Free Choke by Kaye George Page A

was the knife drawer. Should she chance it? No, she would probably slice her fingers. Hortense kept phone directories in the next drawer. She was reluctant to throw old ones away for some reason Immy could never fathom. Immy heaped that drawer’s contents on the counter, beginning to give up hope of finding her charger. The pens and the hammer clattered to the floor when she drew the phone books out and shoved them onto the countertop.
    Then she came across a flashlight in the next drawer, which held mostly kitchen linens. By some miracle, it shone. Weakly, the batteries on their last ions, or whatever batteries use to produce current, but it gave light. The counter was now a mess. But there, plugged into the socket next to the microwave, was her charger. She clutched it, triumphant, and got ready to leave.
    Once again, she put her ear to the front door and listened for passersby. She grabbed an umbrella from the stand next to the coat closet so she could fend off Larry Bird if she should attack again, but her return trip was mercifully uneventful.
    * * *
    WHEN BAXTER RETURNED FROM WYMEE FALLS, he banged on the flimsy motel room door so loudly he woke up Hortense.
    She sat up on the bed and tucked the spread around her chins. “Don’t answer it!”
    Immy tiptoed to the door and peeked through the hole. “It’s just Baxter, Mother.”
    “How does he know we’re here?”
    “I’ll explain later.” Baxter stuck his head into the room before he entered. “Mrs. Duckworthy.” He strolled in and gave her the unsexy version of his smile. “I thought you were a guy.”
    Hortense beamed him her best evil eye. “Why would you think that?” Immy knew she was sensitive about her appearance. It may lack many things, Immy knew, but her looks would never lead a person to believe she wasn’t a female.
    “Well, Immy said—”
    Immy’s kick to his booted ankle shut him up. “Do you have the goods?” she said. “Were they still open?”
    “Sure. They closed at eight. I was there in plenty of time.” He handed her a shopping bag and, separately, the receipt. Immy dug the money out of her purse and added an extra two dollars. “For gas,” she told him. The other shopping bag seemed to be full of cold remedies when she peeked into it, but Baxter didn’t sound like he was sick. He looked confused when he left.
    “Would you mind informing me of what is transpiring?”
    Immy turned to give her mother an explanation. “I have a plan.”
    * * *
    IMMY REMEMBERED, FROM VISITING HER father in the hospital as he lay dying from his gunshot wounds, that visiting hours started at ten a.m. She had been only twelve, but there wasn’t anything about his death that she didn’t remember vividly. Surely, the hospital still had the same visiting hours.
    She set out from Cowtail at nine-thirty, wearing the wig, one of the three wide-brimmed straw hats Baxter had bought, huge round sunglasses, and three beauty marks on her left cheek. She had been relieved Baxter hadn’t found a fat suit. It didn’t sound like a fun item of apparel.
    The ever-present, incessant west wind buffeted her between the motel door and her car, so she held tightly to the hat. The wind in these parts was either blowing or blowing hard. It was never not blowing.
    The only parking spot left in the lot was in a corner on the top tier. She hoped the van wouldn’t be too noticeable there. A lot of pickup trucks kept it company. She checked her beauty spots in the rearview mirror and tilted the hat forward to hide more of her face. She could only hope Xenia had regained consciousness after her wreck with the combine. Nothing new had been reported about the case this morning on television. The reporters had merely rehashed the same material they’d given out the day before. They had added an outside shot of the restaurant, though. Hortense had surprised Immy by crying when she saw it.
    Immy put her hand on the door handle to exit the van. Her palms and the bottoms of