Vessel, Book I: The Advent
Page 23
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The way he saw it, Jackson considered it pure lucky timing that he'd lost consciousness behind the wheel of a speeding fire truck. That incident had been more than enough, after all, to warrant him a few days off. And he was going to need time off immediately if he wanted to make it from Filbert, Missouri to New York City in little more than one day.
Armed with AC/DC, tire chains, a gallon of Gatorade, and a duffel bag full of lovingly made Wonderbread sandwiches, Jackson was all set to blast his Chevrolet pickup off onto I-70. First, however, there was one small detour he needed to make, and so it was westward that he drove first, not east. About five miles from Filbert city limits, he pulled the Chevy over to the side of the highway, next to a creek. The creek where he had come face to face with Su Kim Khan.
Su Kim Khan, who was wanted in six countries on multiple counts of theft, property damage, border violations, piracy, patronization of prostitutes, illegal firearms smuggling, drug trafficking, first-degree murder, and arson―his apparent favorite.
Su Kim Khan, who was apprehended two months ago outside Kansas City with two Japanese convicts and several AK47's. Su Kim Khan, who was scheduled to be sent back to South Korea in January for trial.
Su Kim Khan, who'd reportedly killed a man with a ... a hairbrush? Is that even possible? That couldn't be right.
Jackson squinted hard at the printed text, taking a contemplative chug of Gatorade. With a shudder, he tossed the sheet of paper to the passenger seat, back atop the heap of printouts which represented two hours' worth of Google searches. Zipping up his coat, he stepped out of the truck and turned toward the creek.
The authorities hadn't found Khan. Which meant that he was no longer in the area, given the tenacity of the search effort. But Jackson couldn't leave without making sure, offering a ride at the very least. They were headed to the same place, after all. Hell, why not let the arsonist-murderer hitchhike along? Not like life could get any weirder at this point.
But of course, Khan was nowhere to be seen. The only things visible through the flurry of snow were a couple of scattered homes and, in the far distance, a train depot. A cluster of black cows dotted the flat white field in between. So much for that ride.
Would've been one darn uncomfortable trip anyway, Jackson thought, climbing back into the warmth of the cab. For a moment, he humored the idea of the colossal, tattooed convict sitting in the passenger seat all the way to New York, sharpening a hairbrush with his switchblade. Then he pushed the Chevy into gear and headed east.
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