Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (41 page)

At her mother’s denial, Claire’s head nearly popped and
showered them all with Twinkie dust and MoonPie crumbs.

She leaned into Deborah until their noses almost rubbed. “Those
lies just slide off your tongue like it’s made of butter, don’t they? How about
yesterday, Mother, when you told Mac that I’m unable to settle down and make
something of my life?”

Jess blushed again, this time under Deborah’s glare.

Deborah shoved Claire back several steps and stomped over to
the refrigerator. She scooped up her Nora Roberts paperback, along with Ruby’s
Lucille Ball magnets which she stuck back on the fridge before turning to frown
at Claire.

“Maybe I have mentioned your lack of stability a time or
two, but it’s with good intentions.”

That made Claire laugh—a harsh, grating sound.

“And as for Mac, I was only repeating what you told me.”

“When I said that people only say they love you so they can
control you, I was talking about
you
, not Mac.”

Again, Deborah held her hand to her chest. “You think I don’t
love you?”

“Oh, I’m sure in your own twisted way you do. But it’s a
possessive kind of love, as if I were a tarnished piece of silver you bought at
an antique store.”

“That’s not true.” Her mother lifted her chin. “I just want
what’s best for you.”

“Your ‘best,’ not mine. If you’d been paying more attention
to your own life instead of trying to run mine and Kate’s and Veronica’s all of
these years, maybe Dad wouldn’t have left you for another woman.”

“Don’t you mention your father to me again!” Deborah
advanced on Claire with one pointy red fingernail extended. “You’ve been Daddy’s
little girl since day one. I should’ve known you’d take his side. You always
liked him better.”

“Jesus! This isn’t about who’s more popular, you or Dad. It’s
about my future with Mac.” Claire knocked her mom’s finger away. “I swear on
every single piece of your Tiffany jewelry collection, Mother, if you do or say
one more thing to try to interfere with our relationship, I’ll never ever talk
to you again. We will be done.”

Deborah tittered. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, believe me, I do. I’m also serious about you leaving. I’ll
give you until tomorrow. If your bags aren’t packed by then, I’ll ship your
clothes to you.”

“You can’t make me get on a plane.” With her jaw thrust out
and her arms crossed, Deborah looked like a bratty eight-year-old who sorely
needed to spend some time in the corner.

“No, but I can drop you off in the middle of Tucson with
nothing but the clothes on your back.”

“You wouldn’t!”

She poked her mom in the sternum. “I want you out of here
before Ruby and Gramps get back.”

Shaking with fury, she shot a glare at Kate. “She goes with
or without you, understand?”

Claire didn’t want her sister to leave, but there’d be no
debating the subject of their mother’s departure.

Marching out of the kitchen without a backwards glance, she
found Porter hovering next to the rec room bar.

Her cheeks warmed. “Sorry you had to witness all that.”

He shrugged. “Family business is always messy. I need to
talk to you.”

Oh, yeah, she still had to figure out a way to brush off
Porter’s newfound affection. “How about lunch at The Shaft?”

That was as safe a venue as anywhere, and she preferred
crowds when it came to doling out rejection.

“Sounds great. I’ll drive.”

“Okay, but I need to stop at the hardware store afterward
and pick up some of Ruby’s mail.”

Or rather, Joe’s mail. It was time to see what he’d stashed
in that post office box.

* * *

The sight of the dead miner reminded Mac that thanks to
Deborah’s warm and fuzzy wakeup call this morning, he’d forgotten to compare
the piece of braided rope he’d pulled from the skeleton’s hand to the sandal
Claire found in the wall safe. He’d have to take a look before he left for
Tucson later tonight.

A glance at his watch showed one o’clock had come and gone.
Busting through the cave-in had taken him longer than he’d expected, but slow
and easy was the name of the game. No need to bring the mountain down on his
head. With time working against him, he hefted the crowbar to his right hand
and tore into the wall.

Minutes later, the first board fell to the floor, landing
with a dull thump.

Mac leaned over and shined his flashlight through the
opening he’d made.

The tunnel curved not ten feet from where he stood,
disappearing out of view. Silence greeted him, his labored breathing the only
sound to be heard. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the air smelled
fresher on the other side of the wall, the dust still undisturbed.

Several more minutes passed before he’d made a space large
enough for himself. He shoved his pack and duffel through first, and then with
one last check to confirm the skeleton was his only audience, he climbed
through the wall.

His breath shallow with excitement, he rounded the bend and
hiked along the tunnel. His trouble with Claire was now just a burred nugget that
poked him periodically as he scanned the walls for signs of copper and silver.
He skirted another bend and stopped so fast his toes smashed into the steel
front of his boots.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispered, staring
at the pile of rocks and wood debris blocking his path. Apparently, Lady Luck
was pissed at him today.

He dropped his tools to the floor and leaned against the
wall.

Shit.

His back ached at just the thought of sifting through the
mess, trying to find a path to the other side. He tipped back his canteen and
washed the dust from his tongue.

A breath of air brushed across his damp forehead.

Where was it coming from?

Mac crawled over to a triangular crack between a stack of
mid-sized boulders. He splashed some water on his palm and held it in front of
the narrow opening. A cool draft dried his hand.

He pulled out his flashlight and inspected the walls and
ceiling of the tunnel. Both looked relatively stable. The air was free of fresh
dust. A wave of his light over the numerous critter footprints on the dirt
floor confirmed that this cave-in most likely happened some time ago.

A scratch with his fingernail over a splintered piece of
timber found the wood weakened by rot.

Curiosity breathed a second wind into his tired muscles.
Maybe this would be easier than it looked.

Returning to his duffel, he drew out his small pickaxe and
rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Ruby’s gun rubbed against his lower spine.

There was no stopping now. That air was leaking in from
somewhere on the other side, carrying humidity along with it—enough to rot the
timbers in this section of the tunnel, anyway.

Mac had a feeling he’d found another way out of the mine.

Gritting his teeth, he swung the pickaxe.

* * *

“I’ll be right back,” Claire told Porter, then closed the passenger
side door of his pickup.

The pavement rippled with heat in front of the Creekside
Supply Company’s windows, the scent of roasting tar heavy.

She hurried across the parking lot, shielding her eyes from
the searing sun. The chicken-fried steak and chilled Corona—food that was
supposed to make her feel better about having Alice’s Queen of Hearts for a
mother—sloshed in her gut with every step.

Lunch had gone smoothly. No crying in his beer on Porter’s
part when she’d made it clear Mac hogged her head and heart, leaving no room
for anyone else.

But in spite of Porter’s easy acceptance of her rejection,
the intensity in his green eyes throughout lunch had made Claire squirm in her
seat. She couldn’t wait to get back to Ruby’s.

The store’s door handles were warm to the touch. Even the
buzzer announcing her arrival sounded weary, burned out.

Dust-covered aluminum blinds blocked the sun from Aisle One’s
row of pickaxes, shovels, garden hoses, and post-hole diggers. A tinny version
of June Carter and Johnny Cash singing
Long-legged Guitar Pickin’ Man
crackled out of the speakers mounted in the ceiling.

Claire paused for a second under the ceiling vent, wafts of
air drying the sweat from her upper lip.

“Can I help you find something?” A silver-haired sales clerk
seemed to appear out of nowhere. With her electric blue eye shadow and bright
red blush, the lady looked like she’d been playing dress-up over in cosmetics.

“Uh, no. I’m just here to pick up some mail.” Claire smiled
as she side-stepped the clerk and boogied down Aisle Eleven: Pesticides,
Hunting Supplies, and Greeting Cards—typical first date material in Jackrabbit
Junction.

The post office occupied the back corner of the store. The
pony-tailed old dude behind the counter didn’t even glance up from his guitar-covered
magazine as Claire zipped past.

Joe’s post office box anchored the bottom right corner of
the cluster. It was one of the bigger boxes—eleven inches squared. Claire
squatted in front of it.

The lock turned as if it had been WD-40’d recently. The
small door creaked when she opened it.

Her fingers shook slightly as she pulled out a thick, padded
package sealed shut with reinforced packing tape.

She peeked at the guy behind the desk, who was still glued
to his magazine, and then checked behind her to make sure Porter hadn’t
followed her inside.

The coast was clear.

She tried to tear open the package, but the tape wouldn’t
give.

Shutting the door, she slipped the key back in her pocket
and scanned the aisle signs until she zeroed in on Aisle Three: Plumbing, Wiper
Blades, Fire Protection, and School Supplies.

Scissors hung in a line above boxes of crayons and stacks of
notepads, next to rows of baskets filled with P traps and pipe fittings. She
cut open the end of the package and peered inside.

Reaching inside the package, she hauled out a handful of
photos. She flipped the first picture over, wincing in anticipation.

Ruby’s dead husband didn’t disappoint.

Joe wasn’t smiling at the camera this time. He was too busy bonking
some curly haired blonde, whose ankles circled his neck. It was a profile view
of the lovers this time with a blurred white stripe along the left edge.

Claire shuffled to the next picture. A blush toasted her
cheeks, followed by a gag.

This photo had a touch of sleaze to it that would make most porn-lovers
smile. The setup was the same, including the white strip along the side, but
Joe had flipped the blonde over. The camera caught a full-on shot of her face—pouting
red lips open in mid-gasp, as well as a crystal clear view of Joe Jr. at full
mast, pre-thrust.

The third photo was a close-up, vignetting a tattoo of a
green and blue snake slithering across the blonde’s boney hip. Unfortunately,
Joe’s bare ass cheek, including a saucer shaped birthmark, shared the focal
point.

Claire started to turn to the fourth picture and stopped, looking
back at the third. Wait a second. This was a close-up.

Holy shit! Somebody had taken these pictures of Joe and the
blonde. The photos Claire had found in Ruby’s closet could’ve been shot with a
camera that had a timer on it, but not these.

Glancing again at the first two photos, she realized the
white strip at the edge of each was a curtain. Joe’s paparazzi poser had been
peeping in the window.

The fourth picture made her wince. This close-up showed a
portion of the blonde where the sun didn’t shine much, and, unfortunately, it
wasn’t her armpits.

The fifth was yet another close-up, this time of Ms. Blonde’s
face, her emerald eyes open, her tongue reaching out to touch Joe’s—Claire
flipped to the next, her greasy lunch churning, bubbling up her esophagus.

She fanned through the next five shots, grimacing the whole
time.

Sweat framed her forehead by the time she reached the last
one. Digging in the package, she fished out three more photos from between
several pieces of paper.

The first photo was just another profile shot with the white
strip at the side. She’d seen enough of these types of shots by now that the
sight of Joe’s naked flesh didn’t even make her blink.

But the last two pictures made her pause. All clothes were
on in these shots. One had Joe holding open the motel door, the number seven
visible next to his head, as the blonde stepped out of the room, a wide smile
on her lips as she stared right into the camera eye.

The other picture showed the blonde in the forefront
climbing into a black Jaguar, her long, bare legs visible under her fire-engine
red dress. In the background, Joe watched from the doorway of room number
seven. The motel’s neon sign was legible over his right shoulder—The Sundown
Inn.

Claire remembered hearing about that very motel from Chester
months ago, who considered himself the Robin Leach of southwestern Arizona’s
Lifestyles of the Lewd and Depraved. The Sundown Inn reigned as one of the seediest
in his opinion, and he’d been there three times, so he knew.

Claire chewed on her lower lip, wondering who’d been the
photographer, and if he or she had been attempting to blackmail Joe, the
blonde, or both.

Then again, maybe Joe just got off on keeping pictures of
his ex-lovers.

She dumped the pictures back in the package and pulled out
one of the pieces of paper. It was a yellowed newspaper picture of the blonde
with a man in a three piece suit. A young boy, probably ten years old or so,
held the blonde’s hand. Claire read the caption below the picture.

Richard Rensberg II and his wife (Bianca) brought their son
along to watch Yuccaville’s 85th anniversary parade.

A banner in the background spelled out, “Congratulations,
Yuccaville!”

Digging in the package again, Claire drew out another piece
of paper. This was just an article—no pictures—with the headline, “The Copper
Snake Goes Public.”