something came up.”
“Something must have come up all right,” Bob sniffed. “When Kip didn’t turn up this afternoon, your mother was convinced he fell off the wagon.”
“Do you think Kip stole the Bronco?” Ali asked. “Did you call the cops?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t call the cops,” Bob grunted in return. “Why would I? What would I tell them if I did call? That I’m afraid the guy I loaned my truck to turned around and stole it from me? The cops in town already think I’m some kind of bleeding-heart, do-gooder fruitcake. And when I say cops, I don’t mean Dave Holman, by the way,” Bob added defensively. “Not him. No, I’m talking about the guys on the city police force. I’m guessing the local gendarmes would treat this whole thing as some kind of joke, starting from the premise that I probably deserve it. I’ve heard that several of them are of the opinion that by taking in street people like Kip Hogan I’m just asking for trouble. It’s one thing to hear that kind of stuff from my wife. I sure as hell don’t need to hear it from our local civil servants.”
Finished with his second rant in a row, Bob crossed his sturdy arms across his chest and subsided into an angry, wounded silence.
“Do you think something bad could have happened to Kip?” Ali suggested.
“If it hasn’t,” Bob replied, “it sure as hell is going to happen once I catch up with him.”
“Did you try calling his cell phone?” Ali asked.
“The man doesn’t
Ali knew this wasn’t the first time one of Bob Larson’s human rehab projects had gone sour on him. She also knew her mother wouldn’t be out of line for pointing it out or for being upset about it, either. Driving back toward the freeway, it seemed like a good idea to change the subject.
“Your friend said that there’s nothing wrong with the Bronco,” she said.
“It has a flat tire.”
“But it hasn’t been wrecked or anything?”
“Not as far as I know,” her father answered. “Maybe it’s out of gas. The gas gauge stopped working years ago. Who knows? Just drive,” he answered with a sigh. “There’s no way to tell how bad it’ll be until we get there.”
Crystal Holman crouched on the toilet in the locked bathroom stall for the better part of an hour, shivering and hoping the guys with the bats wouldn’t come looking for her there. She had no idea where Curt had gone. The last she had seen of him, he was using a pay phone in the parking lot.
A woman came into the restroom and tried the stall door. A few minutes later, she returned and tried again. Finally a man came in and pounded on the door. “You’ve gotta get out of there. Other people need to use it.”
Crystal peeked out through the crack. The man was wearing a uniform of some kind-a blue shirt with the name
Finally, Crystal opened the door and walked out past Jimmy. Past the woman. Out in the mini-mart, she looked around for Curt, but he wasn’t there and neither was anyone else she recognized. Pulling her lightweight jacket close, Crystal darted outside and surveyed the deserted gas pump area. In the sallow glow of the overhead lights, there was no sign of Curt or his SUV. Thankfully, there was no sign of the guys with the bats, either.
Out of the corner of her eye, Crystal caught sight of Jimmy emerging from the restroom area. Before he could spot her, she rounded the corner of the building and melted into the darkness. All Crystal Holman wanted right then was to find a place to hide.
When they pulled into the parking lot, Ali was relieved to see the Bronco sitting awash in sickly yellow light at the far end of the row reserved for passenger cars. At first glance it seemed unharmed. As Jack Riggs had reported, the right rear tire was flat. Closer examination revealed that Bob’s tool chest, gas can, and spare tire had been lifted. As for the flat tire? It was much more than flat-it was in tatters. Bob squatted down to check on it.
“Looks like he drove on it flat for a long time,” he muttered. “So the rim’s ruined, too. That means it’ll have to be towed,” he said resignedly. “Thank God we belong to Triple A. A wrecked rim, no spare, a stolen gas can, and a stolen set of tools-that’s bad enough. If we had to pay extra for towing, your mother would really have my hide.”
Bob hauled out his cell phone and his wallet. As he made the call, Ali walked around the Bronco looking for and not finding any sign of additional damage. “What are all those boxes in the back?” she asked once Bob was off the phone.
He placed his hands against the back window and peered inside. “So he didn’t even make the delivery,” Bob muttered.
“What delivery?”
“On Tuesdays he goes to Basha’s and collects some of their throw-aways-outdated food they can no longer sell-and takes it up the mountain.”
“Where people are still living,” Ali confirmed.
Bob nodded. “Nobody makes too big a deal about it. He just goes by, picks it up, loads it into the Bronco, and drops it off. The food’s still usable. This way it doesn’t go to waste and people who would otherwise go hungry have something to eat. He takes along any blankets and clothing that have come in during the week. That was what was on the schedule for today-your credenza and his run up the mountain.”
Ali nodded. “I had expected him this morning, but he didn’t drop off the credenza until after lunch. I told him I thought he did a beautiful job, by the way.”
“He did,” Bob agreed. “Fat lot of good it does any of us, though,” he added bleakly. “I taught him a useful skill, but if he’s back on the sauce it’ll all go to waste.”
Ali shivered against the cold. “What did Triple A say?” she asked.
“They’re sending a truck. Should be here in less than an hour. You don’t have to wait with me. Go on back,” Bob said. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” Ali told him. “You won’t be fine. I’ll wait, too. We both will-in the car. It’s too cold to stand around out here. If you catch pneumonia, Mom will come looking for me with a club and a skinning knife.”
Knowing she was right, Bob headed toward the Cayenne without further argument. Ali had unlocked the doors and was about to climb inside when she heard the sound of a helicopter passing overhead. Months earlier, a low-flying helicopter had played a pivotal and almost fatal part in a Palm Springs area shoot-out. Before that, helicopters had come and gone overhead without Ali’s ever paying the slightest attention. Since then, however, the noise of approaching helicopter rotors sliced into her consciousness with hair-raising clarity.
Ali stopped dead and stared up into the star-studded sky until she located the flashing lights of the chopper. It was headed south, flying fairly low and fast, following the general path of the freeway and moving toward Phoenix. Bob paused with one foot in the Cayenne and followed his daughter’s troubled gaze.
“Medevac,” he explained. “Probably taking some poor sick bastard to one of the big hospitals in Phoenix.”
Despite her father’s reassurances, Ali noticed that when she reached to turn the key in the ignition, her hand was trembling. She knew for a fact that her involuntary tremor had nothing to do with the icy temperatures. Not looking at Bob, she quickly turned up the heater and switched on the heated seats.
“Where would Kip go?” Ali asked, more to take her mind off the rapidly disappearing helicopter than because she wanted to know the answer.
“You mean if he isn’t timed out in a bar someplace?” Clearly Bob Larson was still bent out of shape by his missing handyman. Just because his precious Bronco wasn’t irretrievably broken didn’t mean he was prepared to let Kip Hogan off the hook.
“I mean where did he come from before he ended up in that homeless encampment up on the Rim?” Ali asked. “He must have family somewhere.”
“Probably,” Bob agreed. “But I have no idea where. All in all I’d have to say Kip was a pretty close-mouthed son of a bitch.”
“But everybody’s from somewhere,” Ali objected.
