stop at sometimes. We can drop the trailer and be a little more mobile.” He watched closely in the mirror. “No sign of them."
"Chris, what if...."
"They were just tourists? I thought of that too late, of course. But then, why would she be waving that way? Why did she stay back and then, when reinforcements came, race up beside us? No, they were definitely after you—us."
"I'd feel awful if it turned out we just trashed some tourists and left them on the highway to die."
"Don't think the thought makes me happy. It didn't look like anyone got hurt if that makes you feel any better. You're my only concern right now.” He turned into the lot of a large gas station and waved to the attendant, a tall painfully thin man with long stringy hair and dingy overalls. One hand was invisible inside the bib section.
Chris backed the trailer expertly into a spot between a rusted Ford that looked like it hadn't been moved in years, and a border of elms at the back. “I want to check the damage to the truck and unhitch this thing. Climb on out, stretch your legs a little."
"Okay. In a minute. I have to do something."
"Me too, but I'll get this done first,” he said with a grin.
She used the porta-potty, washed her hands, then hunted for a hairbrush. In the drawer that held the cell phone, she found one with nylon bristles and hounds-tooth handle. She fluffed her natural hair into shape. As Paige returned the brush to the drawer, a grunt of satisfaction escaped her lips. Checking for Chris whereabouts, she drew out two keys tied together with a thick string, and dropped them into her jacket pocket.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fourteen
Paige stood to the side watching Chris while he worked. His eyes kept roving between her and the roadway. She wondered if he was looking out for their pursuers or waiting for her to make another dash for freedom.
They walked to the front of the station building where he greeted the attendant. “Hey buddy, what's shakin'?"
"Not much Christian, my man,” the thin man answered, one hand fumbling around inside the overalls, scratching upward along his collar bone, neck, and then to a spot just behind his left ear. “Major busy lately. They don't build cars like they used to. Guess I should be happy. Keeps the kids in sneakers.” His tinny laugh resounded inside Paige's head.
"Tom, this is Tracy Wilson. She's riding with me for a while."
"Tracy Wilson, eh?” He stopped scratching to greet her, and for one horrific moment, she feared he'd stick the hand out for her to shake.
"I went to school with a Tracy Wilson."
She feigned interest. “Did you?"
"Yep, one of the most popular kids in school, too. You know the type: always the center of attention, a big fancy car when the rest of us're driving old beaters. Trace, as they called him, had a fire engine red..."
Trace? A male? How did that compare to her?
"Old Trace wouldn't give me the time of day. Still doesn't. He owns the pharmacy downtown. Inherited it from his grandpa a coupla years ago."
Tom's roving hand reached out and pointed in what she assumed was the direction of town. She had a glimpse of black half moon fingernails and greasy crease lines as distinct as highways on a map, as the hand again traced a path to the bib area of his pants. She couldn't contain the shiver, disgusted by his mannerisms, but unable to look away, fearful that whatever he was scratching would somehow leap the four-foot distance between them.
She took a half step backwards.
"Tom helped me out of a big jam a while back,” Chris explained.
Tom's laugh rang out. “Like I suspect I'm going to again. Am I right?"
"Might be. Might be.” Chris took hold of Tom's sleeve—which made Paige wince—and the two stepped a few paces away. Chris turned so his back was to her. The men bent their heads together.
She shrugged and turned her concentration to the road in front of the station while the men chatted, Chris obviously discussing some sort of plan with his
"Chris, what if...."
"They were just tourists? I thought of that too late, of course. But then, why would she be waving that way? Why did she stay back and then, when reinforcements came, race up beside us? No, they were definitely after you—us."
"I'd feel awful if it turned out we just trashed some tourists and left them on the highway to die."
"Don't think the thought makes me happy. It didn't look like anyone got hurt if that makes you feel any better. You're my only concern right now.” He turned into the lot of a large gas station and waved to the attendant, a tall painfully thin man with long stringy hair and dingy overalls. One hand was invisible inside the bib section.
Chris backed the trailer expertly into a spot between a rusted Ford that looked like it hadn't been moved in years, and a border of elms at the back. “I want to check the damage to the truck and unhitch this thing. Climb on out, stretch your legs a little."
"Okay. In a minute. I have to do something."
"Me too, but I'll get this done first,” he said with a grin.
She used the porta-potty, washed her hands, then hunted for a hairbrush. In the drawer that held the cell phone, she found one with nylon bristles and hounds-tooth handle. She fluffed her natural hair into shape. As Paige returned the brush to the drawer, a grunt of satisfaction escaped her lips. Checking for Chris whereabouts, she drew out two keys tied together with a thick string, and dropped them into her jacket pocket.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fourteen
Paige stood to the side watching Chris while he worked. His eyes kept roving between her and the roadway. She wondered if he was looking out for their pursuers or waiting for her to make another dash for freedom.
They walked to the front of the station building where he greeted the attendant. “Hey buddy, what's shakin'?"
"Not much Christian, my man,” the thin man answered, one hand fumbling around inside the overalls, scratching upward along his collar bone, neck, and then to a spot just behind his left ear. “Major busy lately. They don't build cars like they used to. Guess I should be happy. Keeps the kids in sneakers.” His tinny laugh resounded inside Paige's head.
"Tom, this is Tracy Wilson. She's riding with me for a while."
"Tracy Wilson, eh?” He stopped scratching to greet her, and for one horrific moment, she feared he'd stick the hand out for her to shake.
"I went to school with a Tracy Wilson."
She feigned interest. “Did you?"
"Yep, one of the most popular kids in school, too. You know the type: always the center of attention, a big fancy car when the rest of us're driving old beaters. Trace, as they called him, had a fire engine red..."
Trace? A male? How did that compare to her?
"Old Trace wouldn't give me the time of day. Still doesn't. He owns the pharmacy downtown. Inherited it from his grandpa a coupla years ago."
Tom's roving hand reached out and pointed in what she assumed was the direction of town. She had a glimpse of black half moon fingernails and greasy crease lines as distinct as highways on a map, as the hand again traced a path to the bib area of his pants. She couldn't contain the shiver, disgusted by his mannerisms, but unable to look away, fearful that whatever he was scratching would somehow leap the four-foot distance between them.
She took a half step backwards.
"Tom helped me out of a big jam a while back,” Chris explained.
Tom's laugh rang out. “Like I suspect I'm going to again. Am I right?"
"Might be. Might be.” Chris took hold of Tom's sleeve—which made Paige wince—and the two stepped a few paces away. Chris turned so his back was to her. The men bent their heads together.
She shrugged and turned her concentration to the road in front of the station while the men chatted, Chris obviously discussing some sort of plan with his
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