At the checkout counter the cashier surveyed with undisguised curiosity the ten cans of red salmon, six cans of crabmeat, five frozen lobster tails, eight cans of boned chicken, and two packages of frozen jumbo shrimp. "Find everything you want?" he asked helpfully, glancing at the oversized moustache.
"Yes, you have a fine store," Qwilleran said. "Do you take traveler's checks?"
"You bet!" The young man's badge indicated that he was the manager, filling in at the cash register, and he was briskly managerial—a smiling, rosy-cheeked, well-scrubbed, wholesome type. Qwilleran thought, He runs in marathons, pumps iron, coaches basketball at the boys' club, and eats muesli. There's such a thing as looking too healthy.
"We have a good produce department," the manager said. "Just got some fresh pineapple."
"This is all I need at the moment, but I'll be back. I'm staying in the mountains for three months."
"Where are you staying?" The young man seemed genuinely friendly and not merely interested in selling pineapples.
"At a place called Tiptop. Can I get these things home before they thaw? I'm a stranger here."
"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 culvert—the water's pretty high there—watch 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 somewhere—anywhere—before 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.
