked to
see that her little red barrette hadn't slipped, took a
deep breath that somehow felt necessary, and headed for
the store.
Bells announced her arrival. She found an older man behind
the counter, thinning white hair in a half-hearted comb-
over, cheeks raspy red from the same rosaceae that had
roughened his nose. He nodded when she told him "Fifteen
dollars," and went to wander briefly through the store,
trying to decide between caffeine in frappachino or
caffeine in Mountain Dew, smiling slightly at the man's
instant curiosity and his following gaze. A little bored,
a little nosy...harmless combination. Just enough of a
proprietary nature to let her know he owned the place.
The glass-front shelves held plenty of dairy and plenty of
beer, but nothing so esoteric as her favorite cold coffee;
she grabbed the soda instead. A few desultory cans of soup
caught her eye; she snagged one, hefting it thoughtfully.
Lunch? Peanut butter crackers would be easier to eat on
the road...
Reluctantly, she decide to return the soup to the shelf--
but the door bells jangled and when she glanced up at the
new customers, surprise rooted her to the spot.
Two of them. Tall and blond and sturdy. Kimmer snapped off
an inward curse, and not a nice one. The very people she
was trying to avoid on this road... And as Ryobe Carlsen
held the door for his cousin Carolyne, he said with
straight-man humor, "I don't know about you, but I'm ready
for some good Foo."
The man at the counter gave a hearty but insincere
laugh. "Gotta get that sign fixed one of these days."
Kimmer eased back slightly. She would just stay here and
examine the soup can until they left, head bent, body
language small and inconspicuous--while still taking
advantage of this first opportunity to scope them out in
person. Knowing better than to think too hard about it,
but just taking the impressions and trusting them.
Carolyne Carlsen...a tall woman, figure hidden beneath a
worn sweatshirt with a patchwork design on the front,
pretty features marred by smudgy circles under her eyes
and a wrinkle of worry on her brow. Tense, for certain.
Tired, and not the kind of woman who easily withstood this
kind of stress. She headed straight for the back corner of
the store that held the bathrooms, lugging a shapeless
crochet purse. Still...not as worried as you should be,
Kimmer silently told the woman's retreating back. Not
given the tail Kimmer had shaken that morning.
Whatever the trip had held for them, it didn't seem to
have affected Carolyne's cousin. He moved with relaxed
strides--not the fluid power of some strong men, but with
a matter-of-fact presence. Only in retrospect did she see
the strength and confidence there.
She bet he fooled a lot of people.
He grabbed some Oreo cookies and a couple of colas, paid
for his purchases and the gas he'd just pumped, and leaned
against the counter to wait for Carolyne, somehow failing
to knock over any of the gimmicky cardboard displays of
fishing lures, Steelers memorabilia, and spiced jerky
sticks. His driver's license photo hadn't done him any
more justice than such pictures ever did. They hadn't
truly conveyed the astonishing lines of his face, a
perfect combination of strong Danish bones and lean
Japanese angles.
Kimmer deliberately loosened her suddenly tight grip
around the soup can. If there was one thing she knew how
to do, it was to admire a man as object, not as
individual. Even this man, radiating his presence so
loudly that Kimmer felt the heat from here.
And the longer Carolyne took, the more obvious it became
that Kimmer just stood there. She abruptly crouched down,
pretending to examine an item on the lowest shelf. Pork
and beans, extra flavor nuggets! As near as she could tell
the flavor nuggets were lumps of lard. Yum.
Rio tore open the Oreos and popped one into his mouth;
after a moment he inclined the bag toward the store owner,
who caught on with delayed surprise and shook his head.
Kimmer heard another car pull into the small gravel
parking area; she thought nothing of it. Not until she saw
the doubt on the store owner's face, and the small step he
took back from the counter. Not until Rio Carlsen glanced
out the door, straightened, and put the cookies on that
counter to murmur, "Watch those a moment, will you?"
Damn. Did I miss a secondary tail? No one could have found
them through Scott Boyle, who knew less than Kimmer about
Carolyne's destination. And it was hard to believe anyone
with Rio's background could miss a tail all the way
between here and Albany...
Could just be a local tough with bad timing...
Kimmer stood just as Carolyne came out of the ladies'
room, all her attention on the palm pilot upon which she
swiftly worked her stylus and none at all on the enlarging
population of the store. Two men strode through the door,
all but taking up all the air in the room. Not local
toughs, oh no. BeeGees. Bad Guys. Goonboys. All the same
to Kimmer, interchangeable and less-than-affectionate
nicknames.
These particular goonboys were big, well-groomed...a
definite city look to them. And while they might have
thought they'd struck a casual note with their polo shirts
tight over beefy muscle and barely worn jeans, their
intensity of purpose came through loud and clear. Carolyne
missed it as she came to stop at the end of the counter,
frowning fiercely at her notes and completely unaware that
as soon as they arrived, they aimed that intensity of
purpose right at her.
They should have paid more attention to Rio. Kimmer did.
She hid a small smile at his minimalist tactics...for he
merely stuck out his foot, and sent the foremost goonboy
sprawling across the floor. The cardboard Steelers
memorabilia display went down, striking Carolyn; she
leaped back, head jerking up and eyes going wide as she
suddenly realized the situation developing around her.
"Caro," Rio said, not raising his voice at all as he
stepped in front of the second goonboy, "get in the car.
Lock it and go."
"I'm calling 9-1-1," the store owner blurted, groping
around under the counter, his gaze darting from Rio to the
second goonboy to Carolyne.
Carolyne looked startled. "I can't go without you--"
"Do it," he said, and this time his voice held a steely
tone that widened Carolyn's eyes.
Probably her first glimpse of Rio Carlsen, spy boy. Kimmer
had seen the like often enough; she stayed small and quiet-
-and ready. But Carolyne had already lost her chance.
While Rio stood in the path of the second man, his stance
almost as casual as he'd been with his cookies at the
counter, Kimmer eased around the end of the aisle in time
to see the first man getting to his feet, his face ruddy
with anger and embarrassment--and also filled with more
determination than Kimmer liked to see in a goonboy.
Beside the counter, the second man growled something low
and threatening; Rio responded without heat. "I don't
think so." And then Kimmer left the moment to him, for
Carolyne had gone into retreat, skipping backwards toward
the bathroom she'd just vacated as her assailant lunged at
her.
Can of soup. Bad guy. No brainer.
Kimmer pitched the can with a wicked arm.
As chicken noodle bounced off the man's head, Carolyne
finally turned to flee, running along the wall coolers,
taking out a display tree of chips, and heading for the
door. Good. She was their weak spot, and now she'd bolted
out of reach. Kimmer pulled the short, stout toothpick
blade from her pocket and flicked aside the stubby leather
sheath, covering the short aisle in a quick pounce. A
glance showed her that Rio had shifted again, keeping
himself between Carolyne and her would-be kidnapper but
also effectively blocking the door so she couldn't escape.
Just hold him off a moment--
Her own goonboy rolled on the floor with a surfeit of
cursing, blood gushing from his ear. Kimmer just barely
heard the store owner in the background, shouting into the
phone. "Send someone, quick! There's a big fight in my
store--there's blood!"
There was indeed blood. There might even be more. Kimmer
landed knee-first on the goonboy; she thought she felt a
rib give way beneath her. It got his attention; he might
have flung her right back off again if he hadn't felt the
cold flat of her knife on his face, pressing down against
his cheek with the tip brushing his lower lashes.
He blinked again, letting his lower lashes brush the knife
to confirm its presence. For an instant he considered
taking his chances; Kimmer pushed the knife down, dimpling
the skin but not cutting it. "Let's be quick about this,"
she said, Bonnie Miller's accent fully in place. "Unless
you'd still like to be here when the police arrive?"
"Who the hell are you?" His words came out muffled thanks
to her knuckles against his mouth, but she found them
understandable enough.
"Someone who wants answers," she said. And who doesn't
want anyone else to hear me get them. "How'd you find
them?"
His eyes, already quite full of seething anger, made room
for perplexity.
"All right then, how'd you find her?"
Understanding dawned. Cooperation didn't.
She twisted her fingers in his collar, glanced back over
at Rio as he staggered back into a display of small
Styrofoam coolers. He took his opponent with him, and she
looked down again, meeting enough of a sneer that she
sneered back and drew a careful pinprick of blood from the
tender flesh of the goonboy's lower eyelid. He squirmed,
surprised, bucking slightly beneath her. She hissed at
him. "Don't do that, you jerk! Or are you already blind in
that eye?" He stilled; she leaned closer, lowering her
voice as the store owner drew closer in horrified
fascination, the phone drooping from his hand; she covered
the short blade of her knife with her thumb, hiding it
from prying eyes. "Did you tail me?"
"You?" He'd gone still; no doubt he could feel the little
trickle of blood down the side of his face. "I don't even
know who you are."
"Ex-softball pitcher," she told him, not taking time for
the curse that leaped to mind at the realization that
Carolyne had more than one set of goons on her
tail. "What'd you think of my curve ball?"