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

I had concerns, but they weren’t about my father’s chances of survival. It sounded like my father could end up taking a dirt nap from his injuries. This wasn’t bothering me as much as it probably would have if I hadn’t already assumed he was on permanent siesta. Maybe this was unnaturally cold
in a child
, but my mother
—
who was the only person who had ever cared for my father
—
was long dead. No one could tell on me for being a bad daughter.

“I’m sorry. But that’s the truth. My father never loved me. I never loved him. At least, if I did, I can’t remember it. If he’s looking for me now it’s because he wants something that he thinks I have. Probably money to pay off a loan
shark or a drug dealer. In any event, it isn’t for auld lang syne.”

“Then why are you going?
Why take the risk?
” Chuck asked. It was a reasonable question.

“Because I have to know how he found me. I have to know who else he’s told about me. If he’s promised the wrong people I’ll pay his debts or something then I need to know.
And so does everyone else in t
he Gulch.
” I paused
and had a dreadful thought. Was there some kind of reward money for turning me in? Was that how my father planned to pay off his debts?
Supposing he lived.
Was there a trap waiting for me even now?
“Mostly I have to know if
the authorities have found me and if
I need to hide again.”

Chuck looked as grim as I felt. I couldn’t blame him. It’s hard to have a relationship with a woman who needs to hide from the world. Long-distance romances rarely work out well
even without legal complications
.

Poor Chuck. He mostly knew about my past already. Which included my shifty father and my brush with ecoterrorists when I was a teen. And he also knew that I was innovative and resourceful
—
and, okay, lucky
—
so I would probably do this on my own if he wouldn’t help.

But the truth is that I was even less thrilled with this idea
o
f
going on the lam than he was
.
I wanted to go on the run about as much as I wanted to be shot by the staple
gun I had been using to reupholster the seats of my mismatched kitchen chairs.
And I would have to run if I couldn’t prove I was safe
from intrusion
.
So though the thought of crossing border
and seeing this man I loathed
made me sick to my stomach, it was still the lesser of evils.

“Okay, I know a good place to do this. Let’s think it through though before we do something dumb. We should change your appearance. Just in case you’re seen and questions get asked later. You need to blend in.
They probably have a file with your photo in it somewhere. Maybe you
r
student union card.
Some places use facial recognition software.
And there could be police at the hospital, if this wasn’t an accident
,
so you’ll need a story
.
”

He meant my carrot
-
red hair that was as subtle as a neon sign. My face, too, was fairly distinctive with its heart shape and snowy white skin that would not tan. If I were a man I could grow a beard. Heck, if I were my grandmother I could grow a mustache. But I’m neither and the most distinguishing thing about me
—
about anyone from McIntyre’s Gulch
—
is
my
red hair.
No red hair, no connection to t
he Gulch
, no connection to that seventeen
-
year
-
old who had lived with those ecoterrorists
.

Okay, so dye or a wig was a good idea. I favored a wig. I’d tried coloring my hair years ago and it had just made it crabby and twice as wild. A wig would also change its length and style. Cut my hair short and I end up with a round shrub on my head. I wanted to look bland
,
forgettable
. Scary hair wouldn’t help.

“Is there some kind of store near here that’s open?” I asked. “Because I think it might be best to cross tonight.”

Before my courage deserted me. Before Chuck came to his senses
and called me a cab
.

“Night is best,” Chuck agreed. “And as it happens, I have a wig. It’s brown. I used it when I was undercover. It’s pretty ugly, but it will do.”

He leaned back in his chair and studied me. I couldn’t begin to guess what was going through his head.

“Trouble does seem to dog you,” he said at last. There was no anger in his voice. There might even have been some amusement.

“I don’t look for trouble. In fact, I dodge and duck and weave to avoid trouble. But sometimes it finds you anyway.”

Chuck nodded.

“Sometimes it does.”

Chapter 3

Breathing was difficult because the space was small and smelled of tire.
I had argued against Chuck actually driving over the border, but he had been adamant. His danger as well as my own had me nearer to panic than I liked.
Also, I think my nerves had me inhaling too quickly and I was using up oxygen faster than it could leak inside. Slowing
my breaths
seemed impossible though once we reached the border’s bright lights and I heard voices. The wine that should have fortified me against hysteria had worn off. Panic was creeping in. My head itched under my wig.
Why had I let Chuck talk me into this? I should be sneaking over the border alone, not having him drive me through a busy checkpoint.

Oh, God
, I prayed.
Please don’t let Chuck get caught. Or me either
.

Prayer wasn’t helping. My heart kept thudding, my lungs kept panting.

Enough!
I scolded myself. The only thing that
would
give Chuck away was fogged up windows. I had to calm down.
Panic wouldn’t help.
I needed to be calm.

I made myself
lie
still
and slowed my breathing
,
forcing my brain to
the
belie
f
that Chuck had hidden me adequately under the tarp, car blanket
,
and flat tire resting on my legs. The fishing rods were a nice choice, a barrier they could see through but one that helped obscure me.
Everything looked innocent.

I would be fine. Chuck would be fine. He was a Mountie. Probably they wouldn’t search his car at all.
I just needed to be still for a few minutes more and it would all be over.

*  *  *

Inspector Goodhead sat in line in his Range Rover behind two other cars at the border service port between Emerson, Manitoba, and Pembina, North Dakota.
Although it was cool outside, he was sweating bullets and trying hard to remain calm.
He turned the heater off and unbuttoned his coat in a futile attempt to stop sweating.
More than once since he had buried Butterscotch under a mountain of blankets and supplies back in Emerson, he had considered calling the whole thing off.
But he hadn’t.
Now he was trapped, like a rabbit in a snare.

Why was he doing this, he asked himself for the hundredth time.
After all, he could end up losing his job and Butterscotch could go to prison
—
for life even.
Was he showing off or was it simply the thrill of defying his superiors that had driven him to this insanity?
Or was it something deeper, such as the strong feelings that he harbored for the woman in the back of his vehicle
?
Whatever it was that had sparked him to action, it was rapidly dwindling now that the cold hard reality of the situation in which he found himself was beginning to sink in.

The car two lengths ahead of his pulled away from the inspection station and he advanced.
He was on deck.
One more car to go and he would be in the batter’s box.
He suddenly realized that he had to use the restroom, urgently.

He heard a loud thump from the back of his
R
over as Butterscotch shifted position
,
and said a silent prayer that she’d stay still during the actual inspection.
He watched as the officer stepped out of his booth to accept the papers handed him by the driver of the vehicle ahead of his.
The officer stepped into the booth and soon returned, handing the driver his papers and flag
ging
him on through the station.

Inspector Goodhead drove up to the booth, turned off his ignition, and rolled down his window.

“Good evening, officer,” Chuck said, trying to sound casual but feeling self-conscious.

“Good evening, sir.
May I see your passport, driver’s license, and proof of insurance?” The kid in the uniform looked hardly old enough to shave.

Knowing what to expect, the inspector had gathered all the required paperwork beforehand and set it on the passenger seat beside him.
He now picked up the pile and passed it through the open window.
Then he waited to be flagged on, trying to remain calm. Belated
ly
he wondered if some kind of flag had been set against his name by whoever had been looking for the black box in McIntyre’s Gulch.

The
American
officer who had taken his papers stepped back into his lighted booth to examine each piece individually.
He was whip thin, weedy.
He wore a dark uniform with the Canadian Border Patrol emblem emblazoned on the sleeve of his heavy coat and some form of gold emblem holding up the brim of his fur lined hat.
Chuck watched as his papers were examined before the officer stepped back out to his car.

“Canadian Mountie, huh?” the officer asked.
He sounded unfriendly.

“Yep, that’s right.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Duluth.”

“How long do you plan on staying in the country?”

“Two days.”

What was with all the questions
?
Chuck’s mind screamed
.
The young officer hadn’t asked this many questions of the two drivers ahead of him.

“Are you entering the country on business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.
I’m going to see a friend.”

“Who is that?”

Chuck froze for an instant.
He tried to think.

“John Smith,” he blurted.

“Where does Mr. Smith live?”

“I don’t remember.
I’d have to consult my driving instruction
s
.”

Chuck figured that he’d somehow managed to pass the interview when it looked like the CBP officer was about to hand his paperwork back to him.
But then he was blinded by a flashlight shined in his face.

“Are you feeling alright, sir?”

“Fine.”

“Then why are you sweating so hard?”

“I have a
slight
fever.”

“I see.
Maybe you should step out of your vehicle.”

“Why?”

“Sir, please step out of your vehicle.”

“You didn’t make the others step out of their vehicles.”

“I’m only going to ask one more time.
Please, step out of your vehicle.”

Chuck felt his bladder nearly let go as he removed his keys from the ignition and opened the door.
Climbing out on shaky legs, he found that he was several inches taller than the young CBP officer.
This
gave him no added confidence or
feeling of superiority.
He stepped aside as the officer shined his flashlight into the front seat of his car.

“Do you have any weapons inside your vehicle?”

“No.
I left my service revolver back in my apartment.”

“Would you please open the back of your vehicle?”

Oh no, now we’re in for it
, Chuck realized.
But still, there was nothing else he could do.
Leading the CBP officer to the back of his Range Rover, he unlocked the rear door and swung it open.
The officer shined his light inside and was reaching to dig through Butterscotch’s cover when he was interrupted by the sound of a loud siren.

“What’s that?” Chuck asked, nearly jumping out of his skin.

“It’s the emergency call.
Someone found something,” the officer replied, looking to the second booth over, the one with the red light flashing above its stall.