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 expected since it appeared he did everything needful in his hideaway.
Jack could only shake his head at his willingness to jump to conclusions. Truth be told, he’d been expecting a stereotypical hillbilly in a flannel shirt with a big beer gut—was he ever an idiot. “You’ve got a beautiful home,” he said instead, and meant it.
“Thank you. Rachael drilled, hammered, mowed, you name it. I’m glad you got here okay, sweetie. It’s getting dark fast. Come inside. I’ll feed you both, then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve at least got a still out back?” Jack asked hopefully.
Gillette Janes laughed. “No, but I’m told my grandmother did.” SIXTEEN
Slipper Hollow
Monday night
“Why is it called Slipper Hollow?” Jack asked as he spooned up the last bite of vegetarian stew. It was loaded with every vegetable under heaven, a recipe he should get for Savich.
Gillette Janes chewed a moment on a saltine cracker. “The story goes that two young lovers met here in the deep of summer when wildflowers carpeted the ground, for even then no trees grew in this hollow. Alas, her father found them one day, shot the boy, hauled off his daughter kicking and screaming to go back to her dead lover. In her struggles, her slipper came off.
“Years later, it was said you could hear her crying for her lost slipper—not her unfortunate dead lover—thus the name attached itself to the land.”
“Any proof of that tale, Uncle Gillette?”
“Not a whiff, as far as I know,” Gillette said. “I’ve never heard her crying for her slipper, and I’ve been here nearly all my life.”
Rachael played with her crystal wineglass. “We’re safe here. No one knows about Slipper Hollow except for a few old-timers in and around Parlow. And none of them would give directions to a stranger.”
“Glad I made the decision to keep the place private,” Gillette said, rising to stack stew bowls in the dishwasher. “After you and your mom moved to Richmond, I even began doing most of my shopping in Heissen’s Dome, about an hour’s drive north of here—people know my face, maybe my name, but not where I live.
“Jack, these people after my girl, it’s doubtful they’ll find her here since she’s not been part of the area for years. So tell me, Rachael, you believe in your heart of hearts that Senator Abbott’s siblings murdered him, then have tried to murder you twice?”
Rachael said simply, “There is no one else.”
“They acted so quickly. Tell me about them.”
“Most of what I know is from Jimmy since I was only with them three times before he died. Their names are Laurel and Quincy. They’re brother and sister and they give sharks a bad name. Jimmy told me that right after his election to his first Senate term, Laurel managed to oust Quincy from the CEO position of the Abbott corporation. They’re quite diversified, but their primary interests are in commercial real estate development worldwide—malls, skyscrapers, those sorts of projects.
“The fight between Laurel and Quincy was real nasty, Jimmy told me. But the old man—his father, Carter Blaine Abbott—came down on Laurel’s side. She ran things after Carter Abbott loosened his grip on the reins five years ago.
“Fact is, I think Laurel and Quincy are equally grasping, condescending, and arrogant. I can also see the two of them joining forces to remove the bigger threat—their brother—probably right after he told them about killing Melissa Parks and that he was going to come clean, resign his Senate seat, go to the cops, the press.”
“Laurel Abbott,” Gillette repeated slowly. “Didn’t she marry some Greek shipping magnate? What’s his name?”
“Stefanos Kostas. Now there’s a guy who’s suffering from ego inflation. He thinks he’s slick and stunning, that women can’t resist him. Jimmy said he was unfaithful even after he proposed to Laurel. The way he looks at women—me included—it made me want to go take a shower.”