Uncertain Justice

Chapter 53

skiers stopping by to fill their tanks and bellies before heading further "up the hill" to Aspen or the other ski resorts.

When heavy winter snows closed the passes, the motels and bed-and-breakfasts filled with stranded motorists of all kinds. Yuppie skiers mixing with truckers whose big rigs couldn't stay on the icy roads even if the Colorado Highway Patrol would allow them.

In short, there was a brisk movement of people in and out of town throughout the year. One more quiet man in residence for a while wouldn't stand out that badly and if he was careful, he could blend in well enough that no one would notice. Miles intended to be very, very careful.

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Chris and Jeanette--there hadn't been any last names offered--dropped him off at the western edge of town in the motel parking lot. Miles stared after the aging Volkswagen bus. When Jeanette twisted in her seat and leaned out the window to wave good-bye, he lifted a hand in reply.

Miles had thought all the flower children from the Viet Nam era reconciled with society and busied themselves producing new generations long ago. Chris and Jeanette, still in their early twenties, were apparently throwbacks to an earlier time. They seemed determined to carry on the old ways as best they could, including a garishly painted van. They drew the line at "oldies" music though ... they couldn't stand it.

Miles had one clear rule for music--it had to be something you could hum or whistle. The original hippies had developed music that was imminently "hum-able" and most of it could be whistled ... assuming you could whistle in the first place.

The clashing, banging, and other discordant noises to which this couple listened would never be music in Miles' estimation. He shook his head again to clear it as the vehicle rounded a curve and disappeared.

Picking up the backpack he'd dropped on the ground just off the pavement, he turned to inspect the little motel where he'd been let out--or set free, depending on your viewpoint, he mused. The dozen little cottages, constructed to resemble log cabins, were positioned well off the road and inside the threshold of the forest.

The sign hung on a post in front of the slightly larger office identified the establishment as the 'Timber Inn' but there was no indication it was part of a big motel/hotel chain. The older man in rumpled clothing peering out the picture window in the office encouraged the idea the place might not have an connection to a network--heck, they might not even have a computer to keep records. It looked perfect.

Miles pulled the screen door open and stepped inside to find a balding, short man smiling cheerfully at him. Sitting on a barstool behind a heavy counter that gave the appearance of having been there since the beginning of time, the man seemed friendly enough and perhaps even glad to see him.

"GOOD AFTERNOON, YOUNG FELLER!" Miles stared at the man for a moment, surprised at the volume. He could have heard the man across the highway outside with an eighteen-wheeler passing by. Moreover ... it had been a long time since he'd been called "young," or "feller" for that matter. The old man's grin widened.

"Howdy," Miles voice was a little steadier than his first words with the couple in the van. They'd thought him painfully shy when they stopped to give him a ride. Miles had blamed an incredibly dry throat for the croaks that came out initially. The real reason was that it had been a long time since he'd had to speak aloud. He hadn't had any contact with other humans in so long....

"I'm hoping you've got a vacant room for a tired man," Miles ventured, clearing his throat with a small cough. "I've been hiking down the trail for so long I don't know what it's like to sleep between two clean sheets."

He'd already decided his story would be that he was hiking the 'trail' from north to south. He was on a sabbatical from his job as a consultant with a computer firm in Dallas and wanted to get away from it all for a long while. He'd only get specific about what trail and which computer firm if he had to. Santa Anita Springs was close enough to the main 'Continental Divide Trail' for it to be inferred but far enough away that other paths in the vicinity might also be the one he meant.

"Sure thing," confirmed the little man--he wasn't as loud as before. Miles spotted the hearing aid perched behind the left ear when the man adjusted something there while Miles was talking.

"We got lots of room." The clerk had already taken a blank registration card from the stack on the shelf below the counter. The card and a ballpoint pen were waiting on the counter top. He tapped it with a forefinger to draw Miles' attention.

"Fill this out for me, would you." He pushed the card a millimeter or two in Miles' direction. Miles filled it out carefully, making sure he didn't inadvertently use any of his real personal information. He'd told the two hippie-wannabees his name was Kyle, but hadn't given them a last name. He figured Kyle was close enough to "Miles" that he could respond naturally to someone calling out that name, but different enough to not raise a flag in a computer search.

He'd decided his last name was Brown. It was plain and simple, easy to remember, and no likelihood of raising suspicions by misspelling it sometime. He filled out the card quickly, using the actual street numbers of his deceased parent's house on a street he concocted on the spot ... Timber Lane ... in a city ... Dallas ... where his parents had never lived. The zip was one he remembered as having been his credit union's when he lived in Austin. A postman in Texas would have known it was invalid, but he was betting no one in central Colorado would.

Each set of numbers was something he could remember from one day to the next and duplicate correctly every time he was asked. They were harder to recall than city and street names. He wrote in the little box that he'd stay for three nights. He nudged the completed registration card back over the nicked wood surface to the motel manager.

"Timber Lane, eh?" The man's eyes had been drawn there quickly.

"Yep, when I saw the name of your place, I knew I had to stop here," Miles explained. "Gotta be a good omen, right?" He gave the older man what he hoped was a winning smile.

From there on, things went smoothly. When asked what credit card he wanted to use, Miles asked if U.S. dollars were still good. He'd overestimated the cash, he said, that he'd need on the long hike and he'd like to use up some of his cash, if that was all right. It was.

The man put away the old tabletop machine used to take an impression of credit cards and accepted Miles offer of two one-hundred dollar bills from a wallet in which Miles had used a thumb to conceal everything from casual view that might identify him. Happy to have the cash, the old gentleman allowed Miles to choose the cabin he wanted. He never did ask Miles for identification, which was just fine with the fugitive.

The five-dollar bill and some coins the desk clerk refunded Miles from the two hundred dollars weren't going to go very far, but that was okay. Most of the cash he'd set out with from San Antonio had been spent in the spring's evasion from the authorities but he expected to sell some of the gold nuggets in his pack soon.

He'd been lucky, though. He'd almost forgotten the little stash of money he'd tossed on a top shelf in the rock cabin. If he hadn't remembered at the last minute, he'd have had to scramble to sell a nugget or two to find somewhere to stay.

In the small room, he sat on the soft double bed and sighed. It's been many a month since he'd last slept on a real bed. He bounced for a while, listening to the springs rustle under the thick mattress. He peeked out the window into the parking lot. He'd chosen this cabin because it was the closest to the forest that rose behind the motel and because it had a commanding view of the parking lot, office, and a long stretch of the road leading north down into Santa Anita Springs proper.

There was a blind spot; he couldn't tell what was happening on the Colorado highway to the south, but you couldn't have everything. He pulled the heavy curtain closed, leaving a tiny slit at the end he could peer outside without being seen himself. He sat in the surprisingly solid and comfortable easy chair between the window and bed and unlaced his hiking boots.

After months of running around the valley in moccasins, the boots were confining, clumsy, and hot. He kicked them off and settled himself in the chair. He sighed with relief, wriggling his toes against the carpet. He could hear Old Zeb laughing at him. Having fled from city life where he'd been forced to wear heavy, crudely made boots himself, Zeb sympathized with Miles' plight.