He shoved the phone back into his pocket and put his glasses on. He climbed into the front passenger seat, leaned over, and dug into the bag of snacks he had bought on their last gas stop.
“Lou, my investment banker on the IPO. He says the stock is trading at ninety. I’m a billionaire three times over.” He reappeared with an Oreo cookie stuffed halfway in his mouth. “So why don’t I feel like a real man?”
The bathtub had feet like the one at Ben’s cabin. Gracie stepped in, sat down, and slid down until the water touched her chin. The hot water felt wonderful; her skin tingled. She couldn’t remember her last bath. She closed her eyes and went all the way under. When she surfaced, she smoothed her hair back with her fingers. She needed a shampoo.
Next to the tub was a small wood table with fresh towels and washcloths and a silver bucket like the one in Sam’s sandbox except this bucket was filled with little soaps and shampoos with Best Western Inn and Motel 6 on the labels. Gracie closed her eyes and tried to remember, but all she could recall were vague scenes from strange rooms.
She emptied one of the shampoos into her hand. The scent reminded her of Mom’s bathroom; they had had their only mother-daughter talk while Mom soaked in the big Jacuzzi tub one night after a verdict. Mom had poured a whole bottle of stress relief pellets into the water and soon the entire bathroom smelled of eucalyptus. Gracie sat on the floor while Mom lay back against a head cushion, closed her eyes, and offered motherly advice: “Grace, men are like dogs. They can smell fear on a woman. Never let them smell your fear. Never let them see you cry. Act tough even when you don’t feel tough. Curse. Don’t get mad, get even. If a boy doesn’t take no for an answer, kick him in the balls.” But she didn’t give her any advice for when she was kidnapped and taken to a cabin in Idaho by a crazy mountain boy.
Gracie stayed in the bathtub until the water lost its heat. She stepped out and dried off with one of the towels. Laid out neatly on the vanity were a silver comb and brush with a matching hair clip, a toothbrush and paste, and a small baby powder.
Baby powder never felt so good.
She opened the bathroom door and caught a chill. She wrapped her arms and hurried over to the clothes rack and quickly dressed. This was so strange. All the clothes were her size: long underwear, heavy corduroy pants, plaid flannel shirts, wool socks, and hiking boots. She probably looked like a total dork-“Pretty in plaid? I don’t think so.” The boots were kind of neat, though.
She tied the laces and stood. Mountain girl. She stepped to the door, put her fingers around the knob, and turned slowly. It opened. There was no lock on the door. She opened the door slightly and smelled breakfast cooking. She wished she were back at home and Sylvia was cooking in the kitchen. When she stepped out of the bedroom and into a long rectangular room, she knew she wasn’t.
Tables and chairs were scattered about the big space, maps and charts hung on the walls, big metal containers with U.S. ARMY stamped on the side were stacked high against one wall, and a ratty old couch sat in the middle of the room. A door at the far end opened and Junior appeared. He shut the door quietly behind him then turned and saw her.
“Why, don’t you look pretty?”
“What’s in those Army boxes?”
“Ordnance. Why’d you cut your hair so short? You do look like a boy.”
“Soccer season. What’s that?”
Junior walked over to the kitchen area. “What’s what?”
“Ordnance.”
“Oh-grenade launchers, explosives, ammo, detonators, napalm, that sort of stuff. Breakfast is ready.”
Junior had set two places with paper plates, plastic forks, knives, and cups, and napkins on a small folding table. He was cooking on a little gas stove; there was a brand new one just like it in the back corner of the garage at home. He picked up a black skillet with a rag and slapped scrambled eggs and a slab of meat on her plate. She was really hungry.
“Mama taught me to cook,” he said.
She sat down and tried the eggs. He cooked pretty good eggs for a boy. Junior joined her at the table. She had a mouthful of scrambled eggs when Junior bowed his head and folded his hands.
“Dear Lord, thank you for this here food. And thank you for bringing Patty here.” His head raised up. “Let’s eat.”
She swallowed. “God didn’t bring me here.”
“Sure He did.”
“Hel- lo, earth to mountain boy-God doesn’t kidnap children.”
“No, He don’t. He just showed us the way.” He chewed with his mouth open. “God wants us to be together.”
He smiled and reached over and put his hand on hers; she felt something she didn’t want to feel. She jerked her hand away.
“Ya think?”
“Yep, I think.”
Gracie cut into the meat and put a piece in her mouth.
“So you followed me all last week?”
He grinned. “Yep.”
“Watching me at school and recess and practice?”
“Yep.”
“And you called me, didn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“And hung up every time?”
“Yep.”
“So you were just waiting for a chance to grab me?”
“Yep.”
“Why after the game?”
“ ’Cause your mama wasn’t there.” He pointed at the meat with his fork. “Eats good, don’t it?”
She assumed “eats good” was mountain-speak for “tastes good.” She nodded. “Sausage?”
“Venison.”
“What’s that?”
“Deer meat.”
Gracie spat out the ball of meat.
Clayton Lee Tucker spat a stream of brown juice into a brass spittoon. His cheek bulged with a big wad of chewing tobacco and his face was wrinkled like used aluminum foil. His skin was darkened a shade from the grease; his black glasses sat lopsided on his bulbous nose; his hands were gnarly. Ben knew what a drunk looked like in the morning; Tucker didn’t fit the description. And he didn’t look like a man given to seeing UFOs in the Idaho sky. He was examining the blow-ups and Gracie’s photo.
The Tucker Service Station, located just off Interstate 15 in Idaho Falls, was a beaten-down place that smelled of gasoline and grease, a throwback to the days when you could get your car repaired at a gas station and it didn’t cost four bits to air up the tires. A telephone company truck was parked outside.
Tucker looked up and spat again. “Ain’t no doubt about it,” he said. “That’s the girl.”
John collapsed into a chair. Ben said, “What about the men?”
“Can’t say for sure, not from them pictures,” Tucker said. “But that’s the tattoo, I’m sure of that.”
Ben removed his jacket and rolled the left sleeve of his shirt up to expose his Viper tattoo.
“This tattoo?”
Tucker spat then angled his head to sight in the tattoo through his bifocals. “How come you got the same one?”
“Mr. Tucker, why didn’t you tell this to the FBI?”
“They never called.”
