Tail Spin

strutting around in his bay, fiddling with Rachael’s Charger despite having his painful arm in a clumsy sling, half a dozen citizens marveling at his strength and stamina, when Jack and Rachael walked in.
    “Hi,” he called out, buzzed on pain meds, happy as a clam. “Not much longer here, Rachael. I was telling all the guys you said you’d shoot me if I didn’t get it done fast. You know, Ted has offered to give you a free car wash.”
    “Not enough time. We want to leave in an hour. Can you do it, Roy Bob?”
    “Sure thing.”
    “Did you really shoot that thug, ma’am?”
    “Yes, I really shot him. He’s in the hospital, but he’s evidently not as stupid as I thought, since he won’t talk at all.”
    They were quiet a moment, listening to the helicopter flying overhead.
    “The FBI agents are leaving?”
    Roy Bob nodded. “Yep, two of them. Agent Crowne here is staying to protect Rachael.” He paused, frowned. “I don’t think she needs it, though, like I was saying, the way she handled my pa’s Remington.”
    Jack checked Roy Bob’s progress under the hood. “Looking good, Roy Bob. Why don’t we have Tony’s meatloaf at Monk’s Cafe, Rachael, then come back here in about an hour?”
    “Sounds good,” Roy Bob said, and he started singing about a man and his hunting dog, Ralph. His audience seemed to like it.
    An hour later, Rachael was driving out of Parlow, Jack belted in beside her, only a dull ache in his head. “We have about an hour of daylight left. That’s more than enough time to get us to Slipper Hollow and Uncle Gillette’s house.”
    Jack found he appreciated the mountains more on the ground than he had with his plane on fire in the air. The road that led to Slipper Hollow was a well-maintained two-way blacktop. It rose and twisted back on itself, skirted boulders and cliffs, but continued to rise into the heart of the mountains. It was slow going because of all the sharp turns and steep falloffs.
    “This is the end of the road,” Rachael said as she pulled the Charger onto the shoulder and steered carefully into a thick mess of cottonwoods. “You’d have to be looking hard to see the car in here. We’re pretty well hidden. This is why I wanted to keep the Charger dirty—better camouflage.”
    Jack grunted, got out of the car, and picked up fallen branches and leaves. He covered the car as best he could. He turned to smile at Rachael. “Even if the bad guys know about Slipper Hollow, I doubt they’d find it anytime soon. We’re losing sun fast. Lead the way.”
    They walked for about a hundred yards, deep into the woods, winding their way between trees, climbing, then leveling off. With no warning, they broke into a fairly flat clearing some forty feet wide, maybe sixty feet deep. In the middle stood a gem of a house, all logs and glass, two stories high, with a sharply raked roof, two chimneys, a huge wraparound porch, and four rocking chairs in a grouping around a small circular table.
    “I never expected this,” Jack said.
    She grinned at him. “Yeah, I know.”
    What he’d expected, Rachael imagined, was some sort of shack, car parts strewn in the front, smoke billowing out of a dilapidated chimney, but not this. “It’s a work of art,” he said. “The yard and the house, framed by the thick forest, it looks like a postcard. And the flower bed. In a month or so there’ll be a rainbow of color.” He saw the two outbuildings standing off to the side. “Food storage for the winter?”
    “Yes, and other supplies, as well. Uncle Gillette hates going into town. He stocks up six months at a time.”
    “Is he expecting us?”
    “Oh yes. I called him right before we left Parlow, told him I was coming and bringing a guest. Still, maybe it’s best to wave a white scarf. That’ll keep him from shooting us.” Then she poked Jack in the arm and laughed. “Gotcha.”
    A tall man came out of the house to stand on the front porch. He waved at them as he trotted down the half-dozen wooden steps.
    Rachael ran to him. Jack watched the man gather her into his arms, hold her tight, his head touching hers.
    When Jack got close, the man looked up, smiled. “Welcome to Slipper Hollow. I’m Gillette Janes.”
    “I’m FBI Agent Jackson Crowne. Call me Jack. I’m protecting Rachael.” Gillette didn’t let Rachael go, merely stuck out his hand. It was a competent hand, long-fingered, like a musician’s, Jack thought as he shook it, but strong and calloused, to be