CHAPTER SIX
It was a bright, though cold morning, in southwestern Montana. The man smiled as he watched the hippie woman load her things into the car. Long hair, long legs, and explosion of ruddy freckles all over her face, she looked like she belonged in the late sixties, with her headband, hip-hugging jeans and platform boots. She stood in front of the open trunk, gnawing on a thumbnail, deep in thought, as if she could feel something was wrong.
Then she snapped her fingers and returned a few moments later, holding her purse.
Ah, of course. She couldn’t possibly forget that.
Apparently, though, Airlia was very forgetful. He’d learned that much from listening in on their phone conversations.
“Don’t worry, Brock!” she’d said, making the phone call from the motel room phone. She’d act
