Saving Laura by Jim Satterfield

Author:Jim Satterfield
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2013-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

I hopped out of Davis’s pickup along the shoulder of Highway 82 across from the turnoff to Woody Creek. I’d been lucky in more ways than one. He’d been heading back to his digs up Maroon Creek, so I didn’t have to hitch another ride out of Basalt. I was well fed on his dime, and then there was the matter of a job offer. I placed his card in my wallet and shouldered my pack, watching the old Chevy scratch gravel toward Aspen.

I shot the gap in traffic, running across the two-lane highway. Gazing north, across the Roaring Fork River, I eyed my little trailer. My Jeep was still parked where I’d left it a month before. I counted that as a good sign. Imagining a worst-case scenario, I’d envisioned the law or Tucker confiscating or stealing it in my absence.

Walking down the winding path to the valley bottom, I crossed the bridge over the river and headed left on McClain Flats Road. My pace quickened as I neared the park. Most of the folks living there were working stiffs. Early afternoon, on a weekday, the place looked quiet. That was good. I wanted to slip into my place as discreetly as possible.

It was a small trailer park, around fifty units, spread out for a half mile south of the confluence of Woody Creek and the Roaring Fork River. The entrance passed a general store and U.S. Post Office. Debating whether to check my mail first or get to the trailer, I took the easy way out, stopping at the little log-sided building.

I entered the deserted office with satisfaction. I’d only lived in the park since June, so I didn’t know too many of the locals. But I still didn’t want to run into anybody until I figured out what was what.

I scooted over to my box and peered through the little glass window. I had mail. Dialing the combination on the lock, I prayed for no official-looking letters. With shaking hands, I pulled out the letters and magazines crammed into the tiny box. Turning my back to the door, I nervously sifted through the correspondence. Everything seemed harmless until I came to a pink slip for a package.

I walked over to the Dutch door, half opened, that served as the office counter. An old lady with white hair and thick glasses puttered around the cluttered room, sorting mail, stuffing it in the boxes. I coughed, but she didn’t hear me.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, waving my claim.

“Oh, sorry, son, didn’t see ya there.”

With bony, liver-spotted fingers, she took the slip, then disappeared into an opened closet. I heard shuffling of paper for a time before she emerged with a brown manila envelope.

“We’ve had this a while,” she said, more like a question than a statement of fact.

“I forgot all about it,” I said. “Hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”

Once again, I held my breath, reaching for the envelope. Before I read the label, she smiled, spoke softly, “Congratulations.”

It was from Mesa College.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.