by Blake Pierce
He nodded to himself, his hand still clenched against the table. A few smudge marks caught his attention, and he wrinkled his nose, daintily plucking a napkin from its holder and wiping the table clean until it was pristine and reflective.
“What can I get you, sir?” came the pleasant voice of the young waitress.
He looked up, watching her from beneath his dark brow. He straightened, brushing his hair completely in place with one hand, and murmured, “Water and bread, please.”
The waitress hesitated, biting her lip. “What sort of sandwich?”
“Just bread, please, child. Thank you.”
She stared at him for a moment and then sighed, turning on her heel back toward the counter.
He didn’t watch her leave. He didn’t speak further. The less he talked, the less he would be tempted. He was just here to relax, to have a nice, quiet break, before continuing his trek.
A couple of the young men were still laughing, and one of them jostled the other the man who’d already eaten two sandwiches and drunk two beers. The fellow reached out, snatching one of his friend’s sandwiches and taking a big bite.
The offended fellow yelped and pushed the hand away. The beefy boy who had stolen the bite was laughing now.
“Get your own,” said the other.
The food thief shrugged and replied, “Maybe I will.” He raised his hand, extending it in the direction of the waitress to call her over.
The waitress returned, water and bread on her tray. She paused at the other table and said, “Yes?”
“Another beer, and another order of the same,” the man said, burping loudly.
The waitress hesitated, lowering her voice, “You know you have to pay for all of that, right? I remember you from last month. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to cause trouble. But my boss will fire me if you guys leave without paying again.”
The young man shrugged, snickering and waving away her protests. The girl sighed, returning to the fridge to grab another beer and then placing it on the young man’s table. No sooner had it clinked against the marble than he lifted it, twisted the cap, and began to chug.
Another sign.
The man sat straighter in his own booth, his eyes fixed on the unrepentant waif.
He could’ve gone into any sandwich shop. He could have stopped anywhere. He could’ve tired at any point. But he had stopped here and entered this shop.
What were the odds?
The good Lord was giving him a sign; he knew it. He couldn’t stop. No matter how much he wanted to, he knew what he had to do. He couldn’t disobey God himself.
He crossed himself, murmuring a soft prayer beneath his breath. The young man was a glutton. A thief. A drunkard. He had to answer for his sins. Yes. It would be the path forward. The next step, the proper response to the call of God.
He gritted his teeth, slowly reaching up to his head and adjusting his bangs once more. The woman brought over the water and the bread. He thanked her politely, not making eye contact. She said something, but he didn’t reply. Conversation would lead to temptation. Besides, he had something of his own to focus on now. The glutton would have to respond for his actions. Soon. Very soon.
The waitress moved away again, and as she did, the man took a salt packet from next to the napkin holder.
He had behaved well today and he was going to respond in obedience. Perhaps, for tonight, he wouldn’t have to punish himself so greatly. There were different levels to penance. Irritation was for a good day. Pain for a bad one. Today had been good.
He tore the salt packet, and then, when no one was looking, he pulled the waistband of his pants and poured the salt into his underwear. He did it again, and then again. One of the men at the table across from him shot him a confused look as his hand returned with the salt packet toward the surface of the table. But the man ignored them. He shifted a bit, uncomfortable all of a sudden, feeling the grains against his skin. He winced, but nodded to himself.
This was the appropriate response.
He took a bite of his bread. And a sip from his glass of water. He watched the glutton, watched the way he laughed and drank and was loud and swallowed, scarfing down another sandwich.
They would talk very soon.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Agent Pascal broke every speed limit there was, and this time even John’s knuckles were white against the seat. Adele could feel her stomach twist as they sped down the road, moving through traffic.
“How much further?” Adele said through gritted teeth.
Pascal replied cheerfully, “Oh, don’t worry, we made good time. I shaved off seven minutes.”
“Really?” Adele said, as they swept around the side of a large truck and moved behind a sedan before merging sharply into the right lane and passing on the left side. “It felt longer,” she gasped.
Her heart hammered, but her eyes fixed through the windshield. Every time they passed a truck, she glanced at the stenciled letters on the side. Nothing yet. But they were on the right route. The journey to Bilbao. He wouldn’t reach his destination for another twenty minutes. And they were already catching up.
“He should be here soon,” said Pascal. “It might make sense for us to just wait for him at the next destination.”
Adele hesitated, but then nodded. “Where’s that?”
“According to his itinerary he has to pull off at a truck stop three miles down the road. He’s due to arrive in the next five minutes.”
Adele perked up; John, who was still gripping the door like he wanted to rip it off, also looked over attentively. Agent Pascal continued to imitate a needle through fabric, sewing her way through traffic and further down the highway.
Northern Spain passed in a blur, with the occasional vehicle leaning on its horn. These blaring sounds didn’t last long, though, when the irritated drivers realized a police cruiser was moving between them. The siren was off for now, along with the lights. They couldn’t alert the driver—not yet.
Soon, though, they might need more backup.
Would Mr. Lazar be violent? Would he come with them quietly? He had motive, having proven to be violent with hitchhikers in the past. He also had visited the commune on his route for months now.
“There,” John said, suddenly, “I can’t read the word, but is that the rest stop?”
Pascal glanced up at the sign they whipped under and said, “I missed it. I think so.” A few moments later, “Ah, yes. See there.”
“How much further?” Adele said.
“Two miles,” Pascal replied, cheerful as ever. She raced through traffic, and, ahead, Adele also spotted the outline of trucks now, lining a refueling station and rest stop.
“The itinerary says he has to stop here? For how long?” Adele said, wondering if perhaps they might have already missed him.
“He’ll be here for half an hour,” said Pascal. “Then continue on to Bilbao. We have ample time. He isn’t due to arrive for another few minutes.”
Adele felt her excitement mounting. She glanced over her shoulder, looking at other trucks as the police cruiser began to slow, approaching the exit to the rest stop.
“Hang on,” John said, suddenly.
Adele frowned, and she followed the tall agent’s pointed finger. He was indicating something on the other side of the rest stop.
A truck that looked like it had only recently arrived, instead of pulling in with the other trucks, was circling immediately toward the exit.
“Hang on, what does it say on the side of that panel?” Adele said rapidly.
All of them were quiet for a moment, and Pascal even slowed. For a moment, as they pulled forward, Adele waited with bated breath. And then she spotted the stenciling of a triangle on the side, and a single word: Passo.
She cursed. “That’s it. That’s his truck!”
John began to pump his fist, laughing in excitement. But the joviality died when the Frenchman realized the Passo truck wasn’t pulling into the rest stop, bu
t rather continued its path circling out, back toward the highway.
“Hang on,” John muttered, “why isn’t it stopping?”
Pascal, hesitant, slowed near the exit, but not quite taking it just yet. They had another quarter mile of road before she would have to commit completely.
“He should be,” she said, firmly. “He’s required to pull over for half an hour. He’s already too early.”
John growled. “Unless one of his buddies at the company tipped him we were looking for him,” he retorted. “You said your contact spoke with them directly.”
Agent Pascal’s normally cheerful expression flickered into something like a frown. She shook her head. “You think that’s possible?”
John pointed in answer as the large truck pulled out of the exit, onto the highway again and began to pick up speed.
“More than possible,” John snapped. “He’s running. Go, go!”
Pascal didn’t need a second invitation. She floored the pedal, once more jetting through the cars, tires squealing as she took them back out into the middle road.
As they maneuvered, Pascal reached down, switching on the sirens and lights. The front of the car and the windshield suddenly illuminated with strobes of red and blue.
Adele’s heart was pounding so wildly now she thought it might cave in her chest.
They picked up the pace, faster and faster, rapidly speeding across the asphalt. Another car leaned on its horn, but then pulled over sharply.
Other cars were moving out of the way, allowing them to cut through the traffic like a hot knife through butter.
The truck ahead of them, though, was only picking up speed.
Pascal leaned on her horn, the sirens wailing, but the truck didn’t seem to care. It continued speeding, racing as fast as it could away from them. And yet, the smaller police cruiser was gaining. Now, the trucker reached an exit. To continue on to Bilbao, he ought to have gone straight. Instead, though, he veered sharply, and for a horrible moment, Adele thought he might have tipped his cab.
Thankfully, especially for the cars around him, the truck slammed back to the ground and sped up this exit now, moving radically through traffic.
“We need to stop him,” Pascal said, sharply, “he’s endangering others.”
No sooner had she said this than she also veered sharply, the tires squealing, Adele’s body was thrown to the side, her shoulder bouncing off the door. John let out a little yelp.
They sped up the exit, moving through the trail the truck had already carved. Other vehicles were pulling off to the shoulder; one slammed into a concrete barrier, smashing its headlights.
The truck was moving so wildly, it clipped into the side of a minivan, crumpling one of the doors and sending the vehicle spinning out onto the shoulder. As they past, John gritted his teeth. “Get closer. Get that guy to stop.”
Pascal was already on her radio, barking instructions to paramedics and backup. After a few moments, a voice replied, emanating from the speaker in the car.
Pascal said, “We have his radio frequency. Want me to contact him?”
“The trucker?” John said, suddenly. “You can do that? Yes. Yes, do that right now.”
Pascal yammered something off in Spanish, and a reply returned. The response was short, curt. Pascal quickly entered something on the radio. A few moments passed, and then there was a static voice on the other side.
The fellow on the other end replied in French. Passo National was based out of Adele’s country, though it delivered through Spain.
“Pull over,” Adele said, shouting at the radio receiver. “Stop running and pull over, now!”
There was a long pause. Then a slurred voice, “Leave me alone. I didn’t do anything!”
The truck was still picking up speed, now nearing a hundred mph. If he hit anything, the enormous weight of his vehicle would crush another car like a tin can.
“You’re hurting people,” Adele snapped. “Pull over now.”
“Get off my tail,” the voice retorted, still full of static. “Go away.”
Adele cursed and Agent Pascal pulled into the right lane, trying to come alongside the truck.
Now, both vehicles were going faster. Both were racing breakneck down the evening highway. Other cars were quickly pulling out of the way, or, judging by some of the vehicles further ahead, responding to the sirens and moving into one of the slower lanes of traffic. The truck was still moving side to side, threatening to tip.
“John,” Adele said. “He’s gonna hit someone.”
Even as she said it, a smaller vehicle, inattentive or unaware, put on its blinkers, trying to merge into the fast lane to reach an exit. The truck didn’t stop. It slammed into the back of the smaller car, sending it spinning.
Adele cursed as glass scattered across the road.
Thankfully, the smaller car had been going speedily as well. Its tires squeaked, leaving rubber against the asphalt, but the driver kept control long enough to slow down and pull sharply to the side of the road. The driver leaned on his horn. But the truck didn’t slow.
John cursed; he’d seen enough. He rolled down his window, his hand darting to his holster. His weapon appeared in his fist as if it were an extension of himself. John Renee was a crack shot. He was more experienced with his weapon than Adele was. And now, as Pascal drove alongside the truck, keeping pace, John poked his head out the window, his large arm extended past the windshield of the police cruiser, his skin also strobing with red and blue as the flashing lights caught his silhouette. He aimed, his face contorted into an expression of extreme concentration. Adele glimpsed his jaw tighten from where she sat in the back, his hair whipping around him. He aimed.
The truck driver seemed to realize what was happening and began to suddenly swerve.
John fired twice.
The back tire exploded.
The loud whirring of wheels suddenly was replaced by a dull thumping sound. The truck began to slow, still rocking. The trailer tipped back and forth precariously as one wheel lifted and then hit the road.
Pascal slowed, careful to avoid the sliding back of the giant truck.
The vehicle was now on its last legs. John aimed again, fired twice more. The front tire exploded. And this time, the truck began to veer into the middle lane. Pascal cursed, pulling to the side, and then muttered beneath her breath, “I apologize for the foul language.”
Adele didn’t have time to make much of this. She was shouting herself. “Cut him off! Cut him off before he hits anyone!”
Pascal, to her credit, didn’t balk at the instruction. Showing more than a small amount of courage, she guided their own, far smaller vehicle toward the front of the truck. The larger truck was slowing now, missing two wheels, the tread of the rubber of one left behind them now.
A loud scraping sound accompanying sparks shot out from the wheel wells.
“Pull over!” Adele screamed into the radio.
“Merde!” the voice snapped back.
As Pascal nosed in front of the truck, keeping her distance, but making her intentions clear, the vehicle finally began to slow.
A few moments passed and then it came to a steaming, smoking, scraping halt in the center of the highway. A few cars behind them finally caught up, leaning on their horns as they veered around the cars. The ground was streaked with black marks from the truck’s remaining two wheels. John was already flinging open the door and racing out. “Hands up!” Renee was shouting, his voice booming. “Put your hands where I can see them now!” he screamed.
Adele watched, also pushing open her door, moving a bit slower, careful, trying to keep track of every moving part. Then, two hands jutted out of the window of the front seat of the truck. She felt her heart hammer, her voice squeaking as she said, “Thank God.”
Pascal was drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, speaking back to the radio, saying things like, “Just stay calm. It’s going to be okay. Please remain calm.”
John rounded the f
ront of the truck, his face red, his hair out of place. He pointed at the trucker in the cabin. “Get out here,” John bellowed. “Get out now!”
Adele reached John’s side, her own weapon in hand, aimed toward the ground.
Trembling fingertips reached for the external handle of the door, and there was an ominous click. For a moment, the sound hung in the air like the faint tap of a judge’s gavel, bringing proceedings to a halt. Then the door swung open slowly, with an air of ultimate reluctance.
A bald man with a beer gut and mean eyes glared down at them from the cabin. Gabino Lazar. The same face as the mug shot she’d been shown.
“Down, now,” snapped Adele.
The man cursed, spitting off to the side, but then, glaring at each of them in turn, he slipped out of the cabin, and, careful not to make any sudden movements, he lowered to the asphalt. Adele noticed his hands were twitching, his face slicked with sweat, his eyes bloodshot.
A second later, John steamed forward, slamming an elbow into the man and sending him ricocheting off the side of the truck. He twisted the man’s arm behind his back, ignoring the protestations of the trucker.
“I didn’t do anything!” he was yelling. “You had no right. I didn’t do anything!”
Adele glanced back at the many cars on the side of the road, some visibly damaged. She scowled and said, “Well you did now. You’re coming with us, Mr. Lazar.”
“Why?” he said, desperately, his voice nearing a moan. “What did I do? What is this about?”
“Murder, Mr. Lazar,” Adele said testily, finding some of her adrenaline fading now that they’d come to a standstill. “We want to speak with you about murder. Stop struggling—you’re not going anywhere.”
His face went pale, and he made a burping sound. “I—dear God. I think I’m going to be sick. His eyelids fluttered. “I need help—medics. Please. Take me to a doctor.”
A thin bead of sweat dappled the man’s forehead, and he continued to gasp, face against the metal of the truck.