Huntress Moon by Alexandra Sokoloff

Author:Alexandra Sokoloff [Sokoloff, Alexandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Amazon: B008G14754
Published: 2012-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

The main street of the town was rustic: Old West-style board storefronts, most with wide plank porches equipped with rockers and even a battered couch or two. A gas station, a diner, an outdoor supply shop, an auto parts store, a donut shop, a ski shop, a barbershop — and, Roarke was happy to see, a general store.

He was glad he had dressed down, khakis and long-sleeved shirt and boots, the casual/hiking outfit he always packed when he was on the road. If he had any luck he would be out in the woods sooner rather than later, and the non-city clothes might go over better in a tiny town like this.

Armed with a mugshot of Preacherman, he stepped through the screen door of the store.

Bells jangled at his entrance and a man in his sixties looked up from the counter, someone who looked like he’d been right where he was for just about forever, and moreover, was happy about it. This might not be a wasted trip after all. Roarke mentally crossed his fingers as he moved up to the counter.

“A man on a mission,” the man observed, already sizing him up. Roarke half-expected him to pull out a pipe.

“I am,” he said, and showed his credentials, and then the mugshot. “Looking for someone you may have seen around here.”

The man harrumphed at the image of the transient. “You don’t forget that one. Haven’t seen him in a long time, though.”

‘No one has. He’s dead.”

The man looked unsurprised.

“So, he shopped here?” Roarke asked.

“Canned stuff, mostly,” the shopkeeper agreed. “Tuna, sardines. Bread. Soup. lantern oil.”

“He come in with a pack?” Roarke asked. “Did it look like he was pitching a tent?”

The shopkeeper cocked his head, thinking back. “Don’t think I ever saw him with more than a backpack,” he said finally.

Roarke felt a surge of hope. If Preacherman wasn’t packing a bedroll or a tent, he likely did have a cabin or some shelter. “How often did you see him?”

“One or two days in a week, then not for a couple of weeks. He came up on the bus from Portland, would stay for a while, disappear.”

Roarke silently blessed the scrupulous nosiness of small towns. “Word is, he had a cabin up near here. Probably not legally.”

“I think that’s right,” the man said neutrally. “Don’t know where, but I know someone who might.”

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