Gone South (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 3) Read Free Page B

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