TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [21]
“Nah, I’m—”
“Be quiet. What you really need to do is crawl into bed for a while and sleep. Lean your head back, close your eyes, and rest your mouth.”
No sooner had Savich hung up than Tommy Jerkins poked his head in.
Things moved quickly. Savich and Sherlock and Sheriff Hollyfield went with Tommy out to the crash site. Even better, ten minutes later, after the blessed Vicodin was happily swimming in his bloodstream and Jack could see straight, he and Rachael walked over to Greeb’s Pond, the finest lodging in Parlow.
Rachael held him up while Mrs. Flint checked him into the last available room.
Mrs. Flint said, “You’re the federal agent whose plane was shot down and landed on the highway, right?”
“Close enough,” Jack said.
Rachael helped him up the stairs to the second door on the right. It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and windows overlooking Canvasback Lane.
It could have been a closet for all he cared. “More ducks,” Jack said as he eyed the duck border wallpaper and eased down onto the bed. “I feel fine now, Rachael. We can go out to the plane. Oh, man, this bed feels really nice and—”
Rachael pushed him onto his back. In under three seconds, he was out.
She poured a glass of water and left it and the bottle of pills on the nightstand next to his bed. She covered him with a duck-themed afghan and went back to her room.
When she left ten minutes later, she looked as good as she could with what she had in her duffel bag.
Mrs. Flint called to her before she could get through the front door. “Miss, are you a federal agent, too? I didn’t get your last name.”
“Abercrombie, Mrs. Flint. No, I’m not an agent. I’m happy to report that Agent Crowne is asleep. Ah, do you know where I can find Tip Top Overhaul?”
She walked straight to the car repair two blocks over on Long Neck Lane, set off by itself, the big lot in the back closed in by a high chain-link fence. Only one person was around, a youngish guy wearing a tatty T-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers, and he was sitting on a folding chair, back chair legs against the wall in the single garage bay, chewing gum and flipping through a tattered old Playboy.
Playboy. Now that was good, that was really quite hopeful, Rachael thought as she stepped over an ancient radiator and into the dim space. When he looked up, she nearly turned and ran. She recognized him straight off—Roy Bob Lancer. He’d been a senior when she was twelve, captain of the football team. He blinked up at her, and blessed be, there wasn’t a hint of recognition in his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t remember the skinny twelve-year-old with braces.
Rachael gave him a smile designed to curl his toes and churn up lust in his belly, and prayed to the tight sweater gods. “I wonder if you towed my car in, Mr. . . .”
He lunged to his feet. “Lancer, ma’am, it’s Roy Bob Lancer. Ah, you’re the Charger?”
“Yes, but I don’t see it.” She gave him another blinding smile.
“It’s out back, ma’am, all safe and sound.”
“Do call me Rachael. And I’ll call you Roy Bob.” Another toothy smile. “If I knew anything about fuel pumps, and indeed I don’t, I’m going to need you to fix it or replace it for me,” and she kept that delicious smile on her face, her shoulders back, breasts forward. “You’re the expert, everyone says so. And you’re honest, that’s what the sheriff says, and the dispatcher. So, what do you think?”
“Well, ma’am, I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. I’m all backed up, you know?” Roy Bob quickly dropped the Playboy and toed it beneath an open toolbox. He looked back at the most beautiful girl he’d seen up close since Ellie had waltzed out on him nearly four months ago, off to the big city of Waynesboro where her