"You'll be up there in ten minutes if you take the Snaggy Creek cutoff. Did you buy Tiptop?"
"No. Just renting."
As the manager totaled the array of salmon, crab, lobster, chicken, and shrimp he asked politely, "Are you with a group?"
"No, we're only a small family of three, but we like seafood and poultry."
The man nodded with understanding. "Everybody's worried about cholesterol these days. How about some oat bran cookies?"
"Next time. Tell me about this cutoff."
The manager closed the checkout counter and accompanied Qwilleran to the exit. Pointing up the hill he said, "Okay. This street winds around for half a mile and deadends at a pond. That's really Snaggy Creek, swollen by the heavy rain. Turn left there and go to the fork. Okay? Take the right spur. It goes downhill, which may look wrong, but don't try to figure it out. Just remember: the right spur. Okay? After you cross a culvertthe water's pretty high therewatch for some wet rocks on the left and immediately turn right across a small bridge. Okay? About two-tenths of a mile farther on, there's another fork . . ."
Qwilleran was scribbling frantically.
"That's the simplest and fastest way to go," the manager assured him. "You won't have any trouble. By the way, my name's Bill Treacle. I'm the manager."
"I'm Jim Qwilleran. Thanks for the directions."
"Hope we have some good weather for you."
"It's more humid than I expected," Qwilleran said.
"That's very unusual, but the weatherman has promised us a nice weekend." Treacle helped load the groceries into the trunk, exclaimed over the Siamese, and said a cheery "Hurry back!"
Two hours later Qwilleran was cursing the friendly Bill Treacle and his Snaggy Creek cutoff. Either the man had misdirected him, or someone had moved the spurs, forks, culverts, bridges, and wet rocks. There was nothing remotely resembling a paved road that might be Hawk's Nest Drive. There were no road signs of any kind, and for the last hour there had been no signs of life, on foot or on wheel. He could no longer see Spudsboro down in the valley.
"Don't tell me I'm on the outside of the mountain!" he shouted in exasperation. "How did I land on the other side without going over the top or through a tunnel? Does anybody know?"
"Yow-ow!" said Koko with the infuriating authority of one who has all the answers.
The dirt road Qwilleran was now following was merely a narrow ledge between a towering cliff and a steep dropoff, with no guardrails even at hazardous hairpin turns. Gouged by tires during the recent wet spell, it had been blow-dried by mountain winds into treacherous ruts, bumps, and potholes. The ice cream was melting in the trunk; the frozen shrimp were thawing, but Qwilleran cared little about that. He simply wanted to arrive somewhereanywherebefore dark and before the gas tank registered empty. Suddenly visibility was zero as he drove into a low-flying cloud. And all the time the Siamese were howling and shrieking in the backseat.
"Shut up, dammit!" he bellowed at them.
At that moment the bouncing, shuddering sedan emerged from the cloud and headed into someone's front yard. Qwilleran jammed on the brakes.
It was only a rough clearing. An old army vehicle and a rusty red pickup with one blue fender were parked in front of a weatherbeaten dwelling that was somewhat more than a shack but considerably less than a house. Two nondescript dogs came out from under the porch with a menacing swagger like a pair of goons. If they had barked, someone might have come forth to answer Qwil-leran's question, but they watched in threatening silence from a distance of ten feet. There were no other signs of life. Even in the backseat there was a palpable silence. After a reasonable wait he opened the car door cautiously and stepped out in slow motion. The watchdogs continued to watch.
"Good dogs! Good dogs!" he said in a friendly tone as he proceeded toward the house with his hands in his pockets. Through the open windows and half-opened door he could hear a sound of muffled beating. With a certain amount of suspicion he mounted three sagging wood steps to a rickety porch and rapped on the door. The beating stopped, and a shrill voice shouted some kind of question.
"Hello there!" he replied in the same amiable tone he had used to address the watchdogs.
A moment later the door was flung wide and he was confronted by a hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed young woman with long, straight hair cascading over her shoulders. She said nothing but gave him a hostile glare.
"Excuse me," he said in a manner intended to be disarming. "I've lost my way. I'm looking for Hawk's Nest Drive."
She regarded him with indecision, as if wondering whether to reach for a shotgun.
"You're on the wrong mountain!" she snapped.
CHAPTER 3
The mountain woman with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes stood with her hands on her hips and glared at Qwil-leran. Assumingfrom his astonished expressionthat he had not heard the first time, she screamed, "You're on the wrong mountain!" Then, half turning, she shouted something over her shoulder, after which she pushed past him, grumbling, "Follow me." She was wearing grubby jogging shoes and a long, full skirt, and with skirt and long hair flying she leaped off the porch, ignoring the steps. Before Qwilleran had sense enough to return to his own car, she had started the spluttering motor of the pickup.
The ordeal of the last two hours had been stupefying, but now he gathered his wits and followed the other vehicle gratefully as it led the way back down the narrow road to a fork, where it turned onto an upbound trail. The lead vehicle was a modified pickup with the chassis devated high above the wheels to cope with rough terrain like this, but Qwilleran's sedan bounced in and out of ruts, causing non-stop complaints from the backseat.
"Quiet!" he scolded.
"Yow!" Koko scolded in eloquent rebuttal.
The route meandered left and right and dipped in and out of gullies. There was one hopeful sign, however; Spudsboro was again visible in the valley, meaning they were back on the inside of the mountain. When they finally reached a paved road, the woman stopped her truck and leaned from the driver's seat, shouting something.
Jumping out of his car, Qwilleran hurried in her direction, saying, "How can I thank you, ma'am? May I"
"Just get out of my way," she growled, revving the motor and making a reckless U-turn.
"Which way is up?" he called to her as she drove away. At least he was now on solid blacktop, and if "up" proved to be "down," he had only to turn around and drive in the opposite direction, assuming there was gas enough in the tank. This was the route he should have discovered two hours ago. There were hairpin turns, but the road's edge was marked by white lines and protected by guardrails, and double yellow lines separated the upbound and downbound lanes. The speed limit was posted, as well as warnings about dense fog, fallen rocks, and icy bridges. A creek, rushing alongside the road, occasionally disappeared and emerged somewhere else. At one point Qwilleran met a sheriffs car coming downhill, and he returned the stare of the officer behind the wheel.
Around the next bend he came upon a handsome house in a carefully landscaped clearing, its many levels ingeniously designed for a hillside. Large glass areas overlooked the valley. The russet stain on the board-and-batten exterior looked appropriately woodsy but failed to conceal that this was an architect-designed residence with a three-car garage and a swimming pool. In slowing down to observe the details, Qwilleran was able to read a rustic signboard: SEVEN LEVELS . . . THE LESSMORES.
Farther up the mountain another impressive house was designed with cedar boards applied diagonally to form a herringbone pattern. A satellite dish faced a wide swath cut in the forest. The rustic signboard read: THE RIGHT SLANT . . . DEL AND ARDIS WILBANK.
Hawk's Nest Drive climbed higher and higher, hugging roadside cliffs crowned with trees that were losing their footing and leaning precariously over the pavement. With every turn Koko yowled vociferously and Yum Yum made threatening intestinal noises as their bodies swerved left, right, left, right . . .