Outlaw Mountain

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“Al… ice. Come… find… me.”

The faint but drawn-out words, wafting on the chill November air, drifted in through the open window of Alice Rogers’ aging Buick Skylark. Even though she didn’t hear the taunting call or understand the words, the sound alone was loud enough to disturb her and rouse her from her Scotch-induced slumber. She woke up, shivered in the cold and blinked at the unremitting darkness that surrounded her. For a confusing, disorienting moment, Alice was afraid she had gone blind. She had no idea where she was or how she had come to be there. Fighting panic, her hands flailed out in search of clues. The first thing her trembling fingers encountered was the icy, smooth surface of the steering wheel. Next she ran her fingertips across the familiar worn plush of the Buick’s upholstery.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alice leaned back against the headrest. She was in the front seat-the front passenger seat-of a car, her own car. She had fallen asleep there. Again. The best she could hope for was that maybe none of the neighbors had seen her. If they had, word was bound to get back to the kids. That was one thing Alice knew from bitter experience. Tombstone was full of gossips who were only too happy to carry tales.

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