by Judy Clemens
Nothing happened.
“Nice,” Casey said.
Death held up a finger. “Wait for it.”
A quiet gurgle sounded from the depths of the pipes, and a trickle of water dripped from the spigot. The water was brown with rust, but after a minute or so ran clear. Casey splashed her face and drank her fill. She was going to push the handle back down, but hesitated, looking at her shirt. She spun her finger in the air. “Do you mind?”
Death laughed. “Like I haven’t seen—”
Casey frowned.
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to be so touchy.” Death turned around.
Casey pulled off the sweatshirt and held it under the water, rubbing the fabric against itself. She knew the bloodstains wouldn’t come out entirely, but at least she could get the nastiest crust off. She scrubbed as long as her hands could take the cold, then wrung out as much water as possible. She laid the shirt over one of the implements on the far side of the shed, figuring the hot sun would dry it in minutes.
Leaving Death outside, Casey checked out the inside of the shed. The shade was a relief, and she was surprised at the amount of open space. It had been a couple of days since she’d exercised, and she knew she would be able to concentrate on things much better if she could get in a good session. The area was enough for her needs. She pushed the buckets to the corners of the room, clearing even more space, and found a spot to begin, centering herself and her body.
“I’m leaving,” Death said, peeking in the door. “You’re too boring.”
“Good. This time don’t come back.”
Casey’s muscles were sore from sleeping on the ground, and in the truck before that. She began slowly, taking the time to stretch and perform some jumping jacks and sit-ups. Her bad shoulder complained at the fingertip push-ups, but overall her body seemed happy to be moving in the ways it was used to. When she was ready for the actual kata, the hapkido patterns she went through every day, she chose weapons forms, having been reminded that morning how useful it was to have her body ready for the Bo.
A half-hour later she’d had enough, considering that besides her lack of sleep she hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Sweat poured off of her body, and with another glance outside to make sure she was still alone, she removed her bra, running it under the water from the pump. She took off her shoes and rinsed her socks and pants, hanging them to dry in the sun, taking the chance to even wash and wring out her underwear.
Her underclothes dried in almost no time, so she put them on and got herself settled in the shed to go over the information she’d found in Evan’s truck. She piled the burlap sacks to create a semi-soft place to sit, and spread the bag’s contents in front of her on yet another sack.
Picking out the photos, she laid them in chronological order. The earliest ones showed mostly the men Casey had seen, but soon other faces began to appear, along with trucks. One picture showed the blond guy and the man who’d gotten away from Davey’s seated across a table from an older couple in a diner. Casey would guess they were in their upper sixties. The photo had been taken through the front window, and caught Gun Man leaning over, his finger in the couple’s faces, as if he were making a strong point. Blond Guy sat back, arms crossed, smirking. The man’s and woman’s expressions told different stories. The man’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, as if what he was being told surprised or frightened him. The woman didn’t look afraid. She looked pissed. Her eyes were narrow slits, and her lips were tight, her chin thrust out in what had to be defiance. Too bad Evan hadn’t been able to get audio.
Other photos weren’t as clear, and displayed a varying group of people. The woman at the table was the only female, the rest of the truckers being men ranging from young to what could have been considered past retirement age. Blond Guy—Dix, Gun Man had said—and Gun Man were present in most of the photos, with a supporting cast of others from the crash site, including the two Casey had laid out at Davey’s. In all of the situations the men were talking, often violating the truckers’ personal space. In one they stood at the open back of a semi trailer, Gun Man looking up at the load of boxes. In another, Dix was handing a trucker a small package. No chance of telling what it contained. Casey still couldn’t see a pattern, but hoped that would come with studying the rest of the notes.
Leaving the photos spread out in front of her, Casey picked up the stack of truck manifests. These seemed freshly copied and were held together by a large black clip. They listed drivers and their trucks, along with the trucks’ contents, mileage, fuel stops, and the dates they traveled. Casey could see nothing linking the loads or mentioning a trucking company. As Davey had pointed out, the shipments included a wide range of items, from food to computers to lumber. There didn’t seem to be any consistent inventory.
Finally, she picked up Evan’s spiral-bound notebook, in which he’d scribbled things, many of which were just about illegible. With patience and the return of her headache, Casey was able to work her way through them. For the most part, the notes were a companion to the other information—adding a list of names. Dix, aka Owen Dixon, featured prominently in Evan’s notes, just behind Gun Man, also known as Randy Westing. The two others at Davey’s were named as well, along with the rest of what Evan was calling The Team. A real team of winners, from everything Casey could see.
One page of the notebook featured names Casey figured were the truckers’. She was wrong. None of the names matched the names on the manifests. The names in the book, however, were the ones that matched the photos, if she could trust the squiggly writing on their backs. So she had two different groups of people: the people in the photos and notebook, and the people in the manifests. The notebook held more than just names, however. The last page was filled with personal information. Personal as pertaining to the other truckers, not to Evan himself. Casey read over part of the list, which named the people in the photos.
JOHN SIMONES: uk 2008
MICK AND WENDY HALVESTON: 04-09
SANDY GREENE: DV
PAT PARNELL: Carl Billings, sf
HANK NANCE: Jan, Mar, Jul
Casey couldn’t make sense of Evan’s shorthand notes. The one obviously indicated months—but what about them? The months beside Hank Nance didn’t match up with the photos Evan had—the photos came from much later. And the SF by Carl Billings’ name—what was that supposed to mean? Death would probably suggest it meant Safety First.
Casey’s eyes drooped, and her headache had worsened. She piled the papers and slid them back into the plastic bag, deciding she wouldn’t be able to retain any new information even if she found it. After checking outside again for signs of life—well, human life—and seeing there weren’t any, she put on her now-dry jeans and sweatshirt. Back inside, she rolled up the bag in a burlap sack to use as a pillow, and lay down on her makeshift mattress.
It didn’t take more than a few minutes for her body to give up the fight to stay awake.
Chapter Six
She woke with a start. It was dark. So dark she couldn’t see the other end of the shed. Noises came from outside—the sound of tires on gravel. Not heavy tires, like a tractor, but something lighter. The sounds stopped briefly, then resumed, accompanied by footsteps.
“Here they come!” Death’s breath hissed in her ear.
Casey eased silently to her feet, her brain instantly clear of fuzziness. “Here comes who?” Her muscles tingled and her breath deepened, her senses on hyper alert. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she watched the outline of two bicycles and their riders enter the shed. The people kicked the stands to prop up the bikes, not speaking, or even whispering. Casey waited, hands loose at her sides, balanced on the balls of her feet.
Death watched, quiet now, but so close Casey could feel the chill.
The taller of the two shadows turned toward Casey and jumped back, grabbing toward the other.
“Who are you?” The taller one’s voice—a man’s, Casey thought—was husky, and quiet.
“No
body,” Casey said.
Death chuckled.
“What do you want?” The second figure. Female, this time.
“I was just sleeping. I didn’t take anything.”
The taller one hesitated, but the female stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in the darkness. “There’s nothing here to take.”
More sounds came from the outside, and three additional people came in the door, halting when they saw the postures of the first two.
“What’s wrong?” Another female voice.
The tall one gestured toward Casey. “We have a guest.”
All three new people turned to Casey, one of them flicking on a flashlight and shining it in her face. “What do you want?”
They were very concerned with that.
Casey held up a hand to shield her eyes. “A place to sleep. That’s all.”
The one with the flashlight ran the light up and down Casey’s body, taking in the burlap bed at her feet. Death struck a pose as the flashlight came near, but the light went straight through, illuminating only the wall of the shed.
“What’s your name?” The first female again—a teenager, if Casey was seeing correctly.
“Casey.”
“Casey what?”
Casey hesitated. “Jones.” With a pang she thought of Eric, from back in Clymer, Ohio. She’d told him Smith, and he’d immediately equated it with Jones, yet another anonymous name. She should probably just go ahead and use Doe.
This girl seemed to believe Jones as much as Eric had believed Smith. “Terry, close the door.”
One of the last three—a guy this time—pulled the sliding door, and with a grunt shut off the only exit to the outside.
Casey remembered the broom with the cracked handle, as well as the iron implements hanging behind her. Plenty of weapons, but one against five? Only if she took them by surprise. And she didn’t exactly like the idea of beating up teenagers.
“Sheryl, can you light us up, please?” the first girl said.
The second girl handed her flashlight to another person and lit a match, holding it up to the oil lamp Casey had seen earlier. It cast a glow over the center of the shed, leaving the corners shadowed.
The teenagers looked like any group of kids. The girls were both slim, within an inch or two of Casey’s height. The second one, who had lit the lamp, was fair, freckled, and pretty; the other, who seemed to be the leader of the group, had dark hair, her skin pale in the light. While she wasn’t a traditional beauty, she was striking, and Casey could feel her charisma and focus. Casey wondered if the girl’s hair was naturally dark, or if it had had help from a bottle. Her fingernails, painted black, had Casey leaning toward the direction of cosmetics.
The boys were about as different from each other as they could be. The first was tall, thick, and handsome, his mouth partway open as he stared. His elevator didn’t look to be stopping at all the floors. The second boy was shorter—as short as the girls, light-haired, and thin—and cute as a hormonal button. More with-it, definitely, than the tall boy. The third one was still growing into his face, his ears and nose larger than what might be required, and his body hung softer and rounder than the others.
Death wandered toward the lamp and stopped at its base, blowing at the flame. It flickered, but didn’t go out.
“This is our place,” the tall guy said.
Casey held out her hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll go. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. I just needed a place to sleep.”
“Wait.” The first girl came closer, studying Casey’s clothes. “You don’t look so good.”
Death laughed. “Told you so.”
“Where are you from?”
Casey held her non-threatening stance. “I’m just traveling through. I can leave.”
“No. Hold on.” The girl nodded to the guy holding the flashlight—Terry, had the girl called him? “You bring the usual?”
“Sure. Everybody’s favorite.”
Oh, great. A teenage drinking party. Or something worse. Casey let her hands drop. “Look. I’ll just go, okay?”
“No. Stay.” The girl gave a little smile. “I’m Bailey. Bailey Jones.”
Casey checked a laugh. “Nice to meet you, Bailey. Are we related?”
“Probably, if we go back far enough. That’s Johnny.” She pointed at the tall one. “Sheryl, Martin, and Terry.” She indicated the pudgy one. “Terry’s got the goods. Martin?”
Martin slid a bulging backpack from his shoulders and pulled out two little speakers. He set them on one of the wall’s wooden slats and attached them to an iPod. Music filled the room; some singer-songwriter Casey didn’t recognize. Death immediately pulled out a guitar and began strumming, crooning along with the music, following a tune Casey had never heard.
From his still-fat pack Martin retrieved a blanket, which he spread out on the dirt floor. Terry, also carrying a bag, set it down and pulled out a stack of napkins, paper cups, and plates, setting them all in the middle of the blanket.
Casey wondered when teenagers had gotten so finicky about getting drunk.
“Pick a spot,” Bailey said.
When Casey hesitated Bailey took a seat herself, followed by all three guys. Only Sheryl still stood, watching Casey from beside the oil lamp.
“So sit,” Death said, strumming a chord. “At least pretend to be social.”
Casey found a place on the edge of the blanket and sat butterfly style, ready to jump up at a moment’s provocation. She could feel Sheryl watching her, and kept the girl in her sightlines.
“What did you bring tonight?” Bailey leaned toward Terry.
Terry smiled and reached into his bag. When he brought his hand back out, it was holding a Tupperware container, one of the kind big enough to hold a pie.
Casey glanced at Death, who had stopped playing long enough to stand over Terry, sniffing. “Looks promising.”
Terry set the container down, looking around at the others. “Voilà!” He peeled off the lid, and there sat…
“Cinnamon rolls?”
Terry glanced at Casey, his eyes pained. “What’s wrong with cinnamon rolls?”
“Nothing. I mean, cinnamon rolls are great, but…just not what I was expecting.”
“Oh. You were probably expecting this.” He reached back into his bag and pulled out a half-gallon jug of milk.
Casey laughed. “Nope. Can’t say I was expecting that, either.”
Bailey grinned. “Terry’s folks own the bakery in town, so Terry’s always bringing us day-olds. What was it last night?”
Johnny moaned. “Blueberry muffins. They were amazing.”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “I missed those. Bummer.”
“Wait a minute.” Casey rubbed her forehead. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
The kids looked at her in shock. All except Sheryl, who still watched from the lamp, her face a blank.
“Our parents don’t even know we’re gone,” Terry said. “As far as they know, we’re in bed.”
Casey automatically looked at her wrist, where she used to wear a watch. “What time is it?”
“About two.” Bailey shrugged. “Our parents are way dead asleep. Now, Terry, how about passing out those rolls?”
Casey wasn’t going to say no, and her roll was gone in four quick bites, her milk in a few swallows. When she finished she found five pairs of eyes riveted on her face. Six, if you counted Death’s.
“What?” she said.
“Want another one?” Terry held out the Tupperware. “You look…um…a little hungry?”
“Sorry. I guess… I’d love another one.”
She ate another two, and finished off the milk. By the time the rolls were gone, the kids were digging in their packs and handing her more food. A granola bar, a bruised peach, a Snickers, and even a pack of gum.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Really. You don’t have to—”
“I know who you are.” Sheryl. Her voice was hard. “You’re the
one who was in that truck accident. You ran away from the cops.”
Death winced, strumming an atonal chord. “Uh-oh.”
“I didn’t run from the cops,” Casey said. “I left the hospital. Nothing illegal about that.”
“Yeah, except they’ve been asking for you to come in to the station.”
Casey looked at Death, who shrugged.
“I didn’t know that. What else are they saying?”
Sheryl turned to her friends. “She’s wanted for questioning about the accident. The trucker died. She was with him. It was probably her fault.”
“They’re saying that?” Casey was shocked.
“No.” Bailey shot Sheryl a look. “That’s Sheryl’s interpretation. They’re just saying they want to ask you questions so they can determine what happened. They’re not blaming you. Right, Martin?”
He nodded.
“They’re also saying if anybody sees her they’re supposed to turn her in.” Sheryl reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Anybody want to do the honors?”
“Sheryl,” Bailey said. “Cut it out. Put the phone away.”
“We’re supposed to—”
“And since when do we do everything we’re supposed to? Come on.”
Sheryl glared at Bailey, her thumb over her phone.
“Come on, Sher.” Terry this time, his voice gentler than Bailey’s. “Give the lady a break.”
“Why?”
“Because if you call you give up our place here. And because it would drive your parents crazy.”
Sheryl stared at him a long time before sticking her phone back in her pocket. “For now.”
Casey let out her breath. She had to get out of the area, and fast. She could take the bag of information with her, and figure it out on the road.
“You’re still wearing the same clothes, aren’t you?” Bailey indicated Casey’s shirt.
“I didn’t have any others.”
“And couldn’t buy any?”