The Finder by Cat LeDévic
I’m headed up I65 on a soft Alabama summer night, accompanied by a chorus of bullfrogs, hoot owls, and the roar of the occasional 18-wheeler. Wilbur, my ancient Jag, is behaving himself with both his top and my foot down.
Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Then why am I grumbling and bitching every inch of the way? I loathe travel, prefer to stay within the safety of my own four walls or, at most, brief trips through my small city for work or groceries. No, I’m not elderly with 20 cats. I’m youngish, been told my bushy red hair, dead white skin and eyes like a miniature monkey are cute. Guys do chase me, the last one being as loving and tender as a grandfather clock: bitches regularly, strikes on the hour. The only safety lies in the hours when it winds down and recharges.
I also have a valid fear that my rather odd talent, that of a Finder, will become nationally known, chasing me out of my one safe zone. Yet I’d thrown all of that to the winds after receiving a call about an hour ago. What sort of client would have such a radical effect on me?
Ricky Grimes had sounded eight, tops, as he informed me that his mom was missing, could I find her?
It’s one thing to say I won’t leave my city, it’s another to hear a crying child beg. So here I am, headed for the lovely village of Four Corners. A vacation, I’m telling myself. I need to get away. Oh how the gods laugh.