Chasing the Skip Read online

  “Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

  Dad waited for a turnoff long enough to fit the trailer and then pulled over. He climbed out to unlock the security boxes on the side of the pickup.

  “I thought you kept your gun on you,” I said.

  Dad reached for his belt and pulled out a pistol, keeping it pointed at the ground. “I’m just getting some ammo. Don’t keep a lot on me. I don’t get shot at much.”

  “Much?”

  Dad just smiled, pulling a cartridge out of the bottom of the handle and loading it with bullets. I usually thought of guns as having round barrels, but this one was rectangular with a round hole running through it. The whole thing was made out of a dark gray metal.

  “Safety’s on,” he said, handing me the gun and showing me how to hold it. “But keep it pointed at the ground while you’re carrying it. Take it slow, and make sure to never point it at anything you don’t want to shoot. Keep your finger out of the action and away from the trigger until you’re all aimed and ready to fire.”

  For once, I didn’t object to any of Dad’s rules. I kept my eyes on the barrel, making sure it pointed at the dust, where it wouldn’t do much damage if it fired. The gun was heavier than I expected it to be. I wondered how anyone held them steady.

  “You don’t need to be so stiff. Just be careful with it, is all.”

  “But you just said—”

  “The gun’s just a tool. The danger is in what you do with it. Just don’t point it at anything living, all right? Or at the truck. Especially the tires.”

  I nodded before I realized he was making fun of me.

  Dad ducked into the trailer, and I looked back at the highway, expecting any minute for some cop to show up and see me standing there holding a gun. What would I do if he told me to drop my weapon? Dropping a loaded gun didn’t sound like the safest move.

  Dad came back carrying three empty soda cans. “Come on,” he said, walking around the trailer so it obscured us from the road.

  Scrubby weeds covered the land stretching away from the turnoff. I kept the gun pointed at the ground as Dad walked out a ways and set the cans on a rock. Then he came back to me, taking my gun hand in his and helping me to lift it.

  “Hold it with both hands,” Dad said, fitting my other hand onto my wrist to brace it. “Keep your elbows locked. The gun’s going to kick, which will hurt your aim.”

  “Don’t guns hurt when they kick?”

  “That’s shotguns. The handle on a shotgun hits you right here.” He patted me on the shoulder. “But this is a handgun, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

  I was glad to start out with something pain free.

  “Here’s the safety,” Dad said, clicking it off before I could really see what he was doing. “Now you’re ready to go. Aim at the cans and squeeze the trigger.”

  My arm was starting to shake, mostly from the weight. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold it out like that, so I pointed toward the cans and squeezed.

  Dad should have warned me about the noise. The bang was so loud it deafened me, leaving an eerie silence.

  “How was it?” Dad asked when I could hear again.

  “Um, okay,” I said, looking at the three cans still sitting there in a row. “I didn’t hit anything.”

  Dad laughed. “It’s all right. Go ahead and empty the clip.”

  I tried to aim better this time, then squeezed the trigger, letting the rest of the bullets go. The gun kicked with each shot, making my wrists give this involuntary little flick, like when the doctor hits your knee with a hammer. I must have been holding my breath, because when the bullets were gone I gasped, adrenaline pouring through me. When I finished, the cans all still sat there. I hadn’t managed to hit a single one.

  “That’s actually kind of fun,” I said. “Even if I suck.”

  Dad clapped me on the shoulder. “Glad you like it. Next time maybe we’ll work on your aim. Don’t feel bad, though. Handguns are rough. Maybe I’ll take you to a range sometime. Let you try a rifle.”

  I was almost sorry when Dad took the gun and packed it back in the security box. I would have been all the way sorry if I wasn’t shaking, and not just from the weight of the gun.

  “Thanks,” I said, climbing into the cab.

  “No problem.”

  That’s when it occurred to me that I hadn’t thanked Dad for much over the last week.

  “Really,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. At the very least it’s something to brag to your boyfriend about when you get back to Utah.”

  “How’d you know I have a boyfriend?”

  “You said so on the phone with your friend.”

  “Oh,” I said. I’d forgotten about that.

  “I’d figured you had one before that, being as anxious to get back to your grandma’s as you were.”

  “Oh.” Maybe he wasn’t going to be a total freak about it after all.

  “Besides, you’re a pretty girl. No reason you shouldn’t have a boyfriend, even if you are a little young.”

  “I’ve had boyfriends since I was twelve.”

  “Twelve? Did your mom know about that?”

  “She used to drive me to the mall to meet guys all the time, before I started dating guys with cars.”

  “Huh,” Dad said. “I guess that was her call.” He didn’t look too pleased.

  I almost made a snotty comment about how Dad couldn’t decide since he wasn’t around, but I caught myself.

  “So, does your mom date much?”

  That was kind of a weird thing for him to ask. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Did she bring guys home?”

  “Sure. And a couple of her boyfriends lived with us for a while.” I’d even liked a few, but none of them had ever been around long enough to be dadlike. The ones who thought they could boss me around lasted even less time than the rest.

  “How did you feel about that?”

  Now Dad was probing, trying to find reasons why Mom was a bad parent. “Okay, I guess. Some of them made Mom happy, so that was nice.”

  “Some of them.”

  “Yeah, some of them. What about you? Who’s your girlfriend?”

  “What makes you think I have one?”

  “You must be having these personal meetings with someone.”

  Dad was quiet for a second. “Nope,” he said. “No girlfriend. If I had one, you’d have met her by now.”

  For some reason I felt relieved. “I guess it would be hard to have a relationship when you’re traveling around all the time.”

  Dad nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I got into bounty hunting in the first place. If I traveled around a lot, I didn’t have to get involved with anybody.”

  “I don’t think that’s supposed to be a perk.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Seriously. Who chooses a job so they don’t have to date? Couldn’t you work at a desk and just say no to girls?”

  “I suppose I could take the Nancy Reagan approach.”

  “Who?”

  “Nancy Reagan? Just say no?”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “Never mind. The alone time is only one of the things I like about this job.”

  I couldn’t imagine wanting to be alone all the time. But if Dad liked it, how long before he got tired of having me around? “I still think that sounds like a lousy way to live.”

  “Yeah, I do too. Now.”

  “You said you liked your job.”

  “I do, but I’m starting to think about the things I’ve been missing.”

  Like me? I wanted to ask. But instead I said, “What changed?”

  Dad smiled, but he didn’t respond. I hated it when he did that. I was hoping what changed was having me along, but I’d feel pretty stupid if I said that and it turned out not to be true.

  Kearney, Nebraska.

  Days since Mom left: 31.

  Distance from Salt Lake City: 755.1 miles.

  9


  I put my notebook inside my algebra book and wrote down everything I could remember about shooting Dad’s gun. I got so involved in the writing, I was actually surprised to look up and see we were in Kearney.

  “Want me to drop you somewhere?” Dad asked. “You can get a bite to eat and make that phone call.”

  “I thought you said you were going to let me be more involved.”

  “Did I not tell you all the details about Stan’s case? I’ll even let you babysit him after I’ve got him in the truck. Stan’s not too dangerous, but I’m still not taking you into the bar while I drag him out. You’re underage. There are laws.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  We pulled into a slummy commercial district, past a couple of liquor stores and an “adult” bookstore, its window curtained behind glowing triple Xs.

  Dad parked on the street and motioned toward a bar across the way. “If Stan’s still here, he’s probably pretty drunk. This could take a few minutes.”

  “Sure,” I said as Dad climbed out of the car. Sprinkles of rain hit the windshield again, and a blast of cold air swept in. Dad slammed the door and walked into the bar.

  I picked up my algebra book again, but a man wearing a heavy coat and tattered jeans walked past my window. He turned around, making eyes at me. I looked down at my book, trying to ignore him, until he walked up and rapped on the glass.

  I jumped. His face was so close to my window that it fogged the glass. Raindrops slipped through the grease in his hair.

  I clicked the lock on the door. “Go away,” I said through the glass.

  The man made a pouty face at me, but then he walked past the trailer and out of sight.

  I held my breath, watching in the mirror until he disappeared around the corner. Then I pushed open the truck door and headed toward the bar. I didn’t want to wreck things with Dad, but he couldn’t expect me to wait in the car in a neighborhood like this. The bar might be full of creeps, but at least Dad would be there to protect me.

  The bar reeked of alcohol and too much skin stuck to the vinyl stools and booths. I wanted to take a can of Lysol and drench the place.

  The room was pretty much empty, so I found Dad right away, sitting on the edge of a stool next to a hunched-over man wearing a green slicker and a pair of black rain boots.

  “Come on, Stan,” Dad said. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  Dad’s arms hung loose at his sides, and he leaned back on the stool. This wasn’t even beginning to be difficult, and he knew it.

  “Buy me one more?” Stan said. “Then I’ll come along quiet.”

  As I approached, Dad gave me a hard look over Stan’s shoulder. I mouthed “sorry” at him and then sat down in a booth by the far wall. Hopefully Dad would give me the chance to explain before he got all pissed.

  The only other people in the bar were the bartender and a couple in the corner. It was only two o’clock, so the bar probably hadn’t even been open that long. I expected the bartender to get mad and kick me out for being underage, but he barely glanced at me.

  From this angle I could see Stan’s face. Stubble grew over his large chin. Between that and his angular nose, he would have looked a lot like a Disney villain if it weren’t for his wide grin.

  “No more drinks,” Dad said. “You can’t have them in the car, and we’ve got to get a move on.”

  “Besides,” the bartender called over, “I told you no more.”

  Two o’clock was pretty early to be cut off. Plus, Stan didn’t look all that drunk—drunk people were supposed to lisp and tilt and drool. That’s what Shelby did at that party last spring when her boyfriend got her wasted. But Stan just sat on his stool, grinning at Dad and shaking his head.

  “See? I’ve been cut off. You wouldn’t want to take me to jail sober, would you?”

  Dad shook his head. “Something tells me you’re not completely sober yet, Stan. Maybe the nice people at the jail will buy you some beer.”

  Stan laughed a deep belly laugh, and Dad smiled, standing up from the stool. “Come on,” Dad said. “My daughter’s waiting.”

  Stan’s grin widened. “You got your daughter with you? I never knew you had a daughter.”

  I looked down at the table. I knew it was stupid to be mad about that. Stan was a skip—he probably didn’t know a lot of things about Dad’s life. But I still couldn’t help feeling like I hardly existed.

  Dad helped Stan off his stool and steered him toward the door. He looked over at me, jerking his head for me to follow, and Stan traced his gaze.

  “This is her?” he asked, walking over to me. “This is your little girl?”

  “I’m not so little,” I said.

  Dad shook his head at me, and Stan laughed again. “No, you aren’t, are you? You’re a right pretty little thing.”

  “Again with the little.”

  “Come on,” Dad said. “Let’s go.” The bartender nodded at Dad as we ambled outside to the truck.

  Dad didn’t say anything to criticize me about coming into the bar, probably because he didn’t want to seem weak in front of his skip. He stuck Stan in the back seat behind me, but he didn’t cuff him or chain his feet to the floor.

  After Dad loaded Stan into the truck, I walked him around to the driver’s side. If I explained myself before Dad brought it up, maybe I could head off the fight before it even started.

  “I didn’t mean to come in,” I said.

  “Did someone drag you.?”

  “Well, no. But there was this creepy guy knocking on my window, and I got scared.”

  Dad looked at me for a second. “All right, then. I’ll overlook it.”

  I climbed into my seat. Dad started the engine and drove the truck toward the freeway.

  “You can turn here,” Stan said as we passed a residential neighborhood. “My mom’s place is just down the street.”

  “I’m not taking you to your mother’s, Stan. You know that.”

  “Just thought I’d save you the trouble of the drive,” Stan said. “Drop me off, and I promise to stay out of trouble.”

  “You can’t stay out of something you’re already in. If you want to save me the trouble, you should show up in court when you’re supposed to.”

  “Damn dates. Can’t seem to remember ’em.”

  “Maybe you should get a date book.”

  “Had one. Lost it.”

  “A watch, then,” I said. “A fancy one that remembers appointments and beeps if you forget.”

  Stan laughed again. “Smart girl you’ve got, Max.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  I frowned at him. I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me or not. I didn’t really get called smart a whole lot. Smart kids got As. I slid by with Cs. Besides, Mom said it was more important to be clever than smart.

  As we returned to the freeway, Stan talked nonstop about why Dad should just drop him off, and how he didn’t deserve to be in court anyway. He sold his point so hard, I wondered if Dad should have chained him, but when I looked over my shoulder I found Stan relaxed against the seat, grinning broadly.

  While Stan jabbered, Dad picked up his cell phone and punched some buttons. “Hang on, Stan,” Dad said, waving the phone. “I need to return a call.” He held the phone with his shoulder and handed me his clipboard. “Take notes for me, would you?”

  Dad took the phone from his ear, pushed another button, and then returned it. “Hey, Joe, this is Max. Do you have anything on those credit cards?”

  He threw the phone onto speaker so I could hear the voice on the other end.

  “Sure,” Joe said. “Someone tried to use the card a couple of hours ago, at the Ramada in North Platte.”

  Dad grinned wide.

  I wrote, Ramada. North Platte.

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “Anytime, Max. Hey, give me a call next time you’re in town. We’ll catch a Rockies game or something.”


  “Will do. See you later.” Dad hung up the phone.

  “North Platte’s on our route back to Denver,” Dad said. “We can stop on the way.”

  “Where’re you taking me?” Stan asked.

  “Just to check on some business,” Dad said. “You don’t mind, do you, Stan?”

  “Oh, no,” Stan said. “In fact, I could ride with you for a bit longer than that if you want. ’Specially if we can stop at a 7-Eleven.”

  Dad rolled his eyes, looking over at me. “I’ll bribe a clerk to tell me which room he’s in. If he’s there, I can drag him out no problem. If he’s not, sometimes these things take a while.” He winked sidelong at me and then raised his voice to talk to Stan again.

  “Do you think you can babysit my daughter for me?” he asked. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

  Stan laughed. “Doesn’t seem like she needs much babysitting.”

  “Oh, you know how it is. Guess I’m overprotective. Could you look out for her?”

  “Sure,” Stan said.

  Dad gave me a nod. He was going to make good on his promise to let me watch Stan, even though I’d gone into the bar when he told me not to.

  I winked back at Dad. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Come on, honey,” Stan said. “I’m not so bad. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “You’ll both stay in the truck,” Dad said. “I don’t want my daughter going with you to buy booze.”

  “I was kidding, Max. You know me. Always a joker.”

  Stan launched into a story about the days when he used to babysit his little sister when he was in high school. He rambled the rest of the way to North Platte, and Dad smiled so much that he didn’t ask about my homework once.

  The Ramada wasn’t hard to find once we pulled off the freeway; it was taller than just about everything else in town. Dad parked down the street from it. He pulled a pair of binoculars out from under his seat and peered up at the hotel windows.

  “Didn’t know you were such a peeping Tom, Max,” Stan said.

  “You know how it is,” Dad said. “I take what I can get.”