Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

Rome hastily opened the cell doors, and Doc and Paradise stepped out. The hard eyes in the bounty hunter’s bearded face showed nothing. From a pocket, the man produced a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to Doc. “One for you and one for Miss Jones. I’m not as young as I used to be, but let me tell you, if you run, and I catch you—which I will—you’ll be praying to your Maker you hadn’t, understand?”

  Paradise nodded, wide-eyed. Doc said nothing, but attached the cuffs to both their wrists.

  The man walked to the door and held it open. “Remember what I said.”

  Doc turned to Cal, still in the cell. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the old man. “See you, Cal.”

  Calvin raised his good arm. “Adios, Doc. Sorry ’bout it all.”

  “Stay off the bottle, huh?”

  Cal sighed and nodded. “Sober as a judge. Bank on it.”

  Doc offered a smile. “Even if she buys you the good stuff with all that reward money?”

  “Even if, boy. Even if.”

  Outside, the big man ushered Doc and Paradise into the back seat of a Lincoln that had seen better days. Faded brown paint oxidized by the sun peeled off the hood and roof.

  The man eased into the driver’s seat, started the car, and electronically rolled down all four windows. “Sorry, no AC. Lucky the windows still work on this piece of junk. It’s a loaner.”

  The Lincoln whipped onto the street and within minutes, the tiny town of Agua Loco became a memory.

  Paradise leaned forward. She spoke loudly, fighting the noise of the open windows. “Please. At least hear my story before you send us back.”

  Doc put a hand on her leg. “I don’t think we’re going back. None of that made sense back there. Something’s up.” To the big man, he said, “Who are you?”

  The man laid a muscular right arm across the top of the front seat and turned, left hand still on the steering wheel. Smile lines crinkled around his eyes. “Name’s Lan,” he said. “Oh, and Paco says hello.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Satellites and Home-Made Tortillas

  Hollister gazed through the café window at Agua Loco. Main Street consisted of an ancient adobe courthouse, a bar, a Circle K, the sheriff’s office, and several boarded up businesses. There were also no less than three Mexican restaurants, and the one he and Crystal sat in at the moment had a reputation for excellent carne asada tacos. They made their own thick, corn tortillas—just the kind Hollister liked—and marinated the meat in citrus juice, garlic, and peppers. A symphony of flavor—complete joy. All in all, the town wasn’t a bad place.

  At least, it wasn’t until his cell vibrated on the table next to his beer, and Simmons’ face registered on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “What happened?” Simmons’ voice echoed slightly as it bounced off satellites and South Texas cell towers.

  Hollister purposely took a bite and chewed in Simmons’ ear, letting his words slide around tortilla, cheese, and grilled beef. “Don’t know. Some guy showed up with fairly official-looking papers and a reward check. I looked ’em over. Both bogus. He conned Barney Fife down here into handing over your daughter and the guy who’s helping her.”

  Simmons’ shouting distorted the earpiece. “How! How could this be happening? Can it really be that hard to track down my half-brain freak of a stepdaughter? It’s not like she’s firing on all eight cylinders here! She thinks it’s the 1940s, for God’s sake! What am I paying you for?”

  Hollister set his phone down and let Simmons rant. Truth be told, he was glad the girl skipped. Across from him, Crystal tapped her dirty fingers on the worn Formica table. She crunched a salsa-dunked chip, swallowed and grinned her crazy grin, one tooth covered with something green. “Let me talk to him,” she mouthed.

  Hollister shook his head at her and followed his taco with a long cold swig of Tecate beer. He picked the phone back up to make sure Simmons heard the swallow. “Look, Dr. Simmons, I don’t know what to tell you. We flew in. We picked up the car. We drove to Who-knows-where-or-why-it-even-exists, Texas, and went to the sheriff station. All exactly like you asked, right? And we find the local-yokel sheriff and some beat-up old cowboy sitting in an open jail cell surrounded by empty beer bottles and singing about the lone prairie. It’s like a spaghetti western down here. What do you want me to tell you?”

  “So now what? She couldn’t have gone far! Who picked her up? That’s what I don’t understand. Give me answers.”

  “Some guy. Big. Old. Long hair and a beard. Tough looking, they said. He about made the sheriff wet his Wranglers. Tell you what, though,” Hollister realized he felt good—headache free for the first time in weeks, “I’m glad you sent us down here. I’m telling you, best tacos I ever had.”

  “The problem,” Simmons went on, “is that you’re not taking this seriously. I paid you a lot of money to bring my daughter back to me. You called yourself a finder. Now I expect you to find-her!”

  Hollister took another bite. “Relax. We found out from the sheriff who the guy helping her is. Kid named Morales. I got connections. We’re tracking his phone right now. Soon as he makes a call, we’ll know exactly where they are. We’ll get them. Give us a day or two. Just keep our other forty grand handy.”

  “After all your screw-ups, I should just keep it.”

  “Don’t even joke.”

  “I’d better see some results, Hollister, I’m telling you. This is getting very old. And when you find my brat, make sure Crystal uses her for a punching bag. I’ve had it! I want her black and blue and dragged back here in a sack.”

  “Uh huh. Call you soon.” Hollister hung up.

  Crystal didn’t comment. Whoever said there was no such thing as miracles?

  “Where do you think they were headed?” Hollister thought out loud, directing his question at no one in particular.

  “Pretty out of the way down here. Maybe they thought they could hide till things cooled off,” Crystal said.

  Hollister took another drink of his beer.

  “Or they’re headed for Mexico,” Crystal said.

  How could he have been so stupid? “Wait, yeah … Mexico. That’s got to be it. The coins. The puzzle. Must have something to do with Mexico. Why else come this way? Drive all the way down here? If it were farther, they’d probably try to figure out some way to fly.”

  Crystal crunched another chip. “Got your passport, moron?”

  Hollister waged inner war. On the one hand, he couldn’t stand the condescending Dr. Simmons. Besides, he was sure the man was a perverted womanizer. But on the other hand, a payday of eighty thousand dollars total couldn’t be argued with. Add to that the possibility of an actual treasure—which looked more and more likely with every ice-cold cerveza—and no real choice remained to be made.

  Another buzz from his phone interrupted his reverie. He picked up—his call tracker back in Los Angeles.

  “You got something?” Hollister had never been much for small talk. “Uh huh. Yeah, got it. Keep me up to speed.”

  “What?” Crystal asked.

  Hollister pointed to her plate of rice and beans. “Shovel it down, bruiser. They’re headed for the border.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Fast Lincolns and Personal Saviors

  A pothole roused Paradise from deep sleep. She rubbed bleary eyes and tried to get her bearings. Humid air blasted through the open windows of the Lincoln. She leaned forward, bracing herself higher by planting a hand on the seat, and attempted to catch her reflection in the rearview mirror. Hair flew in her face, and she dropped back on to the seat and raised the white flag. What was the point?

  “You look beautiful,” Doc said.

  “And you’re a liar.”

  “Nope. No glamour, no movie star, just Paradise. I like you that way.”

  The car careened around a corner, and both of them grabbed for an armrest.

  “Isn’t he driving a little fast?” Paradise said.

  “You slept through the best parts,�
� Doc said. “I accepted Jesus as my personal savior at least five times so far just to be sure I’m covered. I’m thinking our new buddy must have raced stock cars in a past life.”

  “No point in wasting time,” Lan said from the driver’s seat.

  “Nobody’ll ever accuse you of that,” Doc replied.

  Lan laughed.

  Doc reached over and brushed a strand of hair from Paradise’s face. “I talked to Jake while you were asleep. He told me you called him right after Rome took us in. That was good thinking. Paco called Lan. That’s how he found us.”

  “I’m just glad I called. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry. I should have seen something was wrong with Mary Martha.”

  “Don’t be sorry. People can surprise you, especially if money’s involved.”

  “I’ll bet Jake was glad.”

  “About Mary Martha?”

  “That Lan found us.”

  “Yeah. And also that we left the other coin back at the mission. The thing would have wound up in Sheriff Rome’s pocket for sure. It’s better off in the museum.”

  Doc’s earnest face moved sadness in Paradise. They’d part ways soon; no other outcome made sense. Still, she couldn’t forget the feeling of his strong arms around her as they’d danced at the Manhattan. Over the past days, she’d maintained distance although, she admitted to herself, there were moments it hadn’t been easy. The reality of someone caring—really caring—touched her in places she hadn’t known existed.

  “Well?”

  The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Paradise looked around. Truck Stop Jesus grinned at her from the dashboard of the Lincoln.

  “Lan, where did you get that Jesus?” she said.

  “Paco told me about your Olds breaking down. I stopped at the garage. Only one in town—wasn’t hard to find. I grabbed your bags. They’re in the trunk. Grabbed this little guy too. Figured he’d seen some miles with you, maybe he’d like to see a few more.”

  “Our intrepid mascot,” Doc said.

  The right side of the Lincoln edged another bump in the road, and Jesus’ head wobbled.

  “Well?” the voice pressed.

  “I’m tired,” Paradise said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “You really need to get some new material.” Paradise focused her attention on the scenery. As they drove, buildings rose out of the Texas landscape with greater and greater frequency beneath a wide blanket of deep blue.

  “So, Lan, is the plan to get us across the border at Matamoros?” Doc said. “Head south?”

  Lan glanced up at the mirror. “That what Paco told you? That I was gonna smuggle you across the border?”

  “I guess … Pretty much. At least, I assumed. The authorities are watching for Paradise. Paco said you could help.”

  “Huh. Well, I’ll get you to Mexico, but it might not be what you’re expecting.”

  Doc’s cell phone rang, and he glanced at the screen, then handed it to Paradise. “I think it’s your guy in LA. Same number as before.”

  Paradise took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fine, thanks, Arnie. How are you?”

  “Knock it off, Paradise. This is important. Where are you? How fast can you get back?”

  Paradise closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “I’m not living with Burt, Arnie. Please stop. I told you I needed some time.”

  A long pause on the other end. “You got it, Paradise. They want you for the part. I have a contract sitting in front of me right now. You’re the next Scarlett O’Hara. This is it. I’m telling you, everything you’ve dreamed of is happening, starting now. I need you back in Los Angeles. Like yesterday.”

  Blood roared in her ears. Had she heard right? “Are you serious, Arnie? This isn’t some card trick to get me back to LA?”

  Doc glanced at her with concern.

  “No way. I wouldn’t jerk your chain about this, kid. This isn’t might. You have the part. You have a read-through in two weeks. Then costume fitting and you start filming. This is happening, Paradise. Get back here; we have a lot to do. The press is already pounding my door down. You’re front page! No lie, I mean it!”

  “Two weeks? What about Burt? What about the police?”

  “You’re a star now. What Burt? What can Burt do to you? The studio will make him back off. They’ll buy him if they have to. He’s crying big crocodile tears in your dust. A non-issue. Just get back here.”

  Doc’s dark eyes asked questions.

  “Paradise? You there?” Arnie said.

  Why on earth was she conflicted? She fought the feeling by flooding her mind with images of cameras flashing and designer dresses. Press conferences and premier nights.

  Stupid Doc and that Manhattan Bar. Get out of my brain!

  How could dim lights reflected off a worn-out dance floor possibly compete with the flashbulbs of Oscar’s red carpet?

  Are you kidding me? This is it. Get back to LA.

  “All right, Arnie. I just need to—”

  A loud crash from the back of the Lincoln cut Paradise short. The Lincoln swerved and started to slide, but Lan corrected and the big car straightened.

  “What the …” Lan said.

  Doc turned to the back window. “It’s them. The two that grabbed Paradise in New Mexico.”

  Another crash, but, this time, Lan was ready and the Lincoln stayed on track.

  Paradise turned. The chrome grill of a Hummer closed in fast. “Arnie, I’ll call you back,” Paradise yelled before hitting the End Call button.

  “You two hang on back there.” Lan hit the throttle, and the Lincoln surged forward, the Hummer close on its tail. Lan swung the wheel hard, and the car skidded to the right, charging down a street between lines of industrial buildings.

  Another hard right threw Paradise against Doc. His arm went around her like an extra seatbelt. Fear coursed through her, drowning out everything else.

  “Are they still back there?” Doc shouted.

  Tires screeching behind them answered Doc’s question.

  “Hold on tight. I’ll lose ’em!” Lan swung a hard left. Still, the Hummer howled the chase.

  A large trash truck loomed to the left and Lan swerved wide to miss it. Braking tires sounded behind them, then a loud crash. Lan hung a right into a parking lot, then a left into an alley. The Lincoln broke onto a main street with the Hummer nowhere to be seen. Doc still held Paradise tight as Lan floored the car through several more turns before entering a four-lane highway.

  “Those guys are crazy,” Lan said.

  Doc surveyed the road behind. “At least we lost them for now.”

  As they sped along, urban gave way to wetlands, then low-lying dunes peppered with brush. Eventually, more town loomed ahead.

  “Brownsville?” Doc asked.

  “Nope. Port Isabel,” Lan said.

  In town, the four-lane divided, separated by a wide swath of grass and palm trees, then came back together as the Lincoln climbed onto a long bridge. To Doc’s Arizona-bred eyes, it looked like it headed straight out to open ocean.

  “Queen Isabella Causeway,” Lan said. “South Padre Island coming up. End of the road.”

  Two miles later—still on the bridge and over water—Lan grabbed a cell and thumb dialed. “Easy, listen up! Fire her up, drop the lines, and stand by. We’re coming hard and fast.” He hung up, apparently satisfied with the reply.

  “Who’s Easy? What’s going on, Lan? Where the heck are we?” Doc asked.

  The causeway dropped again to solid land of sand and brush. Lan veered right, then another right into a gravel parking lot and stopped hard in front of a low concrete wall. A scattering of masts and fishing boat towers stood out against the blue sky.

  Lan plucked Truck Stop Jesus from the dashboard as he swung open his door. “Great day for a sail, boys and girls.” />
  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Fair Winds

  Doc grabbed the bags and followed Lan, checking to be sure Paradise was behind him. They passed through a metal gate and ran down a long dock, collecting some strange looks from boat occupants and sightseers along the way. The dock ended at an end-slip where a long sailboat—ninety feet at least—rocked gently in the water. The craft spoke of age, but not in a run-down way, and though Doc knew next to nothing about boats, he immediately appreciated the graceful lines of this one. It looked out of place among the dozens of modern, fiberglass vessels bobbing on the liquid parking lot. The sailboat’s hull shone white, contrasting the varnished teak deck. Brass and stainless steel glinted in the bright Gulf sun. Two thick, wooden masts touched the sky, high above it all.

  “Cast off, Easy. Time to get wet.” Lan pushed the words out between heavy breaths.

  A small, dark man, barefoot in loose, khaki shorts and a faded Cancun Spring Break ’96 tank top, stood holding a bowline. “Yes sir, boss. Fair winds today, I tink.”

  His accent rolled thick, and Doc couldn’t quite place it. Maybe Caribbean, but something else in the mix as well.

  The smell of diesel tinged the air, and from deep in the sailboat an engine chugged. Lan climbed on board and put a thick hand back for Doc and Paradise.

  Paradise grabbed Doc’s arm from behind, and he turned to her. Uncertainty and worry creased her pretty face.

  “Doc, I can’t go.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? We have to go. You saw those guys.”

  “No. The part. In Gone with the Wind. That’s why Arnie called. I got it, Doc. It’s a sure thing. I have to go back.”

  “You can’t, Paradise. What about your stepdad?”

  Paradise bit her lip. “I’ll be okay. It’s too big for him. The studio will protect me. They’ll get the police to listen. Arnie’s sure of it. You see what I mean? I have to go.”

  “What about the coins?” Doc’s words hung like weak wisps of smoke in the sea air. Who cared about the coins? This was it. He’d lose her now. He’d been a fool to imagine the lure of a mystery—or a baseball burnout—would be enough to interest a girl like her.