by Anita Meyer
The waitress nodded her head thoughtfully, silently…waiting for Caroline to continue.
“I left him,” Caroline said simply. “And now I’m going home.” That, so help her, was the God’s honest truth.
“Hey, Maxine.” One of the truckers at the corner table lifted his cup. “We need another round.”
“Keep your shirts on, boys. I’m comin’.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Sit tight, sugar. You’re safe here.”
Oddly enough, Caroline believed her.
Maxine carried a coffeepot to the table and filled the men’s cups, pausing long enough to share in one of their jokes. By the time she leturned to the counter, Caroline had finished eating.
“Thanks.” Caroline pulled five dollars from her pants pocket and slid the bill across the counter.
“Hold on,” Maxine said. “At least let me give you a refill.”
Caroline assumed she meant the coffee, but before she could object, Maxine had ladled chili to the top of her bowl, as well. Caroline fingered the five-dollar bill. “I…uh.”
“It’s on the house,” Maxine said.
“Oh, I couldn’t-”
“Sit down and eat. You need the energy.”
Maxine was right. She hadn’t eaten anything but a bag of peanuts all day. She sat back down and dipped the spoon into the steaming bowl.
The cloth started moving again. “Where’d you dump him?”
“What?”
“The guy. Where’d you leave him?”
Caroline bit the inside of her lip. “Savannah.”
“And where’s home?”
The questions were coming too hard and too fast. “Fort Wayne,” Caroline said casually. “Indiana.”
“That’s a long way.” The rag stopped moving and Maxine inclined her head toward the window. “I don’t see no car out there. You hitchin’?”
She nodded. “Some. And taking the bus. And walking.”
The waitress’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like girls hitchin’. It’s dangerous. Too many crazies out there.”
Raucous laughter erupted and two of the truckers pushed away from the table.
“Hey, Patch,” Maxine called. “You’re headin’ north, ain’t you?”
A man the size of a lumberjack trudged over to the counter. He was wearing something that at one time must have been a baseball jacket, but now every square inch was covered with patches. From Abilene to Zion, from the Catskills to the Rockies—the man was a walking advertisement for cities from coast to coast. Caroline looked from the jacket to the baseball cap pulled low over his face. It, too, sported a dozen patches. The trucker was well named, and, if the wearable road map was any indication, he was also very well traveled.
“I’m goin’ to Scranton,” he said. “Why?”
Maxine smiled. “This lady needs a ride to Indiana.”
The trucker looked Caroline up and down. “I don’t take no passengers,” he said. “It’s against the rules.”
Maxine’s snort was anything but ladylike. “Since when did that stop you?” Heedless of the fact that she was half the man’s size, she shook the rag under his nose. “You’ll take her,” Maxine said. “Or you’ll never show your face in my place again.”
“It’s okay,” Caroline said. “Really. I don’t mind walking.” To Indiana? She held her breath, but no one seemed to notice the absurdity of her statement.
Finally, the man called Patch nodded. “Throw in a piece of pecan pie, Maxine, and you got a deal. But only as far as Knoxville. That’s where I switch to 81.”
Maxine winked. “I’ll get the pie.”
Caroline looked skeptically at the mountain of a man who had been so easily blackmailed into giving her a ride.
“Don’t worry about him,” Maxine said, reaching over the counter to hand him a wedge of pie wrapped in cellophane. “He’s just a big old teddy bear.”
Patch grunted. “Cab’s open. It’s the blue Peterbilt. I got some gear in the locker room. Be right out.”
Caroline nodded, then offered her hand to the waitress. “Thank you. Very much.”
Maxine’s smile extended all the way to her eyes as she squeezed Caroline’s hand. “You take care, honey.”
Damn, this was going to be easy. He swallowed the last of the chicken-fried steak, dropped a bill on the counter, and slipped into the men’s room. With his hand in his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the grip of the gun.
The guy they called Patch stood in front of a sink. He glanced up into the mirror, offered a barely perceptible nod, then bent forward over the basin.
Easy? Hell, it was going to be a cakewalk. Whipping out the pistol, he cracked the barrel against the trucker’s head. Patch crashed forward into the sink, then slumped to the floor.
Stripping Patch of his hat and jacket, he slipped into the clothes, his own jacket providing bulk under the trucker’s. Then he fished through the pockets looking for the keys. Nothing. The truck was probably still running, like most of the rigs parked out there.
Grinning, he pulled the brim of Patch’s cap down low over his face and flipped up the jacket collar. He was pretty sure it was her. And if it wasn’t? Well, he’d make damn sure she made the trip worth his trouble.
“Now what?” Mac asked, stroking the puppy. After inhaling three bags of French fries, the dog had finally rolled over and fallen asleep, sprawled out on the front seat between them.
“I don’t know,” Jeff said sullenly. They hadn’t made it to the Chattanooga terminal in time to meet the bus from Atlanta, but they were there before it took off and continued its way north. Caroline wasn’t on it, but several passengers recognized her from Jeff’s picture.
“Come on,” Mac said. “At least we know we’re on the right trail. Your hunch paid off.” He leaned forward and fiddled with the car radio, trying to find a decent station. “Now you have to figure out what she’d do next.”
That was the problem. Jeff didn’t know what she’d do next. She could be eating, sleeping, running. From here on out it was a crapshoot. And he couldn’t even stack the odds in his favor.
The radio blasted and Jeff winced.
“Sorry,” Mac said, reaching to turn down the volume.
“You’re as bad as she is,” Jeff grumbled. “You can’t be in a car five minutes without listening to the—” He twisted the wheel hard right into a fast-food parking lot and slammed on the brakes. “That’s it!” he shouted. “Find an oldies station.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me,” Jeff said. “Oldies. Fifties stuff. Rock and roll. We’re only two hundred miles from Graceland. There’s got to be a station somewhere in this state that plays Elvis.”
And if there was, Caroline would find it.
Jeff hopped out of the car and ran to a public phone. Grabbing the Yellow Pages, he flipped to the back. R—R-R—Radios. He tore out two pages of Radio Stations and Broadcast Companies and sprinted back to the car. “Did you find it?”
“Got it,” “Mac called. He fingered the dial, moving it slowly back and forth until the reception was clear. Sure enough, some doo-wop group was crooning a love song.
“The call letters,” Jeff muttered, eyeing the list of radio stations. “Give me the call letters.” Precious minutes ticked by as two more songs came and went without interruption.
Finally the smooth, velvety voice of the deejay hit the radio waves. “That was the late, great Marvin Gaye. And this is your own Rockin’ Robbie sending you the sounds of the fifties and sixties, right here on WROC, the best of rock and roll.”
“WROC,” Jeff repeated. “Yes!” He copied the address onto a piece of paper and handed Mac the torn Yellow Pages. “Call Arthur,” he said, pointing to the phone booth. “Tell him I’ll need some clout at this radio station and someone to get me an address from a phone number.” He reached across Mac and opened his door. “Meet me at the station.”
“How am I supposed to get there? Fly?”
“Take a taxi,” Jeff said. “And here
.” He handed Mac the leash. “Take the dog with you.”
“Is this another of your crazy plans?” Mac asked.
“You bet it is,” Jeff replied. Leaving Mac and the puppy on the sidewalk, he spun off down the street, trying hard to forget that his plans had a tendency to go to hell in a handbasket wherever Caroline was concerned.
Caroline climbed the steps on the passenger side. The cab was a lot higher off the ground than she had expected, but the inside was clean and spacious. The dashboard was a maze of instruments, reminding her more of an airplane cockpit than any road vehicle she’d ever seen. And on top of everything else, the motor was running. It was a wonder someone didn’t just hop in and drive off.
Yeah, right. As if the average person knew how to drive one of these rigs.
She looked around curiously. Above the visor was posted a variety of papers—license, registration, permits. According to the ID, her chauffeur’s name wasn’t really Patch, but there was no doubt this was his truck. In addition to the official documents, there were a half-dozen photos—Patch and a pretty woman standing in front of the truck, the pretty woman sewing patches on a jacket, Patch proudly displaying said jacket.
The rig had been backed into the parking lot, and from her vantage point she could see the comings and goings of everything and everyone in the vicinity. Things were fairly quiet at the diner, but next door, at the convenience store and gas station, the activity was nonstop.
Caroline let out a long, slow breath. The chili had revived her some, but it was still more than twenty hours since she had last slept. She was running on empty and it was only a matter of time before she crashed. Another hour and a half, she promised herself. Once she got to Knoxville, she would find a place to sleep.
She spotted Patch coming out of the diner. She watched him in the side-view mirror and a sense of disquiet rippled through her. Something was wrong.
Definitely wrong.
His head was down, the baseball cap pulled low over his face, much as it had been in the diner. And the jacket was the same….
The gear! He’d said he had to get his gear. But, as far as she could tell, this guy was carrying nothing.
Not even a piece of Maxine’s pie.
Panic ripped through her as the man turned toward the line of trucks. She lunged for the door, but sanity claimed her. If she jumped out now, he would spot her for sure. She needed to be patient, needed to wait until he was behind the truck and out of sight. She considered cracking open the door to hasten her getaway, but was afraid the dome light would come on. So, with both hands squeezing the door handle, she waited. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she monitored his progress in the side-view mirror, each step bringing him closer. Finally, he rounded the back of the truck and disappeared from view.
Caroline yanked on the handle, but her hands, slick with perspiration, slipped and she fell back against the seat. A heartbeat later, she heard him climb the step. Heard the driver’s door open. She tugged frantically on the handle. It clicked open and she threw her weight against the door. A man appeared on the driver’s side—his smile mocking, his eyes cruel, his hand leveling a gun.
She dropped out of the cab. The door bounced on its hinges and swung back. The sound of the shot was muffled by a silencer, but she heard the bullet hit the door.
And she knew for certain.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t Patch.
Chapter 15
Caroline scrambled under the wheels. Crouching low, she ran toward the back of the long trailer. The entrance to the diner was less than sixty feet away. Surely she could sprint that far.
And then what? Call the police? Hide behind Maxine’s apron? No one could protect her from Augie Davis and his army of assassins. If she wanted to stay alive, she’d have to do it by herself. It was that simple.
She heard the man jump from the rig. “You can’t hide forever,” he growled. “Easy or hard, it’s up to you.”
It’s your choice. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.
Dear God, had it only been a few weeks since Jeff had said those words? What she wouldn’t give to be with him now, safe in his arms, on St. Croix or anywhere else in the universe. But that assumed there was someplace where Davis couldn’t find them. And that would be one hell of a fatal assumption.
Watching the man’s feet as he walked around the truck, she kept herself hidden under the trailer, behind the huge tires. When he rounded the far side of the rig, she bolted from her hiding place and ducked under the next truck…then the next…and the next. Finally she reached the end of the line. Behind her was the row of tractor trailers. To her left was the interstate. To her right was the diner. And straight ahead was the gas station.
“I’m through playing games, lady.” The guy was angry, real angry, but his voice was soft. Either he was deliberately keeping it low, or he was still looking around Patch’s truck.
Peeking around the tire, she could see the man’s feet. Just as she had, he was crawling under the rigs. One by one. When he got to the last truck, she would be caught. She had to get out of here. Now.
She glanced again at the gas station. An old station wagon was parked in front of the last pump—with no one near the tank, and, as far as she could tell, no one inside. It was too good to be true. With a fleeting glance in the direction of the would-be attacker, she sprang across the parking lot.
The door was unlocked and she hopped inside. Reaching beneath the steering column and dashboard, she fumbled for the wires to hot-wire the car.
The man had searched the last truck and was now scanning the parking lot. Caroline slumped sideways across the seat, still struggling with the wires. It was a simple task—one she had done at least fifty times. But never like this. Never under this kind of pressure. She willed her shaking hands to calm down, letting rote memory take over.
She heard voices and looked up as a woman walked out of the gas station. Davis’s man spotted her and started running toward the car. So did the woman.
With a half curse, half prayer, the old station wagon roared to life. Caroline threw it into gear and spun out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, she could see the woman pointing and screaming. The man was racing back to the diner. Then Caroline turned onto the entrance ramp, and the commotion faded.
Her hands shook and her heart raced like an eighteenwheeler out of control. Reflexively, she flipped on the radio and turned the dial until she found an oldies station.
“This is your own Rockin’ Robbie on WROC. Our request lines are open, so call in and let the Sandman make all your dreams come true. And now here’s a little Who for all you night owls—’Tommy.’“
The familiar music had a calming effect, and as her mind cleared, Caroline began to sort through her options. There weren’t many. She didn’t know much about rigs, but she did know they were slow starters. If that man took Patch’s truck, she would be long gone before he got it up to speed.
But he probably had a car.
And that screaming woman had surely called the police. Caroline glanced at her watch. She had ten minutes—fifteen, tops—before an A.P.B. would have every cop in the state watching for her. She’d have to get off at the next exit and ditch the car.
“It’s ten after ten,” the deejay crooned. “And tonight we’ve got a little contest to keep you listening. I’ll play three songs, each containing a clue. Put the clues together and be the first person to call in with the right answer. But remember, you only have ten minutes. Call me here at 555-9762, that’s 555-WROC. And here’s our first song.”
Caroline spotted a green interstate sign with white lettering. She pushed the car a little faster until the words came into view. Ten miles to the next exit and a town called Ooltewah. She let out a long, slow breath. Ten miles was a hell of a long way when the police were on your tail.
And a hit man.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. No flashing red lights. No car of any sort barreling down on her. She relaxed a little as Nei
l Diamond’s soothing voice sang “Brooklyn Roads.”
If only I were back in Brooklyn, instead of here…
Five more miles. Automatically her mind rehearsed the steps. Find a good-size all-night grocery store. Park the car. Casually enter the store. Purchase a candy bar or a pack of gum. Leave the store on foot.
She searched the rearview mirror again. It was too eerie. Nothing in front of her. Nothing behind her. It was if every car in the world had suddenly vanished. What had happened to the guy wearing Patch’s jacket?
What had happened to Patch?
She shivered and tried not to think about it.
“No winners yet. So here’s clue number two.”
The velvety voice of the deejay grounded her again and her mind reached for the next song—”Total Eclipse of the Heart”—not an oldie, but still a good song.
“Turn around, Bright Eyes.”
From out of nowhere two pinpoints of light appeared behind her on the horizon. Specks at first, they grew larger and larger as the car closed the distance between them.
Another highway sign. Three miles to the exit.
No flashing lights. No sirens. But the vehicle was still gaining on her. The driver had to be doing ninety.
Caroline pressed down on the gas pedal and the speedometer needle climbed slowly.
Two more miles.
The driver was coming up behind her. Fast. Staring into the headlights reflected in her rearview mirror, she couldn’t tell make or model.
But she wouldn’t reach the exit before he overtook her.
The small car came up beside her, slowed, then swerved into her lane. Gripping the steering wheel, her foot holding the pedal to the floor, she braced for impact.
The car rammed her. But the old wagon was built like a Sherman tank and the small car seemed to bounce off it. It picked up speed again. Preparing for another hit.
The exit loomed ahead. If she could just trick him. Make him think she was staying on the highway and at the last minute grab the exit ramp. He might not make the turn.