Authors: Kathy Disanto
“Town’s a throwback. Well, except
for a few instances where the old technology would cause more problems than it
solved. Computers and transportation, mostly. Even Hopers aren’t purists
enough to waste time and money putting up factories to build and maintain
equipment that could only be used within city limits and would never meet
modern environmental guidelines. They’ve settled for a compromise—tolerate quantum
computers and limit inner-city traffic to the ground tier. But the rest is
pure twentieth-century. Broad, quiet, tree-lined streets; mismatched
assortment of old-fashioned houses with white picket fences. Nobody is in a
hurry, and everybody knows everybody else.” He paused. “You might feel like you’ve
fallen headfirst through a time warp, but it’s the perfect place to drop out
and get some legitimate R&R.”
“Wouldn’t I be better off in one of
those big, nasty, overcrowded cities?” I suggested wistfully. Hobson’s Hope
sounded like Dullsville on a slow day. “Someplace where I could lose myself
among those poor, dehumanized masses?”
“You would never see the Ferrymen
coming. I don’t care how good their operatives are, it’s almost impossible for
a stranger to blend in and move freely in terrain like Hobson’s Hope, and
that’s assuming even they know the place exists. It’s not on any map I know
of.”
“
You
know about it.”
“Only because an old friend of mine
is descended from one of the founders and decided to run the family boarding
house when she retired. Trust me, A.J., this town is the best-kept secret of
the twenty-first century. You couldn’t find a safer place.”
The sprawling Philadelphia/New York
Metroplex was a glow on the horizon when we started our final approach, banking
south over Pittsburgh. Jack took manual control and dropped us smoothly
through the ever-present smudge-pot overcast before merging with traffic on the
Beltway. As we turned east again, the radiant grid of the city slid out from
under our wing tips, the lights growing fewer and farther apart until nothing
but dense, dark landscape rolled beneath us. We descended almost to street
level, skimming ten feet above a two-lane ribbon that wound through thickly
forested hills.
The headlights snared a mother
raccoon and four kits strung across the road ahead. I caught a fleeting
glimpse of eyes glowing an otherworldly yellow, then a flurry of movement as
the coupe swept overhead and sent the whole family scrambling for the brushy
shoulder.
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to take the
inbound loop?”
“We’re on
the inbound loop,
such as it is,” said Eagan. He lowered the tires, waited for them to kiss the
pavement, then retracted the wings. “The good citizens of Hobson’s Hope don’t
want to make it too easy for outsiders to find them. They don’t even broadcast
standard navigational coordinates.”
Gazing out at the tangle of trees
and bushes crowding both sides of the road, I was reminded of the old country
lanes that snaked through the foothills back home. “This burg
is
out in
the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?”
“That was the general idea.
Whitfield and Abigail bought up every available acre for fifty miles around and
bequeathed it to the town with an ironclad prohibition against development
outside prescribed city limits.”
“What about development
within
prescribed city limits?”
“Tightly controlled to the point of
being nonexistent.”
“So to recap, we’re talking about a
community with serious aversions to publicity, tourism, and civic growth.” I
lifted one hand, palm up. “What keeps this town from dying on the vine?”
“When people want something badly enough,
they’ll do whatever it takes to find it. There
are
people out
there—probably more than anyone realizes—who feel lost. Overwhelmed by our high-rise,
high-tech rat race. They wish they could go back to a simpler way of life,
dream about a place where their lives seem to matter. A thin but steady stream
of those types finds its way to Hobson’s Hope. It’s almost like they’ve got a
homing instinct.” He shrugged. “As hokey as that sounds, I can’t explain it any
better. However it happens, the population stays pretty constant.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve
given it some thought. You obviously like this town. I would even go so far
as to bet you’ve been there more than once.”
“Your point?”
“I don’t get it. You’re no more cut
out for the peaceful, small-town life than I am. Lost-and-overwhelmed people
yearning for the simple life don’t go into the Teams. They don’t join CIIS.”
“Maybe not, but even people like us
need a break in the action now and then—a place where we can get away, let down
our guard a little, and pretend we’re regular folks. Hobson’s Hope is that
kind of place. Speaking of which ....” He swung the coupe into a left-hand
turn. “We’re here.”
The woods opened onto a street lined
with houses. I saw a three ranchers and two Cape Cods before Jack eased the
SkyCoupe down in front of a three-story, brick Dutch Colonial. The car’s safety
locks disengaged, and we climbed out, Jack heading for a gate that swung open
on well-oiled hinges, me pausing by the black wrought-iron fence for a
look-see.
The narrow walk beelined to a front
door flanked by twin lanterns glowing a soft, welcoming yellow. Two dormers jutted
from the third story above an overhang that shaded a broad, wrap-around porch
where five slat-backed rockers sat behind a rail strung between four plump wooden
pillars. The neat lawn was lushly bordered by mums and canopied by the
branches of two graceful sugar maples shedding a light carpet of leaves. The
air was crisp and clean, the silence unbroken until Jack used the brass knocker,
cuing a dog down the street to bark twice.
Almost immediately a light popped on
behind the frosted glass panels set in the top half of the door. I hustled
through the gate and up the walk, arriving on the porch as the door opened to
reveal a small woman wearing red leggings, an oversized Philadelphia Phillies
sweatshirt that hung almost to her knees, and fluffy white bunny slippers. Her
café au lait complexion was unlined, despite the light frosting of gray in her
close-cropped hair. Her nose was freckled, her eyes wide and almond-shaped, her
lips generous. Big gold hoops dangled from her ears. I guessed her height at
around five feet, weight at around a hundred five.
That made her maybe eighteen inches
taller and fifteen pounds lighter than the dog at her side, an oversized pooch I
judged to be a terrier-biker mix. Fido was brindled and shaggy, with a
flat-top haircut, gunslinger’s eyes, and a snazzy goatee. His black-leather
collar bristled with heavy metal studs. Well, of course it did.
“It’s about time,” the woman said.
“Come on in out of the cold.” She and the dog backed up to let us pass.
We stepped into a narrow entryway
with gleaming oak floors and buttery walls. A stairway rose to the right, an
archway to our left opened onto a spacious, high-ceilinged parlor. All I could
see of that room from where I stood were two tall windows framed in white lace
and fitted with louvered shutters, the curve of a braided-oval rug, a
cane-backed rocker draped with a moss-green afghan, and a short stretch of
fireplace mantle.
Our hostess closed the door and
turned to face us, hands on hips. “We thought maybe you forgot how to get
here,” she said, flicking a glance toward her pet. “Didn’t we Cosmo?”
The dog said, “Urmm,” and gave an infinitesimal
wag of his stubby tail, but his hooded gaze was locked on me. Sizing me up.
“He knows better than that. Don’t
you, buddy?” Jack said, squatting to give him an ear-rub. Without looking away
from me, Biker Dog leaned into the caress. Eagan stood and gestured toward our
hostess. “Amanda Gregson, meet Saditha Carter, owner and operator of Hobson’s
Hope’s finest boarding house.”
“Hobson’s Hope’s
only
boarding house.” I broke eye contact with the dog and shook the offered hand,
intrigued by the combination of flawless French manicure and hard calluses.
“And you can call me Sadie.”
“A.J.”
“I know who you are.” Sadie tipped
her head toward her dog. “This here’s Cosmo.”
“So I gathered,” I said, bending at
the waist to hold out my hand, palm down, fingers tucked. “Hey, boy.”
Cosmo stepped up to give my hands
and jeans a thorough sniffing-over. We were almost nose-to-nose when our eyes
met again. Was it my imagination, or had that steely gaze warmed slightly?
The tail-stump twitched. Once.
“He likes you,” said Sadie.
“How can you tell?” I rubbed
Cosmo’s brush cut and straightened.
“You’ve still got all your fingers,”
said Jack.
“Naw, he wouldn’t bite you. At
least, I don’t think so. But you got the wag. You two are going be
good
friends. I can tell.” Sadie waved toward the living room. “Go on in and take
a load off. I’ll be right back.” She headed down the hallway, leaving Jack
and me to trail after Biker Dog.
“Cozy,” I said, glancing around the
parlor.
The home fire was burning, the built-in
floor-to-ceiling bookcases were packed with books, four cushy wing chairs were
grouped around a table, and the sofa had big, rolled arms. The wall above it
was a mosaic of three-dimensional stills in recessed frames.
Cosmo thumped down in front of the
fireplace as I wandered over to look at the photo gallery. The collection included
shots of every kind of scenery imaginable. Golden, grassy plains undulating
beneath a cloudless, faded-denim sky. The bleak, green-and-tan moonscape of a
high desert, thick with lemon sage but devoid of a single tree. One long
rectangular frame captured a tangled green struggle for sunlight as tree ferns,
lianas, and pitcher plants pushed up through rotting leaves on a rainforest
floor toward the unseen canopy towering overhead.
I peered into the bright-aqua
translucence of an egg-shaped ice cave and asked, “Did Sadie take these?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, coming over to
stand next to me. “Good, isn’t she?”
“They should be hanging in a gallery.
Has she sold any?”
“No, she has
not
,” replied
the woman in question, striding through the archway. The wooden tray she
carried held three heavy stoneware mugs, a jar of honey, and a cream pitcher. “And
I don’t intend to, either. It’s a hobby that’s all.” She set the tray on the
coffee table.
“Some hobby.” But recognizing the
subject
closed
tone, I left it at that. “This is a great house, Sadie.”
She smiled fondly, revealing a
narrow gap between her upper front teeth. “It is, isn’t it? I inherited it
from Great Aunt Elise. The perfect retirement plan.” She pointed to the
sofa. “You two come on over here and have some tea. It’s chamomile with a
touch of vanilla, and it’ll make you sleep like babies.”
As Jack and I obediently sank into
the sofa’s deep leather cushions, I realized the day was starting to catch up
with me. On second thought, it was miles ahead of me. Damn. Since when did
riding shotgun for a measly two hours leave me wrung out like a well-used
dishrag?
Since you almost got blown to pieces?
Well, there was that. Choosing a
mug, I spooned honey into my tea and reminded myself to cut me some slack.
Sadie picked up her mug and settled
into the rocker. Using the toe of her right foot for leverage, she rocked
gently and said, “Okay, Jack. What’s up? All I know at this point is, three weeks
ago you called to ask if I would have a room available—the one I reserve for
special
guests. When I said I would, you told me I was about to get a tenant,
maybe for a couple months.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Uh, uh, uh,” she disagreed, wagging
a finger at him. “You show up at
two
in the morning, and you’re not
flying solo like you usually do. This time you’ve got a good-looking woman
with you, but it’s as plain as paint you two aren’t an item.” She shot me a
semi-apologetic glance. “He always was kind of slow off the mark that way.”
Jack choked on his tea as she explained, “Not that women don’t fall all over him,
but he’s married to the Service.”
I hid a grin by lifting my mug to my
lips. “Is that so?”
“Believe it, sister.” She refocused
on Eagan. “So my new tenant is a Pulitzer Prize-winning crime reporter. But
not just
any
Pulitzer winner. Oh, no. You bring me the daughter of the
Speaker of the Senate, a woman whose family has enough money to make a hefty
dent in the national deficit. What gives, Jack?” She jabbed the index finger
at him. “And
don’t
try to tell me she’s on vacation. You’re no travel
agent.”
Eagan’s lips curved. “Been doing
your homework. Nice to know you haven’t lost your touch.”
“Lost my touch!” She snorted. “You
know
that’ll be the day. Now stop trying to change the subject and tell
me what’s going on.”
“A.J. needs to keep a low profile
for a while.”
She considered this as she sipped
her tea. “How low?”
“No need to get drastic.” His eyes
lit with humor. “Don’t break out the surveillance cams and motion detectors. I
don’t think she’s in any immediate danger at this point, especially not here.”
He looked at me and cocked an eyebrow. “Not as long as you don’t try to
contact anybody back in the world and keep your byline to yourself until we’re
sure they’re satisfied with a warning.”
“They who?” Sadie asked.
“The Ferrymen.”
She gave a soft, low whistle. “I
wondered.” She eyed me with a curious mixture of respect and pity. “I followed
your series. Nice work, but you went up against some heavy hitters.”
“The heaviest,” I agreed.
“So what happened?”
Unsure about how much I should let
on, I looked to Jack to take the lead. He started to fill her in. I kept waiting
for him to block her next question with the All-purpose Junior G-Man Need-to-know
Copout. He didn’t. Not once. Twenty minutes later, Sadie Carter had the
whole, unedited story.
I may have been asleep in my seat, but
the old intuition was vibrating like a tuning fork. What did this
uncharacteristic chattiness tell me? Eagan’s trust in her ran deep. Furthermore,
she knew exactly what questions to ask. Taken separately
or
together,
those facts said there was more to my new landlady than met the eye. I suddenly
had a hundred questions, but I knew neither of them would give me answers.
Yet. I would, of course, get answers eventually. Reference rule number two:
Dig
until you find the truth.