Page 75 of Misguided
“Sounds about right.” Dog smiles.
I grip onto my left arm, my fingers so tight that I leave white imprints around the tips. This could be it. This could be the break we’ve wanted.
“He wouldn’t have happened to say anything about where he was headed, asked for directions or the like?”
The old man waves us over to the counter. “None of that, nope. But I did gander a look at the key tag he had in his hand when he pulled his wallet out.”
“Yeah?” Dog steps up to the counter, hands braced on the edge.
“Logo of a motel down the way: Six Shooter Cabins.” He holds his hand up, indicating we should wait.
My toes tap inside my boot as I watch his weathered and wrinkled hands pull a directory out from under the counter. He flicks the pages, licking his finger as he does, and then twists the book around to point out a listing.
“There. That’s the address you’ll need.”
Dog leans over, seeming to read it several times before nodding.
“You just go back out here,” the old guy says, gesturing to the street we’re parked on. “And then back the way you probably came, take your second right, and then first left.” His hand flicks around as he describes the directions. “Tucked in behind the old Mason’s lodge.”
“Thank you very much.” Dog nods his thanks, gesturing for me to go as he turns for the door.
“Thank you.” I give the old guy a smile, touched there are still people around who don’t care what you look like; they’re just happy to help.
“You’re most welcome, missy.” He throws me a sly wink and then heads for his abandoned stock.
I shake so hard from either nerves or adrenaline—I can’t pick what—that I have to hold onto Dog with both hands as we travel the route laid out by the old guy. The complex comes into view; a bunch of semi-detached rooms that don’t resemble cabins in the slightest. I scan each window, every dark corner, as Dog brings the bike to a stop on the opposite side of the road.
“If he’s here, I don’t want to spook him.”
“You think he’d run from us?” I frown as I get off the bike, wondering why Dog thinks that could happen.
“Nope. But he might not stick around long enough to see if it’s friend or foe, either.”
I reach up and tie my hair back in a ponytail as Dog dismounts and removes the key. He clasps his hands together, massaging the palms, as he eyes the place up.
“You think he would have checked in under another name?”
I check the way is clear, and then head across the street. “Only one way to find out.”
Dog jogs to catch up and falls in stride as I approach the front office. An older lady with a purple floral shift dress stands from where she’d been reclined in the office chair reading a book.
“Hi. Welcome to Six Shooter.”
Dog gives her a polite nod and discreetly prods me in the middle of my back to coax me forward. I step up to the counter and give her my sweetest smile.
“Hi. My name’s Mel, and this is Dog.” I gesture over my shoulder. “I’m trying to find my brother, and I have it on good authority that he was staying here?”
The woman eyes Dog and then settles her wary gaze on me. “I can tell you if he checked in, but until I see some ID showing you are indeed related, I can’t pass on details of what room he may be in.”
Damn. How the hell am I going to do that? I don’t even have a bankcard anymore, let alone any form of ID. Still, some news is better than none.
“Hooch Coleman?”
“Yes. He came in a few days ago.” She rises from her chair to move across to where we stand at the counter. “I’ve been away though, and my husband Mort has been in the office here. Let me see if he’s still here or if he checked out.”
She picks up a pair of reading glasses and slips them on before opening her planner. I push up on tiptoes to try and see over the edge of the counter, but she curls the top of the page up, hiding what’s written down.
“He’s still here.” She peers over the top of her glasses at me. “You got ID?”