He was pretty sure it was a car. He doubted a truck could accelerate so rapidly without creating a lot more noise. The vehicle continued to gain ground, closing the gap between them.
“There’s someone behind us,” Noah announced.
“Just keep the same speed,” Sam instructed.
The car continued to pull closer, and then its headlights disappeared. It was right at the back of the trailer. If they were to stop suddenly, their pursuer would surely collide with the van. Was it someone else in danger? Or someone who intended to do them harm?
Up ahead, a sign announced that the Visitor’s Center exit was approaching. Noah looked at the storeowner for direction.
“Take the exit.”
The van curved onto the off-ramp. Their pursuer started to follow, but then shot forward past them and continued on the highway. Sam was unable to get a good look at its occupants. The car’s headlights were turned off, and it weaved back and forth across the road.
It was as if all common sense in the world had disappeared.
10
“ENTERING WHITE MIST.” She had made it.
Delta turned off the cruise control and tightened her grip on the steering wheel as she passed the sign. The gas pedal rose to meet her foot. A few minutes later, she turned off the exit and into the gas station. She pulled up next to one of the pumps and surveyed the area, heart thudding in her chest.
Before leaving, she’d looked up the town online. The website proclaimed White Mist to be one of the smallest in the United States. A row of pictures had flashed across the site header, showing the town’s history and a lineage of its previous owners, as well as stories of the recent renovations.
There had also been a picture of Sam Cook and his family. Apparently, no one had bothered to update the site.
The last modification was on April 2, 2008.
Delta opened the car door slowly, taking in her surroundings. She had often wondered what this moment would feel like; she’d envisioned it in her mind at least a dozen times.
The place looked run down. She hardly recognized it from the pictures. The lights underneath the gas station canopy were dim, the pumps and poles looked like they could use some paint. A yellow sign over the log cabin store was crooked, and one of the corners was bent over. Unable to read it, she guessed at the last few words.
Welcome To White Mist, Smallest Town in the Southwest.
The sun had begun to set, sending a few last beacons of light over the roof of the store. A tractor-trailer sat to the left of the parking lot. Delta looked for a silhouette in the driver’s seat, but saw none. She noticed there were two doors open in the lot—one to the gas station store and one for the trailer home adjacent to it. The first was a screen door, and it was swinging off its hinges.
Something didn’t seem right.
Without a doubt, the place barely resembled the pictures she had examined, but there was another aura here, one that shook her to the core. Perhaps it was the smell. The air felt as if it had been overlaid with a suppressant, metallic odor.
It took her a minute to notice the body on the ground. When she finally did, she stifled a scream.
Delta felt her legs propelling her forward, toward the figure. She pressed her hand over her mouth. The man was coated in a layer of dust and dirt, as if the parking lot had started to bury him. His face was a mess of caked, dried blood; his nose had been turned inward with such force that it had almost disintegrated. A large gash in his neck indicated that his throat had been sliced.
Next to him, a red baseball cap stirred in the breeze, rising and falling. As she approached, her heart rose slightly.
The figure didn’t look like Sam Cook.
Delta fumbled in her pockets for her cell phone, hands shaking. She needed to call the police. She needed to find Sam. The phone skittered through her fingers and into the dirt, and she bent down to pick it up. Her heart filled with dread as she looked at the screen. There was no service.
She swiveled in every direction, certain she was in danger. To her left, the tractor-trailer sat ominously, providing no clue as to who or what could be inside. In front of her, the screen door hung on one hinge, waving a banner of dried blood and bone. If someone was watching her, there were a multitude of places to hide.
Her instincts told her to leave—and fast. But where was the storeowner?
As the only resident of the town, she was certain that he must have been involved in whatever had happened here. He could be anywhere on the premises—perhaps injured and in need of assistance. Or worse.
Then another thought struck her: what if he’d killed this man?
How much did she know about Sam Cook? Other than what she had read in the papers, or the few times she’d seen him during the trial, she’d never spoken to him. Maybe he had finally snapped after the death of his family.
She shuddered at the thought and tried to dismiss it.
In the event that Sam was injured, it could be hours before she would be able to bring back help. If he was here, she needed to find him. She owed him that much.
Delta glanced back at the Chevy, picturing the contents of the trunk. First, she needed to defend herself. She pictured the objects she had packed in her luggage, but nothing jumped out as a potential weapon.
“A tire iron,” she whispered to herself. She must have one of those.
She stepped backwards, feeling for her keys. The figure lay still in front of her, offering no direction. The red baseball hat caught a gust of wind and rolled sideways. Something glinted from the corner of her eye, and she spun back around. About twenty feet away, in between her and the trailer, she saw the long metal barrel of a rifle lying in the dirt.
“Oh my God…” she whispered. She felt herself inching toward it.
Like everything else, the gun was enveloped in a thin layer of dust. Was this the murder weapon? She looked back at the body. It didn’t appear that the man had been shot, though she couldn’t be sure. His wounds seemed to have been manually inflicted, other than the slices across his neck. She wasn’t sure what had made those. She gagged slightly and looked away.
Delta contemplated her next move. If she were to pick up the rifle, she would be compromising a crime scene, and potentially incriminating herself in a violent situation. Then again, if she was dead, it wouldn’t make much difference, would it?
She retrieved the gun from the ground, sliding her fingers across the barrel, and held it upright. It was heavier than she had imagined. Of course, she’d never held a rifle before. Ahead of her, the trailer home was soaked in shadow. The blinds were down, and no light emanated from inside. She placed her finger on the trigger and moved towards the store.
She’d check there first.
Delta walked slowly towards the pumps, watching for movement. If someone were hiding there, they did nothing to give up their position. She stepped around the dead man, trying her best not to look down. The screen door hung sideways at the store’s entrance, and she ducked underneath to avoid touching it. The gun weighed heavily in her hands, and she pointed it in front of her.
With a shudder, she realized it might not even be loaded. How would she even know?
The interior of the White Mist store was a mess. Like the outside, it was a far cry from the pictures Delta had seen online. Shelves had been toppled over, and the floor was littered with cans, dried goods, and supplies. One shelf unit had a gaping hole in the middle and fragments of wood spilling out of the back end.
It looked like a bullet-hole.
Her body stiffened. She continued to survey the room.
Displays on the wall featured an array of White Mist merchandise. Rows of shot glasses and lighters lined the shelves, and a variety of t-shirts hung on the walls. One of the insignias caught her attention. ‘I’m a small-town hero in White Mist, New Mexico.’
“How fucking ironic,” she muttered, clutching the rifle.
Toward the counter, a rotary phone had been stretched to the end of its cord. The
handset was off the base. She was certain it wouldn’t be operational. A quick tap on the dial lever confirmed this.
Behind the counter, a wood-paneled door stood ajar, leading into what she guessed was a storage area. She proceeded toward it and then stopped. What if it was a trap? Once through the door, she could easily be corralled and contained—even killed.
But there may be someone in there, waiting for help. Possibly even Sam Cook. For a second, she considered calling out in the darkness. Instead, she pushed open the door with the tip of her rifle. It moved without a sound.
Residual light from the store seeped into the small room, and Delta could make out only shelves and shapes. A string brushed against her face, and she jumped slightly before realizing it was a light switch. She let go of the rifle with one hand and gave it a tug.
The room sprang to life. On either side of her were two enormous metal shelves filled with model cars. She recognized a few of them—a vintage Chevy Bel Air convertible, a Ford Thunderbird, and a Lindberg. One of her uncles had been a car fanatic, and had talked about the antiques incessantly during her childhood. She looked down the rows. Each appeared to be more detailed than the last. She imagined it had taken the storeowner hours to build each one.
A wave of sadness swept over her, overtaking her fear, as she pictured the man spending countless hours alone constructing them.
Aside from the models, the room contained only a few boxes at the far end—probably overstock from the store’s dried goods. She saw no other shadows or corners in which a person could hide. Relieved, she swiveled back into the log cabin store, turning off the light switch off behind her.
The store was just as she had left it.
She proceeded through the screen door and into the parking lot. The night now resonated deep black. To her left, she heard the trailer door flapping against the side of the house, suddenly animated by a gust of wind. She’d almost forgotten: she had one last place to check.
Delta made her way toward the trailer, gaining confidence with each step. If she could rule out the storeowner’s presence, she would feel more comfortable leaving to find help. She quickly crossed the parking lot, mounted the single stair, and peered inside. Like the storage room, the trailer home was dark and ominous. She felt along the inside wall and immediately found a switch. She flicked it on, waiting for a response from inside.
Nothing.
She continued through the entrance. The trailer home was quaint and simple, sporting minimal decoration. It seemed spacious enough for one, but she couldn’t imagine living there with a family. Her stomach sank again at the thought, realizing it was no longer an issue for the man.
After a few seconds, she determined that the main areas were empty. The only room she hadn’t searched was the bathroom. On the way in, she had noticed that the door was open, and had almost dismissed it.
Someone could be hiding in the bathtub, she thought.
She tried to push the image from her mind, but it grew inside her like a well-watered seed. She needed to check, to be certain.
Leading with the gun, Delta propped the door and clicked on the light switch. The bathroom lit up, and she bumped into one of the cabinets. The room contained only a toilet and sink, offering little room to maneuver. The brown shower curtain was a tangle of folds and creases, blocking her view of whatever lay inside. She swallowed hard. Surely anyone behind it could already be aware of her presence, and could be waiting for the right moment to launch an attack. She threw the curtain aside with her free hand.
A row of shampoos and conditioners lined the side of the tub.
No assailant waited for her.
As she turned away, something on the bathroom mirror caught her eye. Attached to the glass was a yellowed newspaper clipping, held on by two folded pieces of tape. It was an article she remembered well, dated two years ago on June 22, 2008. A tear slid down her cheek, catching momentum and dripping into the sink. She blotted her face with the back of her hand.
For the past two years, she’d lived the pain of losing a loved one. She could only imagine how the storeowner felt—waking up every morning to the same routine, surrounded by reminders of what he had lost.
David Monroe—her father—grinned at her from the photograph. Why had he done it? She had asked him once, before the trial, but he’d refused to speak. It was the same stoic attitude he’d maintained through the entire proceedings. Now that he was dead, she realized that the answers might never surface.
Delta ran out of the trailer home and into the night, leaving the door open. The rifle moved at her side with each step, offering little comfort. She tried to focus on the matter at hand. The parking lot was still empty, and the dead figure lay where she had left him.
And somewhere, she thought, Sam is alive.
She jumped into the Chevy, turned the key, and tore out of the parking lot towards I-40.
She failed to notice the figure crouched in her backseat.
11
THE VAN TIRES CRUNCHED ON the asphalt as the vehicle pulled into the Arizona Visitor’s Center. Sam twitched his hands nervously. In his head, he envisioned a legion of men similar to the one in White Mist, slinking towards the van in unison, ready to tear into the van and its passengers. Instead, the parking lot was deserted.
Kendall pointed at a lone SUV parked in one of the spaces.
“Somebody’s here.”
The parking lot spanned the width of the building. A few painted rows were reserved for tractor-trailers and industrial vehicles, and ten or so parking spaces flanked the front. The faded lines between them offered little delineation. Noah headed right for the SUV, which appeared to be parked in the handicapped spot.
“Hang back a little,” Sam cautioned. “We don’t know who may be in there.”
The van came to a halt about ten feet from the vehicle. Its headlights shone directly at the SUV, which had dark, tinted windows. Although it was hard to be certain, it looked empty. Sam stared past it to the brick building. Apart from the single vehicle, the place looked vacant.
The owner of the SUV must have gone inside.
“I’ll go in and look for help,” he said. He’d already dragged his companions through enough.
Noah still gripped the steering wheel. His eyes were wide behind his glasses.
“I’m coming, too,” Kendall said suddenly.
The tattooed kid grabbed the bat and began to stand, indicating that he had made his decision. Whether it was youthful naivety or bravery, Sam wasn’t sure, but he appreciated the company.
The two exited the van and stepped out into the night.
They approached the SUV and peered inside. The car was impeccably clean. A black briefcase was tucked neatly on the floor of the passenger seat. Two more rested in the back, identical to the first. Sam noticed it was parked evenly between the lines, giving him hope that its owners hadn’t been in a hurry when they’d stopped. The car had white government plates.
Sam hovered near the vehicle and motioned for Noah to turn off the van lights. Although everything appeared to be in order, his trust in strangers had grown thin, and he wanted to preserve the element of surprise if possible. The headlights flicked off, and Sam and Kendall were immersed in shadow.
The parking lot contained a few feeble overhead lights. Each one gave off a sickly yellow glow, as if its bulbs were about to die. When Sam’s eyes adjusted, he noticed a large yellow sign in front of the building. It sported a cactus on one side, and a small patch of trees on the other.
Welcome to Arizona.
The Grand Canyon State.
The Visitor’s Center was made of brick, constructed with alternating patterns of brown and red. It was comprised of three walls and a roof, with a large opening in the front through which travelers could enter. Plastic shelves lined both sides of the main room, each containing a variety of flyers for guests to peruse. Beyond the main room was a single corridor with bathrooms on either side.
Something else caught Sam’s eye. On t
he right wall in the main room was a payphone.
The storeowner felt a pinch on the back of his neck, and he swatted the air. His shirt was still soaked in sweat. The bugs must have smelled his presence. He waved for Kendall to follow, and the kid complied, wielding the wooden bat. Sam thought of the attacker at White Mist and realized that the weapon hardly seemed adequate.
They walked toward the entrance. As if on cue, one of the overhang lights died with a fizzle. Sam was temporarily blinded, and he banged his leg hard against the wall, scraping off a layer of skin. He cursed under his breath.
“Did you hear that?” Kendall paused.
Sam strained, but heard nothing at first. Then he noticed it: a faint, consistent banging coming from the one of the doors in the corridor straight ahead. He could just make out the familiar white symbol painted on the door. It was the men’s restroom. The noise travelled through the hallway and into the open area before them, pulsing rhythmically to an unknown beat.
RAT-tat-tat.
Kendall left the cover of night and entered the Arizona Visitor’s Center, now visible to anyone outside that might have been watching. Sam followed, casting glances behind them every few seconds to ensure they were not being shadowed.
The walls on either side of them contained displays filled with tourist information. One of the displays—a plastic shelf—had been knocked to the ground, its contents strewn across the cement floor.
Sam eyed the multi-colored brochures that announced some of Arizona’s tourist attractions. Among them were maps for the Grand Canyon, the Hoover Dam, and the White Mountains—all of which drew a steady stream of tourists, and helped bolster his business. Tucked between the brochures was a single newspaper. Some wayfarer must have decided he didn’t have time to read it.
The payphone was about halfway across the room, and they reached it in a few steps. Kendall pointed at it with his bat. The handset had been torn from its metal connector and placed on top of the base. Sam felt his heart sink. They proceeded past it and entered the lone corridor.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 11