by Scott Bell
Charlie smiled at the look of comic surprise on Maria’s face, then her jaw dropped when Abel launched into a greeting, and the two began trading bursts of Spanish so fast that Charlie couldn’t keep up. In a few moments, he had Maria laughing and chatting as if they were old friends. Charlie examined him while they talked, wondering at the new facet of his character. At the rest stop, while engaged with the hijackers, he’d moved with an unhurried speed that fooled the eye, a liquid blur of motion. After that, what she’d noticed was how still and quiet he became, not fidgeting, scratching, or even seeming to breathe, utterly focused. Then downstairs, he’d gotten downright silly, trying to say “faulty forklift” three times. A smile lit up his eyes, which, Charlie decided, were puppy-dog brown.
When the two new best friends paused, Charlie said, “Abel will be staying the night in the guest room, Maria. Would you see that everything’s fixed up down there? And set another place for dinner.”
“Of course, Señora.” Maria winked at Abel. “I hope you like pollo con mole, Señor Abel.”
“Ah, Maria,” Abel said, “you know how to get to me, don’t you? Can I ask if by any chance you’re single?”
The portly housekeeper giggled and slapped his arm. She trundled back to the kitchen, passing David, who had slipped into the room almost unnoticed.
“And this is my son, David,” Charlie said, holding out a hand to draw her son closer. “Say hello to Mr. Yeager, David.”
David held out a hand and greeted Abel the way he did most strangers, with the minimum acknowledgement he could get away with. She thought she saw a look of surprise cross Abel’s face, but it was gone before she could be sure.
Abel shook the boy’s hand solemnly. “So David is your son?”
“Mom,” David said, dismissing the stranger without further comment. “When will Tomas be here to help? The derby runs in a couple of days, and I’m not ready.”
“I don’t know. I called him, but he has a job to do in San Antonio and might not be back in time. You might have to skip this year.”
David sighed, looking crestfallen. Head down, he turned and shuffled toward his room. Charlie’s heart squeezed, and she twisted her fingers together.
“What derby?” Yeager asked.
“The Pinewood Derby race for David’s Boy Scout pack,” Charlie said. “They have one every year, usually in March. This year, it was postponed because a water leak shut down the school on race day. They recently rescheduled for Monday, and we still haven’t built his car.”
“You know…” Abel rubbed his chin. “I used to be pretty good at building Pinewood Derby cars. Maybe I could lend a hand.”
David stopped at the door to his room and looked back. “Really?”
“Sure.” Abel nodded. “You got any tools?”
“We have all kinds of stuff downstairs,” Charlie said. “In the storage room.”
“Then why don’t we take a shot at it?”
David scrunched his eyes, clearly skeptical. “Mom?”
“But you’re a guest,” Charlie told Abel. “It’s not fair to make you work for your supper.”
“Work? Building Pinewood cars ain’t work. It’s fun.”
Twenty minutes later, Abel and David were in the storage room, which doubled as Tomas’s workshop, digging through boxes and speaking in the arcane language of power tools, files, friction, and other manly stuff. Charlie grew bored quickly and left them to it.
In the kitchen, Maria looked up when Charlie came in. “Oh, Señora Charlie,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “what have you done brought home?”
“He’s only a guest, Maria.” Charlie felt the heat flush on her throat and knew she was getting that red, blotchy thing that traveled up from her collarbone when she was embarrassed. “He brought my books down from St. Louis, and the forklift died, and he didn’t have anywhere to go, so I thought that it was only good manners that he stay here…” She trailed off, realizing she was babbling again.
“Ai-eee!” Maria blew on her fingers and shook her hand. “Did you see his arms? Like these.” She held her hands apart as if holding an invisible watermelon. “I think he could pick me up with one hand.”
“I think he could pick you up with one wink.”
Maria shouted a laugh and returned to stirring a simmering pot on the stove. “I think I’m not the only one, no?”
Charlie opened the fridge and leaned in so the cool air wafted across her face, hoping it would chill the bright red flush she knew was there.
When Charlie ventured downstairs to tell Abel and David to wash up for dinner, whirring sounds of a drill motor drowned out her voice. In an attempt to be heard, she yelled, “Time for dinner!” which was when the drill stopped, leaving her shouting into the silence.
They glanced up from the workbench, gave her grunts of acknowledgement, and went back to work. She watched for a moment, noting David’s intense expression as he soaked up everything Abel did, studying the man as carefully as a math exam.
A warmth she hadn’t felt in a very long time spread through her. Steven had always treated David as more of a possession than a child, a trophy to add to his wall of fame. See, everyone? I’m a normal American guy with a beautiful wife and a child. Her dreams of watching David grow up with a father, someone who would teach him to fish and ride bikes and play ball, had been relegated to a tiny corner of her soul where it had shriveled up and disappeared. The strength of that feeling rising again nearly made her gasp with its power.
Charlie went back up to finish setting the table. After several minutes, she marched downstairs again but met with the same result. She finally sent Maria down with a wooden spatula to fetch the boys away from their toys.
At the table, Charlie said a short grace. As soon as the “Amen” left her lips, Abel and David dug into their food like wolves.
“I guess working on Pinewood cars gives you an appetite,” she told Maria, who beamed. Nothing made Maria happier than feeding people. She had long since despaired of fattening up Charlie. Abel looked to be her next target.
“It’s not any ol’ car,” Abel said after swallowing some iced tea. “First off, we named her, which you gotta do with cars, or else they fail you.”
“Yeah, Mom,” David piped up between bites. “She’s called the Buchanan Burner. We’re gonna make her wedge shaped for aerodynamics and add weights to bring her in at five ounces.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Why is it suddenly a ‘she’?”
“Abel says that cars and boats are always called ‘she.’”
Charlie looked at the trucker, who shrugged and said, “I don’t know why. It’s a Rule. Capital R.”
She smirked. “Sounds like a Man-Law to me.”
“Don’t forget”—Abel pointed a fork at David—“we have to leave a space to add or remove weight, in case the scale is off.”
“Yes sir, I’ll remember.”
David continued jabbering about filing nail heads and sanding wheels and balancing the weight. Biting back a smile, Charlie paid little attention to the specifics as she let David’s enthusiasm wash over her. Normally, David never gushed about anything.
After dinner, David reluctantly went to bed. Maria returned to the kitchen.
Charlie motioned for Abel to sit on the couch. “I’ve got some Scotch my ex left behind. I don’t drink Scotch, but I think it’s supposed to be the good stuff.” She found the bottle and showed it to him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Macallan, twenty-five years old. Yeah, I think I can manage that without choking.”
After serving him a drink, she poured herself a small glass of Baileys and settled onto the other end of the couch, tucking her feet up under her. Maria puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up. They could hear her singing from time to time as she worked, a Spanish love song that she strangled on the high notes and drowned on the low ones.
Charlie cleared her throat. “So, um, have you always been a trucker, Abel?”
“It feels like only the
last thousand years.” He tasted a small sip of his drink. “I drifted into it really. When I came back from Afghanistan, a friend of mine, a real whack-job named Victor, knew somebody in the business and hooked me up. The company sent me to truck driving school, and I hit the road.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not so much, anymore.” Abel sipped his Scotch, seeming to savor the whiskey, holding it in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “At first, it was great. After getting back, I needed the time alone to clear my head of all the blood and death, get back to being a civilian again.” He quirked a rueful smile, making his sad eyes even more doleful. “Back then, every time a balloon popped or a door slammed, I’d drop to the ground and roll for cover. Driving gave me a lot of quiet time, let me relax.”
“So what happened?” Charlie leaned over to the table and set her glass down. Her blouse gaped at the front, and she noticed that his eyes flicked to the opening of her shirt and snapped away. Deliberately, she held the pose for a second to see what he’d do.
He took a strong pull from his highball glass and studied the upholstery, the coffee table, and the wall art, looking everywhere but at her. Charlie reclined and brushed her hair back, very pleased at having knocked him off balance. Jesus, Charlie, your hormones are completely out of control.
“What happened was that the guy I worked for retired and sold me the business. Nowadays, there ain’t no such thing as a peaceful drive. I do math in my head all day, over and over. And worry, like, will I get a load? How much will it be? How much fuel will I need, and how much will it cost? Things like that.”
“So why don’t you quit?”
“Can’t. I owe the bank too much for the truck. Things were going pretty good at first, then a woman in a four-wheeler spun out on black ice right in front of me. I couldn’t stop. Busted up the rig, busted up my ankle.” Abel finished his drink and set the empty glass on the coffee table. “Worse’n that, she… the woman in the car… died. I hit her when I jackknifed.” He stared at his hands for a bit, picking at a thumb. “She was pregnant.”
Charlie gasped. “Oh, Abel.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “It took eight weeks before I could get on the road again. The woman’s husband sued me, and my insurance company took a bath. They dumped me, and I lost a lot of customers that I haven’t ever gotten back. Higher insurance rates, higher fuel, and less income.” He flashed a weak smile. “Some days, I’m happy to make fuel money.”
“Now I feel bad. I knew I should’ve paid you more.”
“Hah! No way. You saved my butt. I would’ve done it for free.” He chuffed a short laugh. “Look, I don’t know what got into me. Spillin’ out all my troubles like some kinda whiny brat. I apologize for bein’ such an ass. Must be better whiskey than I thought.”
“No, not at all,” Charlie said, reaching over to touch his forearm where it rested on the back of the couch. “I’m enjoying your company. Also, you could be a serial killer, and as long as you build that damned Pinewood car, you’d be welcome to stay and tell me all your troubles.” And stare at my boobs with those puppy-dog eyes.
Watching him from the corner of her eye, Charlie took her time leaning toward the table to fetch her Baileys. Yep, he did a full check of her cleavage, discreetly done, but there nevertheless. Abel cleared his throat and pushed to his feet, picking up his empty glass.
“Do you want another?” Charlie asked. “There’s plenty more, and I’m sure not going to drink it.”
“No.” He headed for the kitchen. “Thanks anyway. It’s best not to get too used to the good stuff.”
He disappeared through the archway and spoke to Maria in Spanish. The housekeeper laughed and said something back that made him chuckle. Charlie finished off her drink and stood. She waffled, unsure what to do or, more accurately, what she wanted to do. Should she make a move? Let him make a move? She flopped back down on the sofa and huffed. What a mess.
Although she didn’t consider herself a class snob, there were some obvious differences in their backgrounds. She came from a blue-blood Dallas family, had a college degree, drank Starbucks lattes, and owned a shoe collection that probably surpassed his entire wardrobe budget. Oh, God. I can just imagine taking Abel home. “Look, Mom, I hooked up with a truck-drivin’ man!” Her mother would fall dead in her Pradas. So why am I so… attracted to him?
When Abel came back into the room, moving with that liquid grace she found so intriguing, she said, “You speak Spanish very well. You’re so fast and natural, I can’t even keep up.”
He stopped behind the sofa and put his hands on his hips. “Ex-wife.” He didn’t look inclined to sit down again.
“Ex?” she asked, toying with her glass and not looking at him.
“Yeah, I got married out of high school to my best friend’s sister. Latina woman. Ever she got mad at me, she’d start yellin’ in Spanish. Seems I had a lot of practice learnin’ a foreign language.” His rueful smile flashed. “Last I heard, she was in LA, trainin’ to be an actress by waitin’ tables or some such.” He shrugged. “It’s for the best.”
Abel wandered around the room, looking at the paintings on the wall and the knickknacks on the shelves. He stopped at the bookcase and tilted his head to read the titles. “You know, you can learn a lot about a person by seein’ what they read.”
“What do my books say about me?”
“I have no idea. I tried to read a book once, but my reading aloud annoyed the other inmates.”
“The other what?”
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Gotcha.”
“Abel Yeager!” She threw a sofa pillow that hit him in the back.
“So where’s Mr. Charlie Buchanan?”
Aha! Finally, he’s curious about my marital status. Maybe there’s hope yet.
“Steven and I divorced,” she said. “Six years ago. He had a taste for other women. Many other women.”
“Aw, damn.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“Not to worry.” She smiled. “It was a long time ago. He’s a doctor. Owns a biotech company. He made a potful of money on some kind of thing that’s supposed to keep enzymes—bad enzymes—from forming in your system and causing tumors.” She shook her head. “David barely knows his father. Steven doesn’t visit much.”
Abel covered his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Well, Charlie, it’s gettin’ late. Time to grab some shut-eye, so I can get up early and work on a champion Pinewood car.”
“Oh!” Charlie jumped up. “Let me show you the spare room. The room’s plenty big; it has its own shower and a queen-sized bed. It has to be better than your truck’s sleeper. So what do you say, Mr. Yeager?”
Abel blinked and raised an eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Buchanan. It’s a deal.”
CHAPTER 11
Book Finders
Austin, Texas
Yeager followed Charlie on a quick tour of the apartment. He memorized the layout through force of habit—Law Number Three: Know the Territory. He found it difficult to relax without knowing the ways in and out of any building where he was staying overnight. The second- and third-floor entrances had identical vestibules. Both apartment doors had simple latch bolt locks, the kind where the spring-loaded tongue of the lock slipped over a small plate and snapped into a hole. They were cheap and ineffective from a security standpoint.
To the left of the elevator, a set of fire stairs opened off the vestibule. Yeager gave the steel emergency exit door a tug to verify it was locked. Inside the stairwell, the upper floors could be accessed with a key. After Charlie wished him a good night and went back upstairs, Yeager propped open the second-floor door and slipped down the emergency stairwell.
On the first floor, another steel fire door, latched on the inside with a push bar, led into the warehouse. Yeager assumed it was alarmed as part of the store’s security system. On the way in, he’d noted a cipher lock on the other side. Anybody wanting to go up the stairs would need a numeric code to open the push-button lo
ck. That provided a better measure of security than the other doors, but it could still be defeated with a pry bar and determination.
Yeager climbed back to his room. He sat on the bed, playing back the evening on slow motion in his head. He wanted to relive every minute and experience every sensation in greater detail.
Working with David had washed away the feeling of gloom that had followed him for months. A simple meal with Charlie and her son, the warmth of Maria, and the joy of sharing their home had jolted his heart like a defibrillator. And a couple of times, he could’ve sworn Charlie had been throwing him some come-on looks. He laughed. You’re delusional.
For six months or more, even before the accident, he’d been sleepwalking through his days. Maybe it was the difficulty of making the transition back to civilian life, or the stress of running his own business. Or maybe Martina’s leaving hit him harder than he wanted to admit.
Then came the wreck, and with it, the realization of what he’d done to an innocent woman and her child. She wasn’t some wartime collateral damage. She had been an expectant mother, anticipating the birth of her firstborn.
The accident investigators had cleared him in their report, stating he reacted appropriately, given the circumstances, but questions and doubts ate at his gut. What if he’d been more alert? What if he’d been in a little less of a hurry and kept his speed down? He knew the possibility of icy patches existed. He should have paid more attention.
He once heard a captain say something that had stuck with him. “Guilt is an acid that corrodes a man’s self-image, etching it with scars that never heal.”
Charlie Buchanan didn’t have an interest in him. She’d treated him to a room and a meal out of a sense of kindness and decency, nothing more.
The buzzing of his cell phone pulled him back to the present. “Yeager here.”
“Yo, esé.”
“Por Que. What’s up?” Yeager pinched the phone with his shoulder and worked at the laces on his boot.
“I finally remembered where I heard the name Cruz, bro.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats. “You ain’t gonna like it.”