The Grim Reaper's Dance (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Terry?” It was the pudgy one.

He got up from the five-gallon bucket, where he’d been sitting. His bike leaned against the wall in the corner, with his overloaded backpack on the floor beside it. He cleared his throat. “Is she gone?”

“You heard the gravel flying.”

“What’s she mad about this time?”

“She’s mad a lot?”

“All the time. But she gets over it quick.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, then took them out again. His eyes flicked to the right and left, not looking directly at Casey, and not seeing Death lounging against the doorway.

“What is it, Terry?”

“Nothing. I just…”

Casey overturned a bucket and sat on it. “How did you get here so quickly? Didn’t school just let out?”

“I’ve got study hall last period. They don’t care if we stay or not. At least, they don’t say anything.”

“And you decided to come see me. By yourself?”

Terry shuffled his feet, then sat down across from her. “I didn’t want the others to know I was coming.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes briefly.

Casey waited.

“It’s…Sheryl.”

Ah. Yet another kid worried about Sheryl. “What about her? Other than the fact that she doesn’t like me?”

“It’s not
you
.”

“Could’ve fooled me. She was ready to turn me in last night.”

“Not really. It was a show.”

“For what?” Or for
whom
?

“She just…it’s any adults. She doesn’t trust them.”

“And you do?”

He made a face. “My parents are…well…lame, I guess, but they’re not bad.”

“And hers are?”

“I didn’t say it was her parents.”

“You didn’t have to. You went right from ‘adults’ to ‘parents.’ Sheryl’s folks must be the problem.”

Terry closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean… Look, it would be a lot better for Sheryl if you would just…leave. Okay? She doesn’t need anything else right now. She’s having a hard time.”

“Oh,
spare
me.” Death made a gagging motion. “This poor sap is so far gone I want to puke. Pathetic.”

Casey studied the boy’s face. Death was right. Casey didn’t figure the whole being in love thing was reciprocated, from what she’d seen the night before, but Sheryl did seem to at least be the kid’s friend. “Terry, I don’t want to make things worse for anybody, believe me. But I’ve got a few things to do before I take off. Sheryl doesn’t need to come anywhere near me. She can pretend I don’t exist, okay? And I’ll be gone before she knows it.”

Terry put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “What can I do?”

“To help me?”

“No. To get you to leave. Is it money you want? Other clothes?” He looked at her pink shirt.

“I told you. I have things to do.”

“We can stop you.” His look of determination turned his baby face into something different. Older.

Casey looked straight into his eyes. “Look, Terry. The quicker I get my business done, the quicker I’ll go. Getting in my way is only going to make things harder. Just…let me do what I need to, and I’ll leave you—and Sheryl—alone, forever. Ask Bailey. I told her the same thing.”

“Which is why she was mad.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she likes you. She’s not going to want you to leave.”

“Then Bailey is going to be disappointed.”

Something in Terry’s face changed. He
liked
the idea of Bailey not getting what she wanted. And of Casey leaving.

Casey stood. “I think you should go now.”

“But…I want to help.”

“Sure. Great.”

“Really. If helping you will make you go away, then that’s what I’ll do.” His face reverted to its usual softness. “Just don’t tell Sheryl, okay? Or Bailey.”

Casey looked at Death, who had pulled out a new rubber band and was twanging it. “I won’t tell. And I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

Terry had to accept this. He got his bike and wheeled it to the door. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“What are you bringing?”

He shrugged. “It might just be store-bought cookies this time. I have to go home and take a nap.”

“I wondered when you guys slept.”

“I tell my folks school wears me out. They believe me.”

Or they pretended to and worried secretly about what their son was doing that they didn’t know about.

Casey followed him outside. “See you then.”

“You won’t say anything about—”

“You were never here.”

Casey and Death watched as Terry rode away, heading back toward town.

“That boy’s in for a lot of heartache,” Death said. The rubber band was silent now.

“They all are,” Casey said. “It’s part of growing up. The sad part is, it will probably never go away.”

Chapter Twelve

“I don’t know,” Death said, head cocked. “I think I liked you better as a brunette.”

Casey peered into the little mirror Bailey had bought. Her hair now matched the black velvet curtains in Bailey’s room. It couldn’t be any darker. Underneath it, her face looked like ivory. Or like she spent her days in a coffin. “It’s not permanent. I hope.”

“Try the lipstick.”

Casey pulled out the tube. “At least she found me a real color for this. Not black, like she wears.”

“It’s cute on her.”

“Yeah, you would think so.” She colored her lips, and rubbed them together. “Not too bad.”

Death considered it. “A little light for you, but it goes with the pink shirt.”

“I’m not going to be
wearing
the pink shirt.”

“Right. Blue scrubs. Very attractive.”

Casey clenched her jaw. “I’m not
trying
to be attractive. I’m trying to be
different
.”

“You know they’re going to recognize you anyway.”

“Thanks for the optimism.”

“Hey, think about who you’re talking to.”

Casey looked at the rest of the cosmetics in the bag. “To be continued.”

“Aw, you’re not going to finish?”

She wiped the lipstick off with a tissue—also provided by Bailey, who obviously spent a lot of time with make-up. “Davey and his son-in-law don’t need to see the new me. The less people who do, the better.”

“They’re going to see the hair.”

Casey grabbed the cap she’d put on in Bailey’s car and jammed it on her head, shoving all of her hair up into it. “Better?”

“Some. You’ve still got the little stringy ones at your neck.”

“They’re not going to be thinking about my hair. They’re men.”

“True.”

Casey grabbed the bag with Evan’s papers. “So, are you coming?”

“You’re walking?”

“How else am I going to get there?”

Death huffed. “You should’ve asked Bailey for a bike.”

“Yeah, in-between running from her dad and skipping school and taking me to the store, she has lots of time for that.”

“I’m just saying…”

Casey made sure there were no people or tractors in sight and slipped out of the shed, starting down the lane.

“You know where you’re going?” Death skipped past her, then walked backwards in front of her.

“I called Southwest Trucking and got directions while Bailey was in the Family Dollar.

“So they know we’re coming?”

“No, they know some guy named Bob from a paper company is coming.”

“Oh.” Death stopped, perplexed. “But how did you know a guy named Bob was going?”

Casey angled around Death and kept walking. “He’s not! I mean, I made him up. What is
wrong
with you? Are you going senile?”

Death caught up with her. “I don’t think so. But it has been ages since I’ve taken a vacation.”

Casey gasped and clasped her hands together. “Well, then, don’t you think now would be the perfect time? Go! Vacate!”

Death made a face. “You are so weird.”

When they got to the road, Casey turned east. “I’m wondering. Do I show Davey’s son-in-law everything?”

“If you want complete answers I would think you’d have to.”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to—”

“—get him in trouble? Casey, darling, you have got to stop worrying about that, or you’re never going to get anywhere in life.”

“I’m just trying to—”

“—be thoughtful?” Death gave a raspberry. “Do you think these people have no brains of their own? They want to help, and you’re making it awfully difficult.”

“I just—”

“You
just
, you
just
, you
just
… You’re as pathetic as that fat boy.”

“Am not.”

“Are t—”

“Stop.” Casey held up her hand. “I’m not playing that game with you. Now shut up and let me think.”

Thinking didn’t help. Instead of coming up with a solution, she was fighting off the image of Evan in his last moments, the sickening feeling of jackknifing, and the realization that she was penniless in the middle of a state where she had no connections that hadn’t been made within the last twenty-four hours.

They’d walked almost a mile further when Death pulled out a mandolin and started singing.

How many roads can Casey walk down

before she knows she’s alive?

How many kids can offer a ride

Before she remembers how to drive?

How many truckers will die in her arms

Before she’s forever—

“Aah!” Casey wrenched the mandolin from Death, and it disintegrated in her hands. “You are so…so…”

“Talented?”

“You call that talent? Terrible rhymes and bad rhythm? What was going to be the last word, anyhow? Before I’m forever what? Five?”

Death sulked. “I hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Casey gave a scream of frustration before setting off in a jog.

“Well, if you’re going to be
that
way about it,” Death called after her, “maybe I
won’t
come along!”

Casey was a mile down the road before she stopped and bent over, her hands on her knees. She had to keep going. She couldn’t stop now. She was going to be late for her appointment.

But the sun was warm on her back, the sky was a clear blue, and all she could hear was an airplane, so high in the sky it couldn’t possibly see her.

She stayed, chest heaving, and allowed her tears to fall onto the dusty road.

Chapter Thirteen

Davey was waiting for her in his pickup at the front of the parking lot, his head resting against the back of the driver’s seat. Talk radio leaked from the cab, and Casey wondered which annoying host he was listening to, and if he agreed with anything that was being said.

The parking lot was well-lit, and Davey’s truck was the only vehicle in sight. The closest neighboring business was on the other side of a chain link fence, with a parking lot that was just as deserted. On the other side of the building sat a thick grove of trees. Casey waited, listening, but could hear nothing other than Davey’s radio, distant traffic, and the quiet hum of the building’s air conditioner.

She walked in the gate and up to Davey’s truck, tapping on the driver’s side window. He jumped and put a hand to his chest.

“Sorry,” Casey said as he climbed down from the cab. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“S’okay.” He looked her up and down. “You’re looking better, I gotta say. You do something to your hair?”

Casey looked around, but Death was not there to smirk. “Just washed up. You ready?”

“Sure. Tom’s entrance is over here. He’s expecting us.”

An old but clean white Silverado was parked in the spot next to Tom’s door, on the same side as the grove of trees. Davey knocked, and the door was opened by a man about Casey’s age. He wore wrinkled khakis and a light-blue button-down shirt with the collar open, and his hair had lost whatever neat part it might’ve once had. His brown loafers were scuffed, but serviceable, and his glasses sat slightly crooked on his Roman nose. He shook Casey’s hand. “Tom Haab. Nice to meet you.”

Casey liked his handshake, and immediately felt more confident about talking with him. “Casey Jones. Thanks for coming out again after supper.”

“Glad to help. Better make it quick, though. Davey’s daughter needs help with the kids at bedtime.”

Davey grunted.

Tom led Casey to an empty table. “So what do we have?”

She pulled the papers from her bag and set them down in chronological order. “I’ve also got a journal that Evan—the trucker who died—was keeping, and this stack of papers. Can you take a look and see if any of this makes sense to you?”

Tom pulled up a chair and scanned the top papers. “These are truck manifests from a company called Class A Trucking. You can see the logo here.” He pointed to one of the photos, where Casey could just make out the edge of something that looked like a tire on the cab’s door. “It matches some of the paperwork.”

Of course. Casey hadn’t thought twice about the “Class A” on the papers, because she figured it was a rating of the trucks, or the load, or something. And the sketch of the tire was so generic-looking she’d thought it was standard on this kind of form. Exactly why she needed an expert.

“But some of these manifests are different. They don’t have a company logo. These trucks are driven by independent operators.” He squinted at the photos, holding some of them next to each other. “But look—this is the same truck, only on this photo it’s got the Class A logo, and this one it doesn’t. Must be a magnet, or a vinyl patch.”

“Why would they do that?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know. But it doesn’t make much sense. Either you’re an indie, or you drive for a company. But see, some of these manifests have Class A listed, and some don’t. It’s strange.”

“Do you know Class A Trucking?”

“Heard of them. They’re relatively new, starting in the last couple of years. I don’t deal with them directly, because they’re in the same business as me, but I’ve known some folks who have.”

“And what is your job, exactly?”

“I’m a broker.”

“Which means…”

“I assign drivers to take loads from here to there.”

“How, exactly?”

“Okay.” He leaned his chair back on two legs. “Say there’s a company in, oh, Colorado, all right? They have a truckload of frozen broccoli that needs to get to Texas by Friday. The guy there knows me, so he calls and asks if I’ve got anybody who can pick it up. I check my truckers, find somebody who’s going to be in that area on Wednesday, and assign them to pick it up.”

“So you’re not driving trucks yourself?”

He laughed. “Heck, no. I could, I’ve got my CDL—”

“Commercial Driver’s License,” Davey said.

“—but I don’t drive unless I absolutely have to. I’m in the business of giving
other
truckers work. I like to stay home.”

“So the truckers work for Southwest Trucking?”

“Not exclusively. They’re mostly independent contractors. A few work almost entirely for me, but they’ll take the odd job here and there from another broker when it works.”

“And you pay them per trip?”

“Yup. Let’s say you’re a trucker, and I contact you to pick up the load in Colorado. I’ll calculate how much fuel it’s going to take to drive that load all the way to Texas. Around a thousand dollars, maybe.”

“Wow.”

“I know. Anyhow, we’ve also got to calculate payment for the truckers. So we’ll say the whole trip is two thousand. The truckers have a grand for fuel, which leaves the other thousand. I’ll take ten percent. So I get a hundred dollars, and the truckers get nine. Make sense?”

“I guess. Doesn’t seem like anybody makes much.”

“It’s not a big money maker. But it’s a huge risk for me.”

“How so?”

He dropped his chair legs to the ground. “I’m like a bank. I pay the truckers their money up front so they can buy the fuel and make their mortgage or their insurance payment, or whatever, then I wait to get paid by the company in Colorado. Sometimes it takes a month or so for the money to come in.”

“So how do you stay afloat? Make a living?”

“Lots of trucks.” He grinned. “There’s one and a half million on the road at any given time. A portion are doing jobs for me.”

“How many?”

“Well, we have access to lots of independent contractors—folks with their own rigs. Sixty to seventy of them, maybe. And a few trucking companies. They’ll have thirty to forty drivers we can use. Not all at the same time, of course, but whenever we’ve got work.”

“You said they work for other brokers, too.”

“Sure. We have to share drivers sometimes.”

“So you’re competing with other brokers?”

“I guess. But competing for truckers isn’t the problem. It’s the customers that could be the sticky part.”

“How do you work that out?”

He shrugged. “Sort of an unspoken agreement. You stay away from my customers, I’ll stay away from yours.”

“And your customers—how do you get them? Advertising? Connections?” Casey waved her hand over Evan’s photos. “These trucks are carrying all kinds of stuff—not any one particular thing.”

“Customers come from word of mouth, mostly. I just had a guy call me today, said his buddy used Southwest Trucking, and recommended us. It’s all about trust, really. A guy in Idaho calls me, I can’t exactly see his eyes and shake his hand. Sometimes we use a signed contract, but most of the time…” He held out his hands. “We take people at their word that we’ll do the job and they’ll pay us.”

“Seems…old-fashioned.”

He grinned. “You don’t trust people?”

Casey looked away. “So what do these pictures show? What do you see?”

“If you don’t trust people, how come you’re here with Davey? You didn’t know him before yesterday. And you met me fifteen minutes ago.”

“I know. I guess sometimes you just…” She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out.

Davey tapped one of the photos. “So what do you see, Tom?”

Tom hesitated, but turned to his father-in-law. “Can’t tell you right off. Nothing here looks wrong, except maybe this one picture showing this guy handing a package to the other guy. Nothing illegal about that, though, unless whatever’s in the package is illegal.”

Casey looked at the photo, with Owen Dixon handing Hank Nance an envelope. “What could they be doing?”

“That’s crooked?” Tom gave a short laugh. “Any number of things. I haven’t heard anything about these folks, so I don’t have anything to go on.”

“Examples?”

“Smuggling. Stolen goods. Drugs. Illegal Immigrants. Who knows? Unless you can get something on these guys there’s no telling
what
they’re doing.”

Casey went quiet, staring down at the photos. “Do you know any of these truckers?”

Tom scanned their faces. “With all of those one and a half million trucks it would be…wait. This guy.” He pointed at the one Bailey’s dad had roomed with. “He looks familiar.”

“Pat Parnell. He’s from around here. Wichita.”

“Well, that’s probably it, then. More than likely I’ve dealt with him at some point, but not recently. Just a sec.” He went to his desk and typed something into his computer. “Yup. Did some jobs for me several years ago, but dropped off my radar after that.”

“What about this guy?” She showed him another one of the pictures. “Name’s Mick Halveston. Had a bad accident a while back. Killed a family when his truck flipped under an overpass.”

Tom winced. “I remember that. Never worked with him, though. I knew a broker that did.”

“He say anything about him?”

“Just that he was glad Halveston wasn’t driving for him when the accident happened.”

“And the rest of these?”

He punched in Hank Nance, John Simones, and Sandy Greene. Greene had driven for Tom several years ago, but he’d never dealt with either of the other two.

“What about the names on these manifests? We don’t have photos of these guys. Any of them sound familiar?”

He glanced over them, but shook his head. “Don’t know any. Now, that doesn’t mean they’ve never driven for me, because I can’t remember everybody, but I really don’t think so.” He keyed in their names, just in case, but none of them showed up in his driver history.

“Another question.” Casey tapped the paper. “Can you think of any reason a trucker would drive under a different name?”

He grinned. “Legally?”

“Let’s say not.”

“Then there would be lots of reasons.”

“Like?”

“If under your real name your license was suspended, you have a medical condition that prevents you from driving, you’ve had a DUI, you’re wanted by the cops…what kind of thing are you looking for?”

“Reasons these guys,” she tapped the photos, “would actually be these guys.” She tapped the stack of manifests.

“Any of those things I mentioned.” He shrugged. “Fake IDs are easy to get. You can buy a license over the Internet these days.”

“Really?”

“Might not be the greatest fakes, but they’d get past most people.”

Casey wondered how much they cost. A fake license could solve her own problems. She’d no longer have to worry about the cops or Pegasus or even her brother tracking her down. How could she get one without anyone knowing where the money from her account ended up?

Tom was still talking. “Wish I could help more.”

She shook herself. “Maybe you can. Do you have a database on your computer where you could look up any trucker you want?”

“Nope. There is such a thing, but you have to purchase it.”

“You know anybody who has one?”

“I could ask around.”

“That would be great. But…can you do it without giving too many details?”

“I can try.” He studied her face. “You look scared, Casey. What do
you
think is going on?”

Casey shook her head. “I don’t know. But it’s something bad. Something worth killing for. And I really don’t want you to get in these guys’ sightlines.”

He swallowed, and glanced at Davey. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

Davey shrugged. “When you know something’s the right thing to do, Tom, you gotta do it. You know that.”

Tom nodded, and stood up, extending his hand once again to Casey. “Here’s to doing the right thing.”

Casey clasped his hand, praying with all her might she hadn’t just brought Tom Haab an early visit from Death.