Coughing, gasping for air, Dewayne rolled to his feet. Through a haze, he stared at the fire as he staggered toward his pickup, wincing with each step. The cold winter wind against his inflamed skin drew a groan from his throat. I have to get out of here. The fire department would be here soon.
He struggled to get the truck door open. It hurt like hell. By the time he got inside, tears were rolling down his face. Thank God he’d left the keys in the ignition. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the key and turned. He shuddered at the pain and drew in deep gulps of air. Don’t faint, man. The engine turned over and started. He curved his arm around the gear shift, put it in drive, and then spun gravel in his hurry to get away undetected. Hell, if caught in the area, they’d blame the explosion on him and send him back to prison. No shit, Sherlock. If you killed her, they’d know it was you who done it and send you back to the joint. But he’d had a plan all laid out, an alibi, one that was foolproof. Guess he didn’t need it now.
Struggling to see, he slowed down and gained control of the skidding vehicle. Hunched over the steering wheel, he fought his near blindness to stay on the road. His head swam, blackness threatened. He shook himself to stay alert. As he moved along at a crawl, flashing lights and blaring sirens raced toward him. He pulled over onto the shoulder to allow the fire trucks to pass. Pain shot to his brain as the bright rays seared his eyeballs. He threw his hand up to protect against the glare. Nausea choked him, and he gritted his teeth to ward off the sensation. Sweat rolled off his body, dampening his clothes. He shivered and turned up the heater. When all the vehicles had passed, he eased back onto the road.
He needed medical help fast, but no way could he go to a hospital. With his record and the explosion of his ex-wife’s house, the police would be on him before he had time to take a pain pill. There was only one man in the area with the power to provide prompt, discreet treatment—Leo Sharp, Dewayne’s past employer and one of Chicago’s crime bosses.
Dewayne would owe him, big time.
****
Carson Rhodes drove into the parking lot of Albuquerque’s downtown police department. He sat for a moment and looked on the familiar scene. Regret filled him. This was his last trip to his workplace. Fifteen years down the drain. He sighed and patted Hans, his German shepherd. The dog turned intelligent brown eyes on Carson and nudged him sympathetically. “I’m okay, boy. You stay put. I’ll be back.” He lowered the windows a fraction, just enough for some fresh air to invade the truck cab, and locked the doors.
The cold January air nipped at his ears, and he pulled the collar up to block some of the chill. Inside, as he walked to his chief’s office, the room hummed with activity. Phones rang and officers hauled cursing drunks to holding cells while others took reports from victims. Captain Farley sat behind his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork, sleeves rolled up to expose bulging forearms. He looked up as Carson laid his badge and gun on Captain Farley’s desk.
The burly captain, expression grim, scooped them up, placed them in an open drawer, and shoved it closed. “I hope you’ve made the right decision, Rhodes.”
“I have, Captain.” He offered his hand.
Captain Farley stood, clasped it with his meaty paw, and shook vigorously. “All right, then. If you change your mind, we’ll be here.”
“I don’t expect that to happen, but I’ll keep your offer in mind.” Carson started for the door but stopped and turned. “If you ever get any time off, I know a quaint little motel in Siesta that offers rooms by the week, cheap.”
The big man snorted. “I haven’t had a vacation in five years. Do yourself a favor and don’t hold a room for me.” He waved. “Get out of here before you get caught in five o’clock traffic.”
Carson chuckled as he walked from the building into the brisk forty-five-degree weather. Hans woofed in greeting as Carson opened the driver’s-side door of the F150 pickup and slid into the cab.
“Hey, Hans, ol’ boy. You ready to head home?”
Tongue lolling, tail beating a rhythm on the seat, Hans yipped happily.
“Yeah, me too.”
The truck started instantly, and he eased out into traffic. He headed north on Rio Grande Boulevard, and when he reached I-40, he turned west. It would take almost three hours to reach Siesta, the small town halfway between Gallup and Thoreau. He’d visited often as a child. Now it would be his home.
Ten years ago his grandfather had passed away and left Carson a small travel court and restaurant on old Route 66. His aunt and uncle had been managing the Siesta Inn for years and now begged for a reprieve. He planned to give it to them.
After his accident on the job, one he couldn’t put behind him, he’d decided to leave the force. Counseling had helped, but in his sleep he still saw the life drain from that little girl’s eyes. He shuddered and directed his thoughts to the Siesta Motel and Café. It was time for Carson to step up and take over the business. He’d worked there during the summers until going off to college, so he knew the management process. Gramps had seen to it.
He’d thought of selling the place, but feared Grandpop’s ghost would haunt him. He grinned at the tales his mother, aunt, and uncle had told. Apparently they believed Grandpop, Carson’s great-grandfather, couldn’t rest and haunted the motel looking for some treasure he’d hidden and not revealed before his untimely death in 1974. No one knew exactly what the treasure was, but Gramps said the Great Spirit came to him in a dream telling him he must help his people save face. His mother and Aunt Leona always believed that story was merely the ramblings of an old man, one whose mind wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Carson considered their attitude insulting to his grandfather. He remembered Gramps as a quick-witted individual, one finely in tune with his surroundings and his Native American culture. If the spirits of his Laguna heritage spoke through him, that was fine with Carson. He’d felt the Spirit’s pull himself from time to time.
Just after eight p.m. the neon lights of the Siesta Motel and Café came into view. The vintage sign, a red sombrero below a green-and-brown palm tree with a blue moon behind, greeted him like an old friend. That it still worked properly amazed Carson. Most of the old advertisements along Route 66, as well as the properties they’d promoted, were broken, mere shells of their former glory. He drove into the parking lot, passed the café and registration office, and pulled into the small garage beside cabin number six. It’d been the innkeeper’s lodgings since his grandfather built it in the late 1960s. A light glowed inside. Aunt Leona no doubt had the place spotless and well-stocked with supplies for his arrival.
He got out, grabbed his duffle bag, and called Hans out of the truck. At a lope, the dog headed for the scrub brush area on the north side of the building, stopping to sniff and mark his territory. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Hans to explore. Tonight Carson wanted something to eat, a beer, and bed.
“Take care of business, boy, and come right back.”
Hans raised his head and then searched with purpose. Carson stuffed his hands in his pockets and breathed in the cold, clean desert air. Stars dotted the dark open expanse above him, reminding him of his smallness in this great universe. Having given up what he’d known and loved doing for the past fifteen years, he felt particularly alone. He’d adjust, given time. He sighed. Nothing like the scents of the desert to heal the soul. He could hope, anyway.
Hans returned and sat at his feet.
“All right, boy, let’s take a look at our new home.” He opened the unlocked door, stepped inside, and flipped on the overhead light. The old furniture sported new covers, and the linoleum on the floors had been replaced. Even with the changes, a subtle scent of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco lingered in the air. The place brought back memories of fun summers spent with Gramps. He’d worked days in the café, scrubbing floors and waiting tables. As a teen, he’d learned to flip burgers and cook breakfast. Some nights, he and Gramps camped out in the fields behind the motel, where tales of spirit talkers and nukpanas, evil spirits, filled his h
ead, interfering with his sleep. He’d loved his grandfather, and the familiar space wrapped around him like open arms. For a moment he half expected Gramps to walk out from the bedroom.
The aroma of spicy food hit his nostrils. His stomach growled in protest. Hans lifted his head, nose twitching in interest.
“Sorry, buddy. I’m sure Aunt Leona laid in some chow for you. I’m not going to share Uncle Buck’s Mexican stew.”
Fifteen minutes later, Carson savored his uncle’s spicy dish with corn cakes while Hans crunched on his dry dog food. He didn’t miss the expression of reproach his furry friend shot him while he chewed. Carson ignored the mutt. Some things a man just didn’t share. Plus, the highly seasoned food would play havoc on the dog’s intestinal tract. He didn’t want to be getting up in the wee hours for Hans to go out. He took a hefty slug of beer and let the icy brew cool his burning throat.
When he was finished with the meal, Carson stood and carried his dishes to the sink, where he rinsed and stacked them to wash tomorrow after breakfast. His jacket lay across the back of the sofa. He grabbed it, stuffed his arms into the sleeves, and then opened the door. “Come on, boy. One more trip outside.”
Hans loped out the door and made for the bushes that bordered the drive.
Later, stretched out on the bed, Carson tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. The mattress must be older than his thirty-eight years. He’d buy a new one first chance he got, queen-sized, as the double didn’t accommodate his six-foot height. How Gramps had managed to get a decent night’s rest was a wonder, since the man had stood two inches taller than his grandson. Carson finally found a spot on his side, knees drawn up in a curled position. Hans, on the rug beside the bed, sighed deeply.
He’d just dozed off when a sound woke him. Moonlight outlined Hans standing by the bed looking at the doorway. The ruff on his neck and back stood on end. A low throaty growl rumbled from his throat.
His voice a soft whisper, Carson asked, “What’s the matter, boy?” He peered into the moonlit room and didn’t see a thing, but he trusted Hans. He reached out and touched the dog’s flank. Hans sat. Carson eased from the bed and reached for the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver he’d placed on the bedside table. His bare feet touched the cold floor as he moved from the rug to the other room and flipped on the light. His eyes scoured the dark corners but found nothing. He lowered the gun.
“Nobody here, Hans. You must have been dreaming. Come on, look for yourself.”
Hans trotted into the room and searched, seeking his dream’s scent. Carson laughed, but paused in mid guffaw when Hans barked, and with front paws on the table, sniffed at a small object.
Damn. Where’d that come from? He’d wiped the table down after eating. He’d have seen it if it had been there then.
Carson picked up the tiny stone and held it in the palm of his hand. He had to examine it carefully to decide what it was, but with the protrusion of the tiny beak and a turquoise eye, he concluded it was a miniature black raven, a Zuni symbol for magic and great mystery. He stared down at the table. Grains of cornmeal were scattered around where the fetish had sat—food for its journey.
****
The clock on the dashboard read just after two a.m. Still in Illinois, Susan stopped at a large truck stop on the outskirts of Pontiac, where she filled up with gas and retreated to the back of her camper van to the porta-potty closet. Though tempted to visit the restaurant inside, she resisted, afraid she’d show up on the security cameras. After cleaning her hands with disinfectant wipes, she grabbed a soda from the mini fridge and snacks from the cupboard. In the driver’s seat, she fished through Lauren’s monster purse in search of one of the sandwiches her friend had provided for the trip.
Two stops to stretch her legs and almost five hundred miles later, Susan reached the outskirts of Joplin, over halfway across Missouri. A billboard advertising an RV park caught her eye. She turned into the tree-studded entrance and stopped at the park office. Ten minutes later she pulled into space number fifteen, far from view of the highway. Getting her van connected to the utilities didn’t take long, a skill she and Lauren had perfected while camping. With the expandable roof cranked up, Susan could stand easily. While heating a can of tomato soup on the two-burner butane stove, she munched on a ham-cheese-and-lettuce sandwich.
Her appetite satisfied, Susan eyed her bed, tired beyond measure and longing to crawl into the sleeping bag and fall into oblivion. Instead, she grabbed a towel, her toiletries, and a pair of sweats. She locked the van and walked two spaces down to the bathhouse. She’d sleep better after a warm shower.
Full, clean, and warm, Susan curled onto her side in her sleeping bag. Though her body cried out for sleep, her brain ran rampant, sorting through files of past hurts and escape plans. At the moment, she rode an emotional high. After all, she’d left Dewayne behind, a major accomplishment. Would she crash and fall in a few days? She’d left her parents and friends—well, Lauren, the only friend she’d allowed to see her true existence—and had no one to call on if she needed help. Her stomach twisted as anxiety built inside her. Her skin prickled and her heart fluttered. She shook the sensations away.
Yes, she’d be sick of her own company before long. Right now she’d love to be sharing a cup of tea with her mother, feel her father’s reassuring hug. Heck, she’d even enjoy one of her father’s lectures about the hazards of traveling alone. Would she one day beleaguer her children about safety? Without a doubt she would. It came with the territory, she supposed. She just hoped she’d have the opportunity to have children.
What if Dewayne found her? The memory of his last words, his voice filled with menace, echoed through her head. “I’m coming for you, darling.” Nausea choked her. Heart pounding, she gasped for breath. Stop it! She sat up in bed and mentally shook herself. Suck it up, girl. Don’t let him continue to control your emotions. You got away undetected. She plopped back down, the action shaking the van on its chassis a little. A number of scenarios ran through her mind, making her question her strength and determination. Would she have the backbone to stand up to him before he tried to kill her?
She reached down and touched the .38 Smith and Wesson on the floor beside her fold-down bed. God, she hoped so. Hoped so? Girl, you better know so. There will be no second chance. She didn’t intend to go down without a fight this time. Even if she went to prison for killing him, being released from fear would be worth the risk.
Long ago she’d found daydreaming helped to ease her into sleep. She closed her eyes and focused on building a safe haven in her mind, one she hoped to find in her exile.
She drove into a small town somewhere in Texas or New Mexico. A nineteenth-century courthouse stood regally in the center of the town square. Families picnicked in the park across the street while others…
The sound of car doors slamming woke her. Startled, heart pounding, gasping for air, she sat up and took in her dark surroundings. Where am I? A ray of light from a break in the closed curtains cast a line across the floor, illuminating the shoes she’d kicked off earlier. Her van…she was in her escape vehicle…safe.
She lay back on the bed. Her breathing slowed as she listened to the activity around the trailer park. A child cried. A dog barked but stopped at a man’s harsh command. A dog. Maybe in time I’ll be able to get one. It’d be good company and possibly a good alarm system. She smiled at the picture of a hound sitting in the passenger seat of her van. Yes, it was a nice image to dwell on.
Better get a move on. She quickly rolled up the sleeping bag and stored it so it wouldn’t bounce around, but she left the bed folded down. While water heated for her instant oatmeal and coffee, she checked her phone for any messages. None. Her parents wouldn’t try to contact her. They knew she’d planned to leave Monday night, had been told what it would mean when she called and said she and Lauren were having a pizza party, but she’d not revealed any details. The less they knew the better. When she could, she’d contact them.
Today she pla
nned to make it to Amarillo, Texas. So far she’d traveled on Route 66 when she could. The Mother Road had always intrigued her, plus she hoped the less-traveled road would help her remain undetected. Dewayne wouldn’t dream of her taking this path. He’d figure she’d take interstates and travel as fast as the speed limit would allow. The old road, potted and in poor repair in spots, ended completely in places, sending her to the interstate, often weaving from one side of it to the other. She wished she could travel only during the day to see more of the old highway and the vintage buildings, most crumbling skeletons of their former glory, dotting the landscape. She sighed. Maybe someday she’d have a chance.
Just after noon, she drove into Amarillo. She eyed the historic Neon Diner with longing but, fearing exposure, passed it by and opted for a large chain restaurant instead. She relaxed when she spotted several blonde women eating by themselves. She didn’t want to stand out. It was best to blend in with the other diners, in case Dewayne caught her trail and asked the proprietors if they’d seen her. The frazzled waitress quickly took her order and rushed to tend to other customers. Susan sighed with relief. The woman wouldn’t be able to identify her. You had to see a person to do that.
She laid a twenty on top of the check, stood, and slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Avoiding eye contact, she exited the restaurant and walked to the van parked near the back.
A Stolen Chance Page 2