HITTIN' IT (Excerpt Only)

Chapter Four

I took my job as a Tarot card reader seriously, and hated to be the bearer of bad news. Roy took it better than most. Okay, honestly, he seemed to totally dismiss my reading. Contrary to popular belief, readings aren't written in stone. They're only a foreshadowing of a possible outcome. Human nature, free will can change things on a dime.

"Are you okay?" I asked, once he'd hung up the phone.

"Yeah, but I need to get going." He motioned to the waitress for the check, even though he'd barely touched his dinner.

"Thanks again. For everything." The dinner...the van. Saving my ass. I didn't even want to think about where Roy had gotten the kind of cash needed to buy that van.

"Want a to-go box for that?" the waitress asked, motioning to my half-eaten burger.

"Yeah." I could share it with Scamp later on. Once she was gone, I turned my attention back to Roy. "Where are you going again?"

"Austin." He visibly paled. "My sister lives down there."

"Well, if you get bored, come check out the Fair. It'll be fun." I gave him a perky smile even though I doubted I'd ever see him again.

"Sure."

I reached in my purse and slipped a card out, sliding it across the table. "Call me. I'll buy you a turkey leg."

It was late, past seven when I climbed in the van and headed out of town on I-10, looking for a rest-stop to bunk at for the night. Roy had even been kind enough to fill the gas tank. Unable to find anything that appealed to me or gave me good vibes, I kept driving until exhaustion finally forced me pulling off in Ft. Stockton. In honor of the new van, I splurged on a cheap hotel room, crashing to beat the dead after a long hot shower.

The next morning I got up and spent some time organizing the van. I shook out the sheets, shifted the mattress until I was happy with its location by the back doors, and remade the bed. Then I turned my attention to organizing the milk crates. I'd learned early in my travels to minimize. There was no saving of random souvenirs from dates, from boyfriends or life events fondly remembered. Not even the hoarding of books to reread at my leisure. Only the most precious, prized possessions were kept. In this case, a few photos of my mother and myself on the porch of our house in Endicott. The neighboring houses were so close, it looked like the opening scene from All in the Family.

I tucked them back in their envelope and stashed it away for safekeeping. My one crate of books, most dog-eared and water-stained, was stashed behind the driver's side seat. Roy had neatly stacked the crates containing my miniscule wardrobe against one wall of the van, and I left them there for now. The four crates of journals were next. I quickly located and stowed three behind Scamp's seat, then turned to get the fourth, except...it was gone.

There were twenty-nine journals. One for approximately every six months since I'd turned sixteen. How much journaling I did depended on the type of year I'd had. Some years had been more...eventful than others and some had left me more time to write.

Obviously.

I scrambled around the back of the van again, searching for the missing crate only to come up empty. Sick with dread, I ran inside my hotel room, searching in there even though all I'd brought in with me the previous night was a duffel bag with the bare necessities. Scamp barked from the van's open doorways, anxiously wagging his tail.

"Shhhh!" I pressed a finger to my lips, afraid I'd get caught with the dog and have to pay extra for my room. My hands shook, my fingers turned clammy and my stomach almost rejected the meager breakfast I'd fed it from the motel's vending machine. The fourth crate was nowhere to be seen.

As nauseous as the thought of driving the three hours back to El Paso made me, I grabbed my bag and closed the door. I had to have those journals.

Had to!

But God, the cost of gas to go back. I didn't even want to think about it. Not going back wasn't an option. I blew out a deep breath of resignation.

I threw my bag inside. "Get in your seat, Scamp."

I closed the doors, making sure they were secure, then climbed in, pointing the van west. The entire drive was a nightmare. The minutes and miles creeping past as I fretted over someone finding my van, finding those journals, reading them or worse, scattering them all over the highway. Frankly, they were worthless to anyone but me, nothing more than entertaining fodder or kindling for a fire, but they were mine. The thought of someone burning them, made me press a little harder on the gas, even though I couldn't afford to get stopped by the police. If I went to jail, Scamp would go to the pound.

The van was right where I'd left it, fading yellow paint blending into the scenery. It looking even more pathetic than I remembered. I approached on light feet, the scalding asphalt slightly spongy under my feet. I glanced back at Scamp. He stood with his paws on the dash, watching me through the front window. The air was hot and dry, and the van's side door creaked open with a metallic squeal. Inside smelled like baby powder and grease...and old. Just old.

It didn't take long for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. And it didn't take long for me to see that the inside of the van was empty. Pathetically deserted.

Shit!