Chasing the Skip (11 page)

“You’ll both stay in the truck,” Dad said. “I don’t want my daughter going with you to buy booze.”

“I was kidding, Max. You know me. Always a joker.”

Stan launched into a story about the days when he used to babysit his little sister when he was in high school. He rambled the rest of the way to North Platte, and Dad smiled so much that he didn’t ask about my homework once.

The Ramada wasn’t hard to find once we pulled off the freeway; it was taller than just about everything else in town. Dad parked down the street from it. He pulled a pair of binoculars out from under his seat and peered up at the hotel windows.

“Didn’t know you were such a peeping Tom, Max,” Stan said.

“You know how it is,” Dad said. “I take what I can get.”

“You’re not likely to find him by looking at the hotel, are you?” I asked.

“I’m checking the windows. Skips are always looking out the windows, especially when they know they’re being followed.”

“Well? Do you see him?”

Dad shook his head. “Sheers are drawn in some of the rooms, though. That means they can see out and I can’t see in.”

The sun cast a golden glare on the building, adding shine to some of the windows. That probably didn’t help.

Dad sighed. “Time to go hassle the clerk. You watch Ricki for me, okay, Stan?”

Stan saluted, and Dad climbed out of the car. “You be careful,” he mouthed at me.

I nodded, and Dad turned and ran down the street to the front doors of the hotel.

North Platte, Nebraska.

Days since Mom left: 31.

Distance from Salt Lake City: 659 miles.

10

Stan stretched his arms over his head until they tapped the ceiling of the truck. Then he rolled down his window and stuck his head out.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Stan said to me. “I’m going to take a little walk.”

“You’re supposed to stay here,” I said. “If you go get a drink, who’ll look out for me?”

“Well, see, I’m not going to go very far.” Stan was already pulling up on the door handle, but the door didn’t open. It must have a child lock. I relaxed. That’s why Dad hadn’t bothered to chain Stan before he left.

I needed to get him talking. “So,” I said, “you have a girlfriend, Stan?”

“I got me some lady friends. Don’t like to stick to just one, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m too much man to settle down.”

“Sure you just can’t get a woman to keep you?”

“Have you had a look at me?” Stan asked, motioning to his chest. His shirt collar was tattered at the seams, and his shirt looked to be two sizes too big.

“Do you have a job?” I asked.

“Not often.”

Listening to this was depressing. “Do you think maybe you should get one?” I asked.

Stan shrugged. “I get one now and again. They don’t last too long, though.”

“You forget to show up?”

“Forget to show up sober, anyway.”

That surprised me. I hadn’t realized Stan knew he was a drunk.

“People have got all these rules,” he continued. “You know how it is.”

I thought of Dad and his obsession with the law. Maybe he kept all those rules because he was afraid of turning out like this—like a skip.

“I’ll be going now,” Stan said, rising in his seat. His shoulders hunched over against the ceiling.

“I’d really like you to stay,” I said. “This neighborhood scares me.” I looked around. We were in a pretty nice section of town—no reason to be scared here.

Instead of arguing with me, Stan rolled over the back of Dad’s seat and landed on the bench on his hands and knees. He pushed open Dad’s door, almost nicking the mirror of a passing car. The car honked and sped off down the road, but Stan climbed out into the street anyway without looking. I cringed, expecting the next car to run him right over, but instead he shut the truck door again and disappeared behind the trailer.

“Hey, where are you going?” I asked. “My dad’s going to be mad.”

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be right back.”

I sighed. Dad couldn’t possibly expect me to wrestle Stan into the back seat.

I leaned out the window, watching Stan as he ambled toward a strip mall across the street. At the end, next to an aquarium store, sat a dimly lit bar. No big surprise there. Still, the contrast of Stan’s dim form against the neon liquor lights looked sad. I wondered how he came to be this way, wandering around, happy to be at a bar and not really aware of anything else in his life. Dad might be half a loser, but seeing a whole loser really put things in perspective.

I sighed as Stan swung the door open and stepped inside. Most I could do now was try to coax him back before Dad returned to find us both gone.

I grabbed Dad’s clipboard and scribbled him a note with an arrow pointing toward the bar, and then opened the door and hopped out of the truck.

This bar had more people in it, probably because it was nearing evening. A wiry guy in one of the booths looked up at me. He was wearing a camo shirt, rolled up at the sleeves to reveal a network of spider-web tattoos running up the inside of his arms. He flashed me a crooked smile. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, “can I buy you a drink?”

I walked quickly away from the booth. Mom said that it was better to ignore creeps when they tried to hit on you, because actually talking to them just gave them the attention they wanted.

Stan had already settled himself on a stool.

This room had the same smell as the last bar—the reek of bodies mixed with the tang of alcohol. I knew Mom went to bars sometimes, but now, having been in two in one day, I couldn’t imagine the appeal.

“Hey,” I said. “Why don’t you get a drink and bring it back to the car?”

“Nah,” Stan said. “Half the fun is sitting and talking. Why don’t you take a seat?”

I could see the bartender wiping down the other end of the bar, already giving me the evil eye.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to be in here.”

“You’re a pretty girl. You can flirt your way in.” Stan gave me a big grin, so I thought he might be joking, but I didn’t know him well enough to be sure.

The bartender walked over to us. “You lost?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “I’m here for him.” I pointed at Stan.

“She’s my bounty hunter’s daughter,” Stan said. “Could you get us each a drink?”

The bartender raised his eyebrows at the news that Stan had himself a bounty hunter, but he didn’t comment. “I’ll need to see some ID first,” he said, looking at me.

I could flash my fake ID. Dad would love that.

The only ID I had besides that was my high school card, which had
SOPHOMORE
embossed across the top in big blue letters.

“We both need to be getting back to the car,” I said, tugging on Stan’s sleeve. I hoped he wouldn’t take that as permission to touch me.

“My bounty hunter will be looking for me, I expect,” he said to the bartender. “Can you get me a beer to go?”

“I’m not serving anyone until I see some ID.” He was still looking at me, which was kind of funny, since Stan was the one who’d ordered the beer.

Stan waved at the door. “All right, honey. You better get back and tell your dad where to find me.”

“I left him a note,” I said.

“Great,” the bartender said. “But I’m still going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I just got here,” Stan said. “Haven’t even gotten my first drink.”

“Not you. The girl.”

“I’ll pay for hers.”

“Not unless she shows some ID, you won’t,” the bartender said.

“Fine,” I said, nodding at Stan. “I’ll wait for you outside.” I stepped out the door and leaned against the glass storefront. If I leaned just right, I could see Stan sitting at the bar even through the tinted glass. At least this way he wouldn’t disappear while I was supposed to be watching him, and I could also flag down Dad when he returned.

I glanced toward the truck to see if Dad had come back yet, and a wave of cold washed over me. The truck was gone, trailer and all.

North Platte, Nebraska.

Seconds since the truck disappeared: 10.

Distance from Salt Lake City: 659 miles.

11

I stood staring at the place where the truck had been. Dad couldn’t have left me here, with no one but Stan. What could have happened to make him drive off like that? Had he gotten a lead and run off chasing Ian? He’d probably be pissed that I wasn’t in the truck, but technically I was watching Stan like I was supposed to, so I’d actually done what he asked.

I took a slow breath. What should I do? Dad would be coming back once he caught up with Ian. But how long would that be?

Even if Dad was only gone a few minutes, I was still stuck with the anxiety of waiting, of not knowing. Of living with the slim chance that he wouldn’t come back at all.

Right then Dad walked back down the street from the direction he’d come, striding his “I’m in charge” stride.

Heat flushed into my cheeks and stomach. Part of me felt like an eight-year-old kid, wanting to hug him for not taking off without telling me. How messed up was I that him not screwing me over felt like a reason to be grateful? He hadn’t left at all, for however short a time. But if he was there, and I was here, and Stan was in the bar, where was the truck?

I looked up at the Ramada. It had to be Ian.

Dad looked over at me, and I thought I saw relief in his face before his features stretched into anger.

“Where the hell is the truck?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What did you do with it?”

“What did I do with it? I left you with it, that’s what I did. How did Stan manage to get the keys?”

“Stan? He’s in the bar. I went in after him, so he wouldn’t get away, and when I came back out…”

“Shit,” Dad said, spitting the word out like the shell of a sunflower seed. He kicked at the asphalt. He’d come to the same conclusion I had.

“Ian,” I said.

“Ian.” Dad walked over to where the truck and trailer had been, kicking at something next to the curb. As I walked closer, I could see it was the clipboard—the one with the note I’d left on the dash for Dad. More swear words poured from his mouth. Dad didn’t usually swear around me.

“What is it?” I asked, walking up to him.

He had his jaw clenched like he was trying to stem the flow of his language. He held my note up for me to see. At the bottom, in scrawled handwriting, was another note.

Been waiting for you, bounty man
, it read.
Thanks for the truck.

Dad’s hand went to his pocket, then reached for his forehead, like it couldn’t decide where to be.

“Your cell phone was in the truck,” I said.

“He must have been watching for us,” he said. “He tried to use the card. He figured we’d trace it, so he knew we were coming, and he already had the keys.” Dad swore again. “Stan’s in the bar?”

“Having a beer.”

Dad turned around and stalked toward the bar. “I need to use their phone,” he said.

I followed Dad. It was hard to believe that Ian had been right here on the street while I was inside arguing with Stan and the bartender. I wondered if he would have approached us if Stan and I had still been in the truck. Would he have stolen us both away?

The bartender glared as I walked in, but Dad waved him over. “Our truck was stolen,” he said. “Can I make a few phone calls?”

The bartender looked surprised, then pulled a cordless phone out from under the register.

“Thanks,” Dad said. “You know of any rental-car places around here?”

“There’s a small one in town, over by the Jiffy Lube,” he said. “It’s a long walk, though. My shift ends in twenty minutes, if you want a ride.”

“I’ll take it,” Dad said. “I’ll even pay you for your trouble.”

“Keep your money. It’s not far out of my way. I can’t let her stay, though.”

“Is there a library nearby?” Dad asked.

“It’s within walking distance. Just around the block.”

“Come on, Stan,” Dad said. “We’ll walk Ricki over to the library, and then we can go for a ride.”

“I can sit tight,” Stan said. He took a long sip of his beer. “I bummed enough for a couple more. I promise I won’t move an inch, except to piss.”

“Not a chance.” Dad took hold of Stan’s arm and helped him to his feet. “I don’t need any more trouble today.”

As we left the bar, Dad said, “I found Caroline’s car in the parking lot of the hotel. I’ll call to let her know. At least one of us can get our vehicle back.”

Dad and Stan left me at the library and headed back to the bar for that ride. The little algebra I’d done was still in the cab of the truck, but I could at least check my e-mail.

This library was uptight about who used their computers, so I had to give the librarian the whole sob story of how our truck got stolen. Then I had to explain how I lived in a travel trailer, so I didn’t have an address to prove residency, but I was as much a resident of this town as I was anywhere. She finally gave me a code to log on, but I think it was only to get me to shut up. She walked around behind me four or five times, probably to make sure I wasn’t looking at porn or sending out e-mails about Nigerian princes in need of cash.

I checked my e-mail first thing and even refreshed the page twice, hoping the emptiness of my inbox was some kind of loading mistake.

Still nothing from Mom. Not even a word from Jamie. Guess the jealousy angle wasn’t working either.

This was getting ridiculous. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for people to contact me. I knew exactly where Jamie was, but I still had no idea what was going on with Mom. Dad said I’d be good at his job, and I’d already learned some things from him. If Dad wasn’t going to look for her, I needed to do it myself.

I pulled up the website for her e-mail and started plugging in passwords. I knew some of the likely ones, since I’d logged on to pay our bills before. It took me three tries, but finally the browser loaded her in box.

This was a complete invasion of Mom’s privacy, and she’d be pissed if she knew I’d done it, but I’d have plenty of ammunition to defend myself when she found out.

The first e-mails were from me, of course, sitting there unread. Under that were a few unopened e-mails from her coworkers, which meant she hadn’t gotten official time off work. That wasn’t unusual. Mom sometimes switched jobs just so she could have some vacation time. Below that were several old e-mails from some guy named Denis Longwell.