Joe Becker jumped out of the vehicle and opened the wide side door, giving Campbell a clear view of his uncle Virgil’s patrol car. Once he spotted Virgil at the breezeway where the washers and dryers were located, Campbell scanned the front of the motel for Virgil’s wife, Wanda. He’d never hit it off with Wanda and dreaded the thought of having to endure her interference if she followed through on her threat to take care of him.
But it wasn’t Wanda who appeared at Virgil’s side. It was a skinny purple pole of a woman with electrified blond hair that stuck out every which way. And a gawking, curly-haired kid who looked as if he’d just lost his puppy.
“Oh, great,” Campbell grumbled aloud. “You don’t think somebody actually wants to rent a room?”
Only one lone tourist, an old guy in a vintage Oldsmobile claiming he was experiencing America’s back roads, had stopped at the Saddle Top Motel in the six months Campbell had occupied it. Campbell had sent the fella on his way with an unappealing but very accurate description of the lack of amenities to be found here. He hoped Virgil wasn’t thinking he’d do him a favor by letting someone stay and contribute a bit of income. Campbell didn’t need the money. He needed peace and quiet.
The van driver pressed a lever under Campbell’s seat, and it swiveled smoothly toward the door. “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Oakes,” the man said to answer his question. “I can’t see anybody wanting to stay here.”
The two men each slipped one arm under Campbell’s knees and another around his back. With perfect timing coordinated by a command from the driver, they lifted him from the van. Less humiliating, he supposed, than a ride in a wheelchair, but only slightly so.
The men supported Campbell as he hopped on one foot the short distance to the covered porch. Virgil met him and looped Campbell’s arm over his shoulders to help him stand. The van attendants returned to the vehicle to get Campbell’s equipment, which included the detestable wheelchair, crutches, medical supplies and a bag of prescriptions. Campbell narrowed his eyes to get a look down the sidewalk at the couple standing in front of the breezeway. “Who are those people?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s Miss Kitty Watley and her son, Adam,” Virgil said. “They’re going to stay here awhile.”
Campbell wasn’t certain of much in his life at this point, but he was darn sure of his response to Virgil. “No, they’re not. Tell them to go into town to the Blue Ridge Lodge or the Sorrel Gap Chalet. Nobody’s rented a room at this motel for years.” He took a couple of quick hops toward his front door and regretted it immediately when his chest burned as if his broken ribs had erupted into flames. “There probably isn’t a clean towel in the whole place,” he said to Virgil after taking an agonizing gasp of air and letting his uncle support him.
“Well, there will be,” Virgil announced. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This lady and her kid are going to take care of you while you’re laid up.”
“Like heck they are...”
“Listen to me, Camp. You won’t have to lift a finger. Just sit back and let these two wait on you until you heal.”
Campbell’s sharp gaze connected for a quick heartbeat with the lady’s remarkably round eyes. She attempted a smile and wiggled her fingers from the pocket of a pair of hip-hugging, baggy purple pants. The kid set his lips in a hard, tight line and scowled as if Campbell was his worst enemy. “No deal,” Campbell said. “I don’t want anybody taking care of me.”
Virgil frowned. “You might want to reconsider, Camp. You need somebody and these two are willing.”
Campbell’s innate skepticism took over. “Oh yeah? And how much is this going to cost me? And why would anybody want to stay out here in the first place?”
“It’s not going to cost you anything,” Virgil said. “And they more or less got talked into volunteering as a legal penance.”
Campbell almost laughed. “A legal penance? Come on, Virg.”
“Sort of, yes. They’ve got a small debt to pay to society, and you’re their means to that end.”
Campbell shot his uncle a dubious look. He knew small-town justice worked in mysterious ways, but this was too quirky, even for Sorrel Gap. Was his uncle actually proposing that his incapacitated nephew harbor criminals desperate enough to agree to stay in what amounted to the Sorrel Gap Outback? “What’d they do? Murder somebody?”
Virgil chuckled, but the sound was forced. “Oh, nothing that bad.”
Campbell returned his attention to the desperadoes. The woman, from this distance, at least, didn’t look capable of tangling with a june bug. She worried a pile of dust with the toe of a sandal that had a heel high enough to make Campbell wonder how she didn’t get nosebleeds. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, and he took that as a sign that she was as uncomfortable with this situation as he was.
“Virgil, let’s have it,” he said. “The whole story. Where’d you find these two?”
The men from the van walked past them after bringing in the last of Campbell’s gear and wished the patient good luck. Virgil hollered to Miss Kitty Watley to wait outside, and he helped Campbell hobble through the motel lobby to the former manager’s quarters in back. “Let me get you settled,” he said, “and then I’ll tell you how all this came about.”
He eased Campbell into a tan leather recliner, one of the newer pieces of furniture Campbell had brought with him from the carriage house to brighten up his living quarters. And, with his attention firmly fixed on his uncle’s face, Campbell heard the tale of two Florida travelers down on their luck, a broken-down pickup on the side of the road and Adam Watley’s involvement with the grand opening of Value-Rite.
Virgil proceeded as if the matter were settled. “So, can I go get Kitty and the boy and make the introductions?”
Campbell shook his head. “Not so fast. I don’t like it, Virgil. I know you saw this as a temporary solution...”
“The only solution as I see it. I promised your dad I’d look after you, and you aren’t making my job too easy.”
Campbell held his temper. He’d told his father he’d deal with this on his own.
“You’re not Superman, Camp,” Virgil reminded him. “You need help.”
“Okay, I guess I have to admit to that, but how much assistance am I going to get from a lady who looks like an underripe eggplant and her outlaw son?”
Virgil waved his hand, dismissing Campbell’s concern. “You’ve got them all wrong. Kitty can do anything—cook, clean, do laundry. And her boy, why, he just stole that stuff to help out his mama. He’s a good boy.”
Campbell only believed about half of what Virgil was saying, since he’d seen the glower on the kid’s face, and he’d already concluded that Miss Kitty looked as if she needed more help than she could give. A good stiff wind sweeping off Saddle Top Mountain could carry her all the way down the gap. But on the other hand, a woman without any means of support who was driving an old pickup could probably use the work. Of all the people Virgil might have brought to his door, she’d likely be so grateful for a place to stay that she’d just do her job and mind her own business as he’d tell her to.
Campbell
