Free Sisters of the Road by Barbara Wilson Page A

Lake City, near Carole’s. About as far away from Broadmoor as you could get.
    “How come you haven’t asked me why I’m doing all this, why I’m looking for Trish?”
    If I had to ask you that I wouldn’t be here. I understand about wanting to help…” She paused and lit another Carlton. “I had some… trouble too… when I was younger. And I guess, if somebody had come looking for me when I was fifteen… somebody who seemed like she cared… my life might have been a little different. I don’t know, but I wish you luck.”
    “Thanks.”
    We shook hands and she held mine for a minute longer. “Just one thing. You’re taking on a lot if you get involved with Trish and her family. You can’t just walk into a person like Trish’s life and walk out again. Too many people have done that already. Once she trusts you, if she ever does, you’ve got a responsibility.”
    “I’ll try to remember that,” I said. But I don’t think I really understood what she was saying—then.

13
    I T WASN’T EASY, BUT I managed to convince June that the circumstances warranted me taking the next afternoon off from work.
    “I just can’t believe she left my apartment of her own free will. Her note said she’d see me later.”
    “That’s as good as good-bye to some people. Can’t you just accept that the girl’s flown the coop—what do you want to get involved with her parents for anyways? Okay, okay,” she said, giving in. “It’s fine with me. I’ll tell Carole you took sick— if she ever comes back from lunch.”
    “Thanks, June… just one more thing?”
    She looked at me suspiciously. “What’s that?”
    “Can I use your car?”
    “Only if you promise to bring it back without blood all over the seat. I have enough trouble keeping it clean with just the girls and their little candy wrappers.”
    Before I drove out to Lake City I took the precaution of going home and changing into some other clothes. A clean pair of jeans, a Shetland sweater, a tweed jacket and hoop earrings, all of which I’d inherited from Penny when she went punk. I put some papers in a briefcase and, on impulse, Jane Eyre. I also discovered a clipboard in a desk drawer and scribbled a few things on it.
    You look like a social worker, I told the mirror, but that was okay—I was hoping to pass myself off as a government researcher. It was the best way I could think of to ask some questions.
    Assuming they were the kind of people who would answer them.
    Lake City Way is a long ugly street that could have come out of a kit labeled “Anywhere, U.S.A.” Block after block of car dealerships, gas stations and fast food restaurants: Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell, McDonald’s—they were all here, in duplicate and triplicate. No wonder Trish didn’t like vegetables. If she’d grown up around here she’d probably never even seen one. I turned off at a street above 135th and found the house easily. Nothing special—a low, yellow three-bedroom set back among firs and with a border of clipped rose bushes along the driveway. I parked and went cautiously up the walk, noticing house plants and lace curtains in the windows.
    I expected to find Trish’s mother, Melanie Hemmings, at home, but it was a man who finally came to the door. He was short with a powerfully built torso and a spreading belly, a beer belly to judge from the Bud in his hand. Not bad looking, in spite of his receding hairline and blond-red beard stubble, but with a hard, unsatisfied look around his mouth. He must be Rob Hemmings, the stepfather.
    He didn’t say anything, so I started right in, trying to sound as detached and professional as possible.
    “I’m looking for Mrs. Hemmings. The Rainbow Center gave me her name and address for a study I’m conducting. Nancy Todd here. National Institute for Research on Delinquent Youth. Is she in?”
    “Work,” he said briefly and stared at me. I was regretting wearing levis. Brown polyester pants would have been much better.