Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

“Do you need any help?”

“Just get into your vehicle and drive,” the officer replied, handing back Chuck’s paperwork while obviously distracted by the action taking place nearby.

The CBP officer took just long enough to raise the gate and flag Chuck through before pulling his firearm and running to the scene of all the activity.
Chuck pulled away from the inspection station trying not to drive too fast.
Merging onto the I-
29
he released a huge sigh of relief.
At the same time, he realized that he didn’t have to use the facilities any more.
He said another silent prayer that he hadn’t soiled himself.

He pulled off at a rest stop in Pembina and climbed out of his car.
That
wa
s
where he began having his
first ever
conniption.

*  *  *

I cautiously let myself out of the back of Chuck’s Range Rover only to find that he was having a conniption. Leaning over, hands on knees, he looked like he was going to be ill.
His face was flushed red and he was covered in sweat.

“Chuck?”

Something damp splatted against my cheek.
The sky was darkening. The moon
had
disappeared and ozone built up around us. Birds were huddling on tree branch
es
and wires, bracing for the worst. It was going to rain like Doomsday
and we were getting strange looks from passing cars
. We were also too close to the border for my liking, but first things first.

I’d never seen Chuck lose it before, not even in a blizzard with
the Russian mafia holding half t
he Gulch hostage. Of course he was entitled to a meltdown. Hell, I’d been on the verge myself and might have flipped out if his reaction hadn’t averted my own panic attack.

“What the hell was I thinking? What the hell were you thinking? Are you crazy?
You don’t even love your father!
” he demanded
,
looking up at me. There was real anger there. “We could have been shot! Arrested!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and was. “I should never have told you about any of this. Look, just leave me here. I’ll catch a ride with one of the trucks coming through. I’ll find some other way home when I’m done.”

Chuck looked like I had slapped him.
Slowly color drained from his face.

“Really, it’s okay
, Chuck
. Just go. Get out while you can. I can take care of myself.”

“No. It’s not okay,” he finally said, straightening
completely
. “I apologize for that. I shouldn’t have said it. It isn’t right to blame you. The reality was just worse than I imagined.
I don’t like lying
and that guard was crazy
.
”

“Blame me. It’s okay to be angry about this. Hell, I’m angry. This creature who fathered me has never brought anything but suffering into my life. It spills over on everyone sooner or later
—
but I shouldn’t have let it touch you. I should have pushed you away long ago. I’m poison.” I wasn’t shouting but my voice was too loud.
I made an effort to bring it back down.

“No.” This sounded more definite. He managed a small smile. “I was looking at things the wrong way. We should be celebrating. We did it. It’s my first time smuggling
someone over the border
and I got away with it
.”

“Huh.” I appreciated the sentiment, but was too tired to celebrate, too tired to even be truly angry at the man who had caused it. Euphoria and rage would both have to wait until I had slept.
It had been an impossibly long day and I felt like I had left my soul and sanity somewhere behind me.
“So, you aren’t leaving?”

“Absolutely not. Hell, the rest will be easy compared with this.”

“Then do you mind if we get a motel room
?
I’ve hit the wall and need a couple hour
s
’ rest
before we go on
.”
This was true. Suddenly it felt like my legs couldn’t carry me.
The rising wind might even carry me away.

“Okay.”

We didn’t hug. We just got back in the Rover and started looking for a vacancy sign.

“Was it this bad when you crossed the first time? How long did you feel nervous after?” Chuck asked quietly. Lightning flickered in the distance and rain began to fall
in a sheer curtain
. Chuck turned on the wipers. “You were only a kid. You must have been terrified.”

“I was scared witless. And I’ve never stopped being nervous. I’ve spent the last decade looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to catch up with me.” I didn’t look at Chuck, and I didn’t add what I was thinking
,
which was
why couldn’t my son of
a
bitch father be dead?
“Even in
t
he Gulch I
sometimes
don’t feel completely safe.”

Because the Gulch was full of people with pasts that could catch up with them,
just as mine had, and
some
had history that was
worse than mine. My life
in McIntyre’s Gulch
was built on a lie and therefore
was
fragile. But it was better than where I was that night
—
exposed without even a current ID
. I hadn’t planted the protective hedge of lies and illusions that grew around me
back home
. McIntyre’s Gulch had been an oasis for runaways long before I was born. But I had cultivated my shelter, living like a mouse in the hedgerow because it felt safe from most predators who were looking for an easy lunch. Now I was flushed out into the open and I didn’t like it. I was visible and danger could come from anywhere.

It was a good thing that Chuck hadn’t brought a gun along, because in that moment I might have swallowed it, I was so tired and despairing. Then I thought what else I could do with a gun and knew Chuck wouldn’t like that either
,
though I kind of viewed
getting rid of my father
as a public service.

We found a blinking sign announcing an available room about a mile down the road. It was a seedy motel, single story built in the 50s. That much was apparent even in the dark. But they took cash and
didn’t
check IDs
,
and
I figured that if the roof didn’t leak and the sheets were clean I would be happy.

Part of me wanted to make things right with Chuck, to try and return our relationship to normal by making love. Certainly I am not above the sins of the flesh, but it had been a very long day and I was running on empty. The need for sleep was at the top of my hierarchy of needs. I’d see how sex looked in the morning.

*  *  *

That night, Inspector Goodhead lay on his back in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.
His eyes were wide.
He was thinking instead of sleeping.
He could hear Butterscotch’s gentle
breathing
coming from the twin bed next to his.
He considered slipping out of his bed to join her, but knew that would be the wrong thing to do.
She was tired and besides, he didn’t relish being rebuffed along with everything else he’d had to endure this evening.

So instead he lay in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin and let his mind wander.

Though he didn’t like to admit it, the fact was that when he got near Butterscotch he had all the instincts for self-preservation as a moth near a candle
. He wasn’t sure if this was an entirely good
—
or bad
—
thing.

One recurring thought that haunted him was that he was about to meet Butterscotch’s father.
The eventual meeting could hardly be compared to the usual get acquainted ritual of dinner and drinks, but still he
was
curious.
And a part of him was still hoping that this would be some sort of deathbed reunion that would make all the bad stuff
in Butterscotch’s past
go away. Butterscotch’s father would ask for forgiveness and Butterscotch would give it, and then the father would give them his blessing….

For a moment
Chuck
wished that he had brought his dress uniform, which he thought made him look dapper, but then realized that appearing in such a getup would only look silly and call all kinds of attention to them that they didn’t need.

Another thought that intruded was for how he had planned on spending this evening, compared with how it had actually turned out.
But such waking fantasies only made him ache with desire, so he quickly chased those thoughts away. There would be another time. Maybe even soon.

With Butterscotch, life was a daring adventure. And that was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

Eventually he rolled on his side to watch the neon “Vacancy” sign blink on and off outside the window.
He was still watching when the sun rose early that morning.

Chapter 4

Depending on your perspective, the news about my father was encouraging. He was no longer a John Doe and he had been moved out of intensive care and into a room with less restrictive visiting hours. Oh boy. We could see
“
our uncle
”
right away.

Taking a last breath of supposedly sanitary air that choked the
cold,
tile corridor where the nurse had left us, we entered the small beige room that was filled with a bed, one metal table
,
and one uncomfortable chair.
There was a window but the curtain was drawn.
Things beeped and
red
lights flickered
as the monitor kept track of my father’s health
.

My father, the vessel for all things venial, looked up at me and pretended to smile. I didn’t. Frankly I was too shocked at the mileage on his face. They had been hard miles too. This
gray-haired
man in the hospital bed was old. It was hard to believe that he was the wheel on which my mother’s heart and my childhood w
ere
broken.

Still, for all that there were
casts on his legs
,
an
IV in his arm
,
and
liver spots on his bruised hands
and face
, I was willing to bet those fingers were still clever, still quite capable of palming a card or picking a pocket
or stealing a wallet
and then sneaking away
,
even with crutches and plaster slowing him down
.

“You came.” I thought he sounded a little surprised.
But also triumphant.
My father’s thought processes have always been original and alarming.
I had given up trying to guess his
true
beliefs
years ago.

“So how did you find me?” I asked, stepping a bit f
a
rther into the room. My voice wasn’t warm but I wasn’t shouting either. I hate hospitals and would never go to one, but I respect the fact that there are sick people there and quiet lets them rest.

“And who is this with you?”
m
y father asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Chuck. He’s a friend,” I said briefly
,
not wanting t
he Mountie to give any information to this man
.
My father wasn’t above blackmail.
“So how did you find me?”

“Hello, Chuck. You can call me Lucky.”

I snorted.
Lucky
. That came from an older nickname,
Irish
. As in
the luck of the Irish
.
Which
I suspect
was sarcasm because the Irish, historically speaking, were not all that lucky.

“How did you find me?” My voice was harder but not louder, and I knew Chuck was looking at me though I couldn’t guess what he was thinking.
Maybe that I was being a bitch
, speaking sharply at a sick man
.

“Newspaper,” he finally said. “I was picking up some stuff
—
”
Stuff
.
In this case, since they sold newspapers, t
hat meant alcohol or cigarettes
, not illegal drugs
. “And there you were right by the cash register. Did you really find Bigfoot?
There could be some money in that.
”