The Grim Reaper's Dance (13 page)

“So I’ll be in touch,” Bailey said.

“Thanks so much. For everything.”

Bailey led the group down the lane, Terry’s bike wobbling with his heavy load.

Martin hung behind. “Don’t worry about Terry. You’re not the reason he’s so crabby.”

“Sheryl?”

Martin laughed. “So you see it, too?” He straddled his bike. “All I can say is, good luck with that. If she never sees him, it’ll destroy him. But if she ever takes him up on it? She’ll eat him alive.” He hopped on the bike and pedaled down the lane, waving over his head.

Speaking of eating…

Casey went into the shed and devoured everything the kids had brought.

Chapter Seventeen

The Bugs Bunny theme blared, and Casey sat straight up. It was still dark. Terry’s phone wasn’t hard to find—it lit up her entire side of the shed. Casey grabbed it and pushed buttons until it quieted. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting herself wake up.

“Annoying tune,” Death said, from the darkness of a far corner. “Kids these days.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a tune I remember very well from my childhood. I’m surprised Terry even knows who Bugs Bunny
is
.”

“Some things remain constant,” Death said.

Casey read the phone’s screen, which held Pat Parnell’s cell phone number and address, and a demand that Casey let Bailey know she got it. Bailey Rossford. Her full name appeared on the screen. Casey pecked out a short reply and turned off the phone before lying back down.

“Want a lullaby?” Death asked.

Casey rolled over without answering, and went to sleep with Death singing
Away in a Manger
, accompanied by an autoharp
.

Casey woke up alone and surprisingly rested. Her stomach growled, having been reminded the night before what it felt like full. Casey wished she hadn’t been quite so greedy, eating everything all at once. She turned on Terry’s phone to check the time. After nine. The kids should all be in school. At least, she hoped none of them had skipped.

Bugs Bunny began playing again, and Casey found the button to mute it. Bailey and Martin had each texted her. Martin once, saying good morning and that she should contact him if she needed to, and Bailey nine times, wondering where Casey was and why she hadn’t texted back.

Casey let her head fall onto her arms. She just didn’t have the energy for modern technology. Or kids.

After a round of hapkido forms, stripped to her underwear, Casey checked the field for farmers and rinsed off at the pump, pulling on the set of clothes Bailey had brought the night before. What would she do
without
those kids? And why wasn’t she running from them as fast as she could?

“Because you need them,” Death said.

Casey jumped. “Would you
stop
that?”

“Without the kids you’d be screwed. No money, no clothes, no way to be in touch with people.” Death’s chin tilted toward Terry’s phone. “You thought about who else you could call on that phone?”

Of course she had. Her brother, Ricky. Her lawyer. Eric.

“If I call any of them I might as well just call Pegasus and the cops and tell them where I am. You know Ricky’s phone is being watched, especially now that—” She shook her head. “You know my real name came out in Clymer.”

“I would assume so. But maybe Ricky got a new phone.”

“Which I wouldn’t have the number for.”

Death acknowledged the problems. “So we’re pretty much in a deep, dark hole.”

“Thank you
so much
for your helpful observations.”

“I aim to please.”

Casey sat down to tie her shoes.

“So,” Death said. “What first?”

“First, I give our friend Bruce Willoughby a call.” She dialed the hospital and asked for his room. The phone rang and rang until Casey finally hung up. She re-dialed, and when the receptionist answered, she asked if Mr. Willoughby had been released—although she couldn’t imagine it. The receptionist assured her Mr. Willoughby was still booked into his room.

“Must be in surgery, or getting tested,” Casey told Death. “I’ll try later. Now for Mr. Pat Parnell.” She picked up the phone and dialed the number, listening as the phone requested she listen to the music while her party was being reached. A song from
Oklahoma!
blared in her ear and she held the phone several inches away.

“What are you going to say?” Death asked. “‘You don’t know me, but I’m about to ask you a whole lot of personal questions?’”

“’Lo.” A gruff voice answered.

“Hello,” Casey said. “Mr. Parnell? I’m a friend of Bailey’s, and—”

“Bailey Rossford? Danny’s little girl?”

“That’s right. Although she’s not so little anymore.”

“You got that right. Anyhow, what is it?”

“I was wondering if we might be able to get together to talk.”

“About what?” His voice chilled a few degrees.

“About…trucks.”

“Trucks?”

“And driving them.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t know what—”

“You know what happened this past Sunday, in Blue Lake.”

Casey could hear him breathing.

“I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“I don’t know why you would think that. I have nothing to do with what happened. Besides, I’m not driving again till Friday.”

“Mr. Parnell. I have pictures.”

His breath hitched. “Pictures? Of what?”

“Of you. With them. Owen Dixon and Randy Westing.”

“But I haven’t…what is this? Who are you?”

“I want to help…Mr. Parnell, please—”

But he’d hung up.

“That went well,” Death said.

Casey leaned back against the wall. “And now he’s probably going to call Bailey’s dad, asking why some strange woman was calling him.”

“Or not.”

“You don’t think he will?”

Death blew a chord on the harmonica, salvaged from the creek. “Not if he’s into something shady. He won’t want his friends to know.”

“Unless Bailey’s dad is involved somehow.”

“Wow.” Death lowered the harmonica. “You really do think the worst of people, don’t you?”

“Not everybody.” She looked up her notes and punched another number into her phone.

“Wainwright’s.”

“Davey?”

“Hey, I’ve been wanting to call you, but you aren’t answering and…this is a different number.”

“Yeah. Forget that other one. While you’re at it, forget this one, too. Any word from Tom about that database?”

“Not yet. But I had somebody call this morning, ask where I sent the truck. It was a guy, and the number was blocked.”

“Did you tell them where it went?”

“Sure. No reason not to. It’s a huge junk yard, with lots of employees. These bozos will have a hard time pulling anything off there. And I warned the guys there about the possible interest in the truck. They’ll be ready.”

“Good.” No reason for
more
people to get hurt. “What will they do if Westing shows up?”

“Stall him. They’ll let him at the truck, but they’ll make it take a long time. And they’ll give me a call.”

“Great work. Thanks. Will you let me know if Tom calls?”

“At this number?”

“It’s the only one I have for now.”

“And where is this number?”

“Good-bye, Davey.” She hung up.

“He’s going to find you, you know.” Death blew in the harmonica. “One of these times.”

“If he’s the worst person to come calling, I can deal with that. Seems to me that’s the least of our worries.”

“Unless he and the others find you at the same time.”

“You are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“I try. So, what next?”

“I have Pat Parnell’s address in Wichita.”

“And no way to get there. Davey?”

“He’s involved enough. Maybe Wendell today.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “You trust him?”

“He covered for me.” She flipped the phone open and dialed information. The operator put her through to the garage where Wendell worked.

“Blue Lake Gas,” a man said. The bored one, Casey guessed.

“May I speak with Wendell Harmon, please?”

“Minute.” The receiver crashed down—onto the counter, probably—and the man hollered Wendell’s name.

A couple minutes later Wendell came on the line.

“Wendell, it’s Casey.”

“Hey! Where are you?”

Everyone was
so
concerned about that.

“Around. Any chance you could drive me to Wichita today?”

“Wichita?” He paused, and when he came back, his voice was muffled, like he was speaking behind his hand. “What do you need there?”

“Somebody I want to visit.”

“I really wish I could, but we’re slammed, so I can’t get away. I could lend you my truck, though.”

Casey stopped breathing for a few seconds. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Aw, the truck looks worse than it is. It’ll get you there.”

“It’s not the truck I’m worried about. I don’t…my driver’s license got stolen.” Might as well go with the story she’d told the hospital clerk. Wendell didn’t need to know her wallet was back in Ohio, waiting to incriminate her, if it hadn’t already.

“I won’t tell. Drive the speed limit, and you’ll be fine.”

Casey swallowed. The kids all had bikes. She could borrow one of them.

Death snorted. “You think a
bicycle’s
gonna get you to Wichita?”

“I…don’t think I can, Wendell. Thanks, though.”

“Sorry. Come after work and I could probably take you. I’d have to call my wife, though. Tell her I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Forget it. I’ll find another way.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Thanks.” She hung up and let her hands and head hang between her knees.

“You know,” Death said, “one of these days you’re going to have to face—”

“I know, okay? I
know
.”

Death made a face and picked up the harmonica. “Geez, I’m just trying to be
helpful
.”

Casey considered her options: Davey. Wait till after school and ask Bailey, who knew Parnell and would probably be getting hell for her part in all of this. Wait until after work and go with Wendell, adding his wife to the list of people who knew what was going on.

Or she could drive Wendell’s truck.

She dialed Davey’s number. He didn’t answer, and the machine asked her to leave a message. She hung up. Sweat sprouted on her scalp and upper lip, and she went hot, and then cold. Could she do it? Could she get behind the wheel of a truck?

“Was Wendell’s truck a stick?”

Death blew a discordant rush of air. “Nope. Automatic.”

So she couldn’t use that excuse.

“Come on, Casey,” Death said. “I’ll be with you every second.”

“Oh, great. That helps
so
much.”

The bag the kids had brought the food in was a backpack, and Casey stuffed her things inside it. She used the broken broom to sweep away her footprints, and made sure there was no sign she’d been there. She looked for cars, and headed down the lane.

In the past week she’d been in an accident, run from the cops, avoided Pegasus, made and lost friends, seen a couple of people die, and killed someone.

If she couldn’t drive a truck, there was something wrong with her.

Chapter Eighteen

“Changed your mind?”

Casey caught Wendell outside on his lunch break and pulled him to the side of the building, where the other guys wouldn’t see her. “If you’re still offering.”

“Sure. Here.” He held out a keychain with more keys than Casey could imagine ever needing. “She’s full up on gas, and ready to go.” He grinned. “Figured you might be by.”

“Thanks, Wendell.”

“Anything else I can do?”

She peeked around his shoulder. “Don’t tell the guys?”

“No reason they need to know. When will you be back?”

“When do you get off work?”

“Five-thirty.”

“I’ll be back by then.”

“If not, it’s no biggie. One of the guys can give me a ride home. One more thing.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out twenty dollars. “Get yourself something to eat.”

“Wendell—”

“Don’t like seeing a woman look so hungry.”

Casey took the money. “Thank you.”

“You know where you’re going, how to get to Wichita?”

“I think so.”

He pointed up the road. “Catch the highway there; it’ll take you right into the city. Got directions for once you’re there?”

She had them. Terry’s phone was equipped with the Internet and GPS.

“Okay, then, see you in a few hours.”

“Thanks, Wendell.”

He gathered up his lunch supplies and headed back inside.

Casey let the keys dangle by her side as she stared at the truck. Death stood beside her.

“I don’t think I can,” she said.

“First step,” Death said. “Open the door.”

Casey took a step, faltered, then took another.

“Come on. You can do it.”

Casey tugged on the door handle, and the door swung open.

“Thank you.” Death climbed into the cab and scooted across the seat. “Second step. Get in.”

The sweat was back, and the hot flashes. Casey glanced toward the window of the gas station. Wendell was watching. She held her breath, and got in.

“Okay,” Death said. “Shut the door.”

She did.

“Keys in the ignition, turn them forward—”

“I know how to start the damn truck!”

Death sat back, hands up. “Sorry. Sorry. Just trying to be supportive.”

Casey turned the key.

“Don’t forget your seatbelt.”

Casey growled, but buckled herself in and clenched her hands around the steering wheel.

“Take your time,” Death said.

“I
am
.”

“No need to be a speed demon.”

“Will you shut
up
?”

Death sat back, whistling the theme from Knight Rider.

Casey eased her foot onto the gas pedal, turned the steering wheel…and stalled the truck.

Death stayed very still.

Casey wrenched the keys, started the truck, and floored it, screeching to a stop at the road. She blinked, completely disoriented.

“That way,” Death said, pointing.

Casey swallowed, clenched her teeth, and pulled out.

Once they got within sight of the highway—it took twice as long as it should have, since she drove fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit—she was beginning to loosen up. She would be driving the opposite direction of the accident scene, so at least she wouldn’t have to see it.

“So, this guy we’re going to see,” Death said. “You know he’ll be home?”

“Nope.”

“But we’re going anyway.”

“Yup.”

“And if we have to wait?”

“Then we just do. Wendell said he can get a ride home.”

“But then he’d have to explain to them and his wife why his truck was gone, and you want to avoid that, don’t you?”

Casey eased to the right, merging onto the highway. The speed limit was sixty-five, but she didn’t think she had that in her. She hovered in the right lane, going just above the minimum forty miles per hour. Her hands clenched the steering wheel, and she gritted her teeth so hard her head hurt.

“Try to relax,” Death said. “You’re making me all tense.”

Terry’s phone rang from where it sat in the middle of the seat.

“You know,” Death said. “Statistics show that driving while talking on the phone is more dangerous than driving drunk.”

Glad for the excuse to stop, Casey pulled to the shoulder of the road and flipped her hazards on. It was Davey calling.

“Hey,” he said. “You know that database you wanted to see? Tom found someone who has it.”

“Close by?”

“Next town over. Foraker.”

The opposite direction of where she was headed. “Can you give me the guy’s name and number?”

“I thought I’d just take you—”

“I’m on my way out of town, Davey. I’m not sure what my schedule is for the rest of the day.”

He hesitated. “All right. It’s actually a couple who runs the place. Matt and Nadine Williams. Deerfield Trucking. Foraker, like I said.” He gave her the phone number.

“Thanks, Davey. And please thank Tom for me.”

“Thank him yourself. He’d like to hear how this works for you.”

Casey sighed. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

She shut the phone and filled her cheeks with air.

“These folks sure want to be involved, don’t they?” Death said. “Won’t just leave you to your own devices.”

“They’re good people.”

“And nosey.”

“Not really. Interested.”

She watched out the windshield, her hands limp in her lap.

Death gave a little cough. “So, are we going to continue on to Wichita, or are we taking a break here?”

Casey shook herself and shifted into drive. She swallowed.

“You got this far,” Death said. “You can go a little farther.”

Casey looked in the side mirror. Lots of traffic. Lots and lots of it. More cars and trucks than she ever imagined.

“It’s clear,” Death said.

Oh.

Slowly Casey eased back onto the highway, chugging along at minimum speed. Cars and trucks flew past her, the semis rattling both the pickup and her nerves.

“Prepare to exit freeway onto Route 254 in two miles
.” The GPS’ female voice was soothing, as if it knew exactly where it was and who it was talking to.

“That’s nice,” Death said. “Very confident and calming. I think we should name her. Uma, maybe?”

“That’s calming?
Kill Bill
?” Images of spurting blood and exposed brains filled Casey’s mind.

“Okay. We’ll name her Laura Ingalls Wilder. Is that better?”

Casey watched the road signs and tried to ignore Death’s banter, not wanting to miss the turn and prolong this trip.

“
Prepare to exit freeway
,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said. “
Route 254.
”

“Is this right?” Casey asked, panicked. “We’re not in Wichita yet.”

“Suburb,” Death said. “Just outside city limits. Don’t freak out.”

The GPS dinged, and Casey turned off of the highway, her heart pumping. She followed the GPS’ directions faithfully, if anxiously, and found her way to Pat Parnell’s residential section. As Wendell had said, it was a new development outside the center city, with roads named after people. Patrick Road, Jennifer Street…Olivia Lane.

“
You have arrived at your destination
,” Laura said.

Casey pulled into the driveway of the new house beside a semi, which sat without a trailer to the side of the garage. She hoped that meant Parnell was home.

Death stared at the house. “That’s really something.”

Casey had to agree. Obviously newly built, the two-story house sported a three-car garage, multiple dormers, and a spiral turret on the corner. The yard—half dirt—lay spotted with dead young trees, still tied to poles, and two raised flowerbeds, empty of all but weeds. The huge backyard held one of those wooden playground structures with two slides and a climbing wall, and Casey could just see the edge of a swimming pool.

Death gestured toward the front door. “Ready?”

Casey took a deep breath, centering herself, trying to forget what she’d just done. She hadn’t driven a vehicle for almost a year and a half, and she was feeling it from her head to her toes. She rolled her neck forward, easing the tension, and tried to imagine a happier time.

That
didn’t work.

“Somebody’s looking out the front window,” Death said.

When Casey looked up, the face was gone. She took another deep breath, let it out, and opened the door.

The brick sidewalk led to a decorative front door, and the doorbell rang deep and loud. Nobody answered, so Casey knocked, and rang the doorbell again. While she waited she studied the barren flowerbeds, decorated only with a sign declaring the house “guarded by Ironman Security.”

“Who is it?” The voice blared on an intercom, hidden behind a hanging plant by the door.

“My name is Casey Jones. I’m a friend of Bailey Rossford. May I please talk to you? Mr. Parnell?”

After another long minute, the door opened, and Casey tried to cover her surprise. The man in front of her was obviously the same man from Evan’s photos, and from the picture at Bailey’s house, but life had not been treating him well. His puffy, bloodshot eyes were sunken, his skin held a grayish tinge, and he’d lost probably thirty pounds. He winked his left eye, but Casey was sure he didn’t mean to. His hands jerked, his knuckles cracked, and he glanced furtively over her shoulder. Casey looked back, but Death had disappeared. Even so, she wondered if Parnell felt Death’s presence.

“May I come in?”

Parnell swallowed. “What’s this about? You’re not from the bank?”

“I’m definitely not from the bank.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “And you’re a friend of Bailey’s? Danny, too?”

“Her dad? No, I don’t know him.”

He glanced behind her again, as if scoping the street, before stepping back. “Come in, then.”

Casey tried not to react to the inside of the house. She supposed she should’ve recognized the empty flowerbeds and dead trees as clues, but what she saw here took her completely by surprise.

There was nothing there.

No furniture, no pictures on the wall, not even any curtains. The interior smelled like a mixture of new carpet and stale laundry—not exactly pleasant.

Casey gazed at the foyer’s vaulted ceiling and chandelier and wondered if the upstairs was as unoccupied as the first floor. She couldn’t hear any sounds. Not even air-conditioning.

“Come through here.” Parnell led her through a hallway that went from front to back of the house and ended in the kitchen. There was furniture here—one card table and one battered folding chair. On the counter sat two photos—one of three children, and one of a high school football team. Parnell gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”

Casey chose to stand, looking out the sliding door into the back yard. The swimming pool she’d seen was empty, its bottom caked with leaves and dirt, and the swings on the swingset hung limp, water pooled in the plastic seats. A pole with empty birdfeeders tilted toward the ground, and a broken birdbath, its top cracked in two, crumbled beside it.

And Casey thought
her
life was depressing.

“What do you want?” Parnell stood beside her, shoulders sagging, no spark in his eyes.

Casey set her bag on the card table and pulled out the photo of him taking the package from Owen Dixon. “That’s you.”

He glanced at the photo, looked back out the sliding door, then slumped into the folding chair. “Where did you get that?”

“The trucker who was killed on Sunday had it.”

“Evan. I knew he was up to something.”

“You knew Evan?”

“Sure. He was one of the guys, you know? I mean, the ones you run into at truck stops or picking up a load. Another independent operator, like me. Nice guy.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen.

“Can I get you some water?” Casey didn’t wait for an answer, but walked around the counter to the sink. She searched through several empty cupboards before finding a stack of plastic cups. She chose one, rinsed it out, and gave him a drink.

He sipped gingerly. “Last time I saw Evan, he was asking questions.”

“About what?”

Parnell looked down at his drink. “Class A.”

“The trucking company. You work for them?”

“Off and on. Whenever they call.” He looked blankly at the equally blank wall.

“But don’t you get called by other companies? As an independent operator you can work for any outfit you want, right? Isn’t that how it works?”

“That’s how it works.”

“Places like Southwest Trucking? Tom Haab?”