ISSUE THREE: Montana
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As the wheels of the plane touched the runway, my body relaxed and I let out the breath I was holding. Bozeman. Finally.

I hated flying. It always made me nervous to know there were only a few layers of aluminium and composites between me and a twenty-thousand foot drop to the ground. But in my line of work I often needed to fly to get around, so I just had to bear it.

Getting here hadn’t been simple either: Idlewild to Denver, then onto Salt Lake City after a short layover. Then a third flight after a longer layover – overnight, in fact – in a small propeller plane, which had rattled and shaken worryingly all the way to Bozeman. I was already dreading having to fly back, even if that wouldn’t be for a while yet. It beat driving for several days in a row, however, and it had allowed me to catch up on some reading regarding who the “major players” in the Numan community were at the time of PowerJack’s disappearance, on both sides.

As I walked towards the passenger terminal I took the time to glare at the cargo platform standing a few dozen metres away, upon which a shipping container was materialising. Teleportation had been a part of daily life for decades, after being developed in the early eighties, and was used all over the world to transport goods; it had the drawback, though, that anything living that went through the process came out dead on the other side, no matter if it were a single microbe or a whole elephant. Scientists had been working to try and solve this problem, and according to the latest reports they were about five years away from being able to transport people. They’d been saying that since at least 1990, so I wasn’t holding my breath. Sure would be useful though, if only to avoid having to fly.

“Antonia Shaeffer,” I told the attendant at the car rental place. “There should be a long-term rental booked for me.”

“Let me just check,” she replied, then turned her eyes downwards to her computer screen and smiled. “Ah yes, here it is. For… Three months, is that right?”

I nodded. “Yes, though I may return it early. We’ll see.”

“That’s absolutely fine. Here are the keys, miss Shaeffer, the car is just outside on the left.”

As I got to the car I nodded to myself, approvingly. It was exactly what I’d requested: a mini SUV, reliable and with some off-road capabilities should it come to that, but at the same time something that wouldn’t stand out – since I was going to be interviewing lots of people, I didn’t want them to think that I was a rich bitch from out of town even before getting out of the car. First impressions are important, especially if you’re trying to get people to open up to you.

I shot a couple of quick texts to my editor Emily and my sister Jenny to let them know I’d arrived and everything was fine, and then started the drive towards Deer Lodge. I’d chosen that town as my base of operations, even though it wasn’t in the area Jenny had outlined to me on the map; I would have to drive a couple hours each day to get there and back again, but I’d rather do that and spend my evenings and nights somewhat comfortable, I knew from experience that a town had to have at least a thousand people in population for the motel beds to be even remotely passable.

As the landscape passed me by, I mentally reviewed all the information I knew about PowerJack’s whereabouts. Which wasn’t much: he’d taken off from Dallas, and made a beeline for the mountains of Montana, where he’d landed. Maybe? Probably? My sister and her three electronic partners-in-crime had spent days scouring the radar tracks and all the data they could pool from other sources (legal or not), but there wasn’t even a hint the hero had taken off again, at least not until much later, when we couldn’t see him because we didn’t have the data. Which suggested that he hadn’t taken off at all, since there was no way he could have known anyone would be looking for him like this.

And considering he came straight here after Dallas, without even deviating a bit from his trajectory, meant he knew exactly what he was doing. During my career as a journalist I’d seen several people who’d suffered grave losses, and took time off to grieve. Most of the time they chose specific places to do so: somewhere with memories associated with it. Somewhere comforting.

Home.

And the fact that Moonshine had lied to me when she’d said she didn’t know if PowerJack knew anyone in Montana was an even bigger hint. I was willing to bet a fair amount of money that Jack was originally from around here.

It was about six PM when I pulled into the motel’s parking lot; the flight had landed in Bozeman in the afternoon, and it had taken me a couple hours to get here. I was starving, since I hadn’t had anything for lunch, so I quickly dropped my bags in the room and went out for dinner; I’d spotted what looked like a nice little restaurant a few blocks back, so I took a fifteen-minute walk to get to it. It was a steakhouse, as it turns out, and the signs out front promised huge portions, which was fine by me.

“Welcome!” the waitress greeted me cheerily as I entered the restaurant. “Please, sit anywhere you like, I’ll be right with you,” she said, wandering off to fetch a menu. I chose a table off to the side, sitting with my back to the wall: after years of journalism I liked to watch people whenever possible, and dinner at a place frequented by locals was a good chance to do so.

As soon as I’d sat down, the waitress brought me the menu, and smiled, telling me to take my time choosing what to order. I ran my eyes up and down the list: the selection was quite large. “Now, what should I get?” I muttered to myself.

“The T-bone here is nice,” said someone at the next table over. “I usually get baked potatoes with that, and extra garlic butter.”

I turned my head to look at the speaker. A girl, about thirty to thirty-five, and quite pretty: she had blonde hair held back in a bun, blue eyes, and her cute face was speckled with freckles; she was wearing a chequered flannel shirt, denim overalls, and a denim jacket. Her body was slim, but she had well-defined muscles – farming muscles, I knew them from getting to meet a few farmers while doing research for my writing.

“Or maybe you don’t like garlic?” she asked, frowning slightly, when she saw me looking at her.

I smiled. “No, I quite like garlic. I think I’ll get that. Thank you.” The waitress came over, and I gave her my order, concluding with “...And a beer, whatever’s on tap.”

As I waited for my food to arrive, the girl started talking again. “Sorry for butting in, I tend to do that, not thinking before opening my mouth I mean. Claire, you really should think before speaking, my friends always say. But I just like meeting new folks. I didn’t upset you, did I?”

What a weird girl. “No, you didn’t upset me,” I replied. “At all. In fact, I like meeting new folks too.” I extended my hand towards her. “Antonia Shaeffer. But you can call me Tonia, everyone does it.”

Claire’s pretty eyes widened as she took my hand and shook it. “Antonia Shaeffer?” she said, almost in awe. “As in, Antonia Shaeffer the journalist? Winner of two Pulitzers, Antonia Shaeffer?”

I blinked. I didn’t expect my reputation to precede me, not here of all places. But still, I smiled at Claire. “Yes, that Antonia Shaeffer. I take it you’ve heard of me.”

“Are you kidding me? I love your work!” Claire exclaimed. “Exposing the New York Mafia as using Numan enforcers for their shady dealings, in clear violation of the Vigilante Act? Or proving that the Quebec separatists were buying weapons from Rhodesia? Both of those pieces were great!”

Her mouth was moving very quickly, and her voice was causing other people in the restaurant to turn their heads to look at us. This girl was really excited about getting to meet me. Completely unexpected.

“Or...” she kept going, but I silenced her by raising my hand.

“Alright, alright, slow down,” I said, smiling. “I’m really flattered. It’s nice to meet you, Claire.”

“Oh it’s so nice to meet you too,” she replied. Then frowned slightly, and asked, “But what is an award-winning investigative journalist doing in Nowhere, MT?”

“Deer Lodge,” I corrected her, though I knew what she meant. “There are good stories to be found everywhere, Claire, even where life is supposedly boring and nothing happens. Right now I’m working on a story on the tragedy at Dallas, the Vigilante Act, and how they have affected life for the common person. Like the ones living in Nowhere.”

That was the cover story I was going with. I couldn’t just well go around asking everyone I met, I’m sorry, but do you happen to know PowerJack? Big dude, really strong and really fast, blonde hair, blue eyes, usually wears a blue costume? Have you seen him recently?

Instead, I had to be cautious. PowerJack probably didn’t want anyone to find him, that’s why he hadn’t shown his face in more than ten years; and it was likely that someone knew his true identity, and was actively aiding him in staying hidden. So I would just avoid mentioning him, and just keep asking questions in general. Hopefully that would allow me to gather enough information to figure out the general picture that was on the puzzle, even with some pieces missing.

“Oh, that’s great!” said Claire. “I can’t wait to read it! When’s it coming out?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I haven’t even started writing it yet, I have to gather material first.” I looked up as the waitress set down a big plate on my table, with a juicy-looking steak and a pile of potatoes on it. “Thank you,” I said, nodding to her.

“You’re welcome. And here’s your extra garlic butter,” she said, setting down a small bowl beside the plate. “And your beer. Enjoy!” She smiled, and went off to serve another patron.

“What about you, Claire?” I asked, tucking into my meal. “What do you do?”

“Oh, I have a farm. Dairy farm,” she replied. “It’s up in the mountains, about an hour and a half from here. I was in town for some errands, but I ended up running late so I’ll probably have to sleep here tonight. Don’t trust mountain roads at night, especially in this season.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I get it. Snow’s melting, and the mud can be dangerous.”

She nodded back. “Yeah, precisely, it can get real bad. During the day you can at least see where the tricky spots are, and be extra careful, but at night? No way,” she waved her hand in front of her face. “I always keep a change of clothes and some toiletries in my truck though, for cases like these, so it’s not a big deal.”

“Where are you staying tonight? I’m at the motel a few blocks from here.”

“That’s where I’m staying too!” she said, perking up. “Maybe we can walk back after we’re done with dinner?”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” I agreed. While I didn’t expect to run into trouble, it was always best for a woman not to walk alone on the street at night.

After I was done eating – Claire had already had a burger, as it turned out, and had been about to leave when I walked into the restaurant – we made our way back to the motel, chatting all the while. Claire was a really nice girl, and once she’d gotten over her initial reaction of hero worship it was a pleasure talking with her about all sorts of things. She was the kind of girl who I could easily see myself dating.

And maybe I would. I was planning to spend a few months here after all, might as well have some company in the meantime. But I needed to be careful, I didn’t know how a country girl would take me coming onto her. Or if she was even a lesbian.

For the time being, we didn’t exchange contact details. We said goodnight to each other, and that was that. I turned in early, so I would be well-rested the next day, as I began my investigation.

To be continued in: BREAKDOWN

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