The
riddle nagged me. Where was Embry Hamilton? Two psychics had “seen” Embry, one
said he was killed and buried in the Humboldt-Toynbee Wilderness, the other
that he was abducted near Area 51. After my visit to the Bellagio in Vegas, I
had visited the Alamo Inn in Nevada where Embry had stayed and sent an email.
Dennis, the current Alamo Inn manager,
said the previous owners were dead. The husband killed his wife when she
crashed his beloved Mustang, then shot himself. There was no record or memory
of Embry staying at the Alamo.
When I got back to Boise I typed up my
report, reluctantly concluding I did not know what had happened to Embry who
had vanished seven years ago
I made an appointment to see Louise
Hamilton, deliver my report, and receive my final check for services and
expenses. I arrived at the Warm Springs Victorian and the Latina maid informed
me Madam, Louise Hamilton, was unavailable. The maid took my report, handing me
a manila envelope and motioned for me to open it.
Inside I found a hefty check, plus a
neat handwritten note directing me to go to Boulder, Colorado and check on the
owner of the Boulder Herbal Company. Apparently years ago Embry had a dalliance
with the young entrepreneur who had started the now successful health beverage
operation.
I had friends in Boulder so I agreed
to drive over, an 800 mile trip through southern Idaho, into Utah, then across
Wyoming and down through northern Colorado to Boulder.
Leaving early the next morning,
I got as far as Little America in western Wyoming. The hotel-truck stop complex
on I-80 was an oasis on the cold November afternoon, a welcome break in the bleak,
undulating prairie hills. After checking in and showering, I headed for the
main-building restaurant. As I entered, a woman appeared out of the gift shop. Studying
a road map, she collided with me.
Fashionably dressed in jeans, a white
sweater and boots, she was medium height.
I pulled back and she looked angrily at me, her brow furrowed. Then she
composed herself and gave me a weak smile, apologizing.
We stood appraising each other. She
had a heart-shaped face, wide spaced, hazel eyes and strawberry blond hair
pulled back in a ponytail. Waving the map, she explained she was on the way to
Boulder Colorado and was looking for back roads. We introduced ourselves and
she told me her name was Tasha. I suggested we eat together, promising to study
her map. Noting I was on the way to
Boulder for business, I offered to show her a less traveled route south from
Laramie, through Fort Collins and on to Boulder.
We took a table by the stone fireplace and ordered
glasses of Merlot; Tasha went for a salad, while I ordered the featured prime
rib. I spread the map and pointed to Laramie and US 287, which snaked south into
northern Colorado, explaining the road was a byway through interesting
topography, especially the badlands border area between Wyoming and Colorado.
Tasha nodded, saying she would follow me. I agreed,
pleased at the convoy idea. Our food came and we ate engaging in small talk,
touching the economy, the Washington mess, and then settling on college
football as Tasha was a rabid Oregon Duck fan.
I offered to pay for the meal, but Tasha insisted of
picking up the tab, her gratitude for my travel assistance. We left the dining
room and paused at the motel, a line of single story rooms that stretched along
the large parking lot. We agreed to meet at 7 the next morning. To my surprise
she gave me a hug and a curious smile, then headed off to her room which was
two doors down from mine.
I went in my room, and then hesitated. I thought about
the Little America waffles, deciding to suggest to Tasha that we meet at 6:30 and
have a quick breakfast. I went outside and heard a voice. Tasha was standing at
her room door with her back to me talking on her phone.
“…it’s him.” I heard her say. I slipped into the
shadows of the next room doorway, the hairs on my neck tingling, a cold chill
down my spine.
“…yes, we’ll take 287 south. Just over the Colorado
line, there is a scenic pull off; it’s a lonely place, a perfect site.”
A perfect site?
I shrank back to my room and went inside, closing the
door softly. Without hesitation, I gathered my belongings and grabbed my
overnight bag. I opened my door and peeked out, but Tasha had gone inside. I
stood there until her light went off, then stole outside to my car which was
parked a few spaces away.
Getting in, I waited until a truck rumbled by going
west and then started my engine and slowly pulled away from the motel. I got on
I-80 and sped east. I gripped the steering wheel and peered into the night. When
Tasha realized I had vanished she would know I suspected them. Would they look
for me on the I-25 or the US 287 back road?
I sipped the coffee I’d made in my room. Tasha had
bumped into me by design, but why? Because of my search for Embry Hamilton? Or
was it my planned visit to Boulder Herbal? Suddenly, I shuddered and felt my stomach
churn.
I pulled into a darkened truck parking area and got
out. Above me the Wyoming sky was resplendent with twinkling stars. I drew a
breath suspecting a conspiracy, a plot against me. Did they plan to kill me?
But then the cold, night wind hit me and I hesitated,
trying to clear my head, to recollect. Had Tasha really been on the phone or
fumbling for her key card? Had she been talking to someone, or was it the
prairie wind? Was Tasha even there, or
was this like my prior encounters?
Other voices, other rooms?
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