Truck Stop (6 page)

“I’ve been known to play the odds.”

“Let’s flip a coin. Winner gets first crack at the cop.”

Taylor considered it. ”I’d be up for that, if it were a fair toss.”

“We could go in the diner, have our waitress do the flipping. I’ll even let you call it. Would be good to get out in the fresh air, clear our heads.”

“Let’s say I agree. You still have me at a disadvantage.”

Donaldson nodded. “The gun. Firing it wouldn’t be smart for either of us. Cops might already be on their way, after what Lieutenant Daniels did to that pimp.”

“I’ve got a solution.”

“I’m listening.”

“An empty gun isn’t a threat. Hand me the bullets. But do it slowly, or else I might get nervous and lock you up here for a few days with no air conditioning or water.”

“Fair enough.”

Donaldson gently reached back into his pants and removed the gun. He held it upside-down by the trigger guard, and swung out the cylinder. Then he dumped the rounds onto his palm and handed them to Taylor.

Taylor grinned.

Maybe this tag-team thing will
work out after all.

“Are we good?” Donaldson asked.

“We’re good. Let’s hogtie this pig.”

Taylor climbed into the sleeper, and after an uneasy moment of sizing each other up, the two of them began to bind the cop. Donaldson quickly got the hang of it, and they soon had Jack suitably trussed.

“You sure she’s safe here?” Donaldson asked, admiring their handiwork.

“Never had an escape. Bungee cords are tighter than rope. The enclosure is steel, the lock on the door is solid. She’s not going anywhere.”

Taylor grabbed the cop’s purse, wound it over his shoulder, and crawled down out of the sleeper after Donaldson. He made sure the trap door was locked, took what he wanted from the purse, and together they walked back to the diner.

T
he moment they were gone I rolled onto my belly and inch-wormed up to my knees. My hands were behind my back, the bungee cords so tight my fingers were tingling. I strained against the elastic, trying to twist my wrists apart, but couldn’t free myself.

More cords wound around my chest and upper arms, and encircled my knees and ankles. I flopped onto my side, wincing at the pain. My shoulder still hurt, and there was a throb in my left breast where Donaldson had pinched me. If he’d done it for a few seconds longer, I would have screamed.

Pretending to be unconscious seemed like a better choice than really being unconscious, but when they tied me up I realized that maybe fighting back and yelling for help when I had the chance might have been the better move.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to hyperventilate. Fear and I were old adversaries. There was no way to squelch it, but if I kept my focus I could work through the fear. The goal was to not think about any potential outcome to this situation other than escape.

Still unable to open my eyes because of the stinging, I rolled to my left, hoping to bump into anything that would help me free myself. I hit something soft. I brushed my cheek against it. Foam of some kind. I rolled right instead, eventually coming up against something more suitable. Something hard, stuck into the floor. After maneuvering around onto my knees, I rubbed my hands against the object.

It felt like a board, only two feet tall, and thin. Midway down the side was some sort of protrusion. Though my hands were quickly getting numb, I could tell by the sound when I jiggled it that it was a padlock.

I got my wrists under the lock, trying to wedge it in between my arms and the bungee cords. Then I took a deep breath and violently tugged my arms forward.

The elastic caught, stretched.

I pulled harder, feeling like my arms were pulling out of their sockets.

Then, abruptly, my hands were free, and I pitched forward onto my face, bumping my forehead against the padded floor.

I spent a few seconds wiggling my fingers, wincing as the blood came back, and made quick work of the other cords around my arms. Then I spit in my hands and rubbed them against my eyes. The stinging eased up enough for me to have a blurry look around the enclosure. There was moderate lighting, from an overhead fixture. I saw beige mats. A black slanted ceiling covered with sound baffles. A trunk. And a bound woman, her feet in some sort of wooden stock, my wrist bungee cord wound around a padlock on the side.

I unwound my legs, tugged off my remaining shoe, and crawled over to her, unhooking her bindings. ”Can you hear me?”

The woman moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.

“You need to wake up.” I gave her a shake. ”We’re in trouble.”

“My… foot… hurts…”

“What’s your name?”

“My… foot…”

I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.

“Listen to me. I’m a cop. We’re in a truck sleeper and some men are trying to kill us. What’s your name?”

“Candi. I… I can’t move my feet. It hurts.”

I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could erase the image from my mind.

“What’s wrong with my foot?”

“You’re missing your little toe.”

“My…
toe?
”

I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six screws held it in place.

I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared back my right heel.

“Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”

I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.

The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I’d break my heel.

“Don’t you have a gun?”

I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was anything inside I could use.

“Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you. I promise.”

I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown stains on it—dried blood—and I got an uneasy feeling looking at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.

It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked like prunes.

Then I realized what they were, and came very close to throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.

That sick bastard…

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.

“What’s in that box you were holding?”

Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.

“Candi, do you smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”

“In my purse. He took it.”

Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen pounds.

“What was in the box!”

I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.

“Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”

I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest into the top of the stock. There was a loud
crack,
but both objects stayed intact.

I did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

My shoulder began to burn, and the corners of the chest were coming apart, but the hinge on the stock was bending.

Two more times and the chest burst open, spilling its contents onto the mat, the Tupperware container bouncing next to Candi.

I hit the stock one last time. The chest broke into several large pieces. I grabbed one of the slats used to make the chest, and wedged it in the opening I’d made between the top and bottom of the stock. I used it like a crowbar, levering at the hinge.

It was slowly giving… giving…

Then the stock popped open like a shotgun blast.

Candi sat up abruptly, grabbing her ankle to see her injury for herself. Then the tears hit, fast and hard.

“Ah shit… that fucker.”

“We need to find a way out of here.”

“My toe…” she sobbed.

“Candi! Focus!”

Her eyes locked on mine.

“We need to start rolling up the mats,” I ordered, “find the way out of here before they come back.”

She sniffled. ”They? I only know one. Taylor.”

“He’s got a buddy now.” I made a face. “And they’re armed.”

I watched Candi’s face do an emotion montage. Anger, pain, despair, then raw fear.

“I have kids,” Candi whispered. “A boy and a girl.”

“Then we need to find the exit, fast. Start pulling up the mats.”

“What time is it? My man, Julius, he’ll come looking for me when I don’t report back.”

I thought about the pimp, running out of the diner with his teeth in his hand.

“Julius, uh, probably won’t be coming to the rescue. Do the mats. Now.”

She wiped her nose on her arm, and then reached for the Tupperware container.

“Candi…”

“I want to see.”

She popped off the lid and squinted at the objects in the rock salt.

“What are these things?”

“We need to look for the exit, Candi.”

“Are those…
aw, Jesus…
”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“Don’t worry? Do you know what these are?”

“Yes.”

“These are…
nipples.
”

“I know, Candi. That’s why we need to get the hell out of here.”

That seemed to spur her to action. I joined Candi in pulling up mats, and we soon found the trap door. I pulled on the recessed handle.

Locked.

I tugged as hard as I could, until the cords on my neck bulged out and I saw stars.

It wouldn’t budge.

“We’re going to die up here.” Candi was hugging her knees, rocking back and forth.

I blew out a breath. “No, we’re not.”

“He’s going to bite off our toes. Then our tits, to add to his collection.”

I reached up overhead, tugging at the baffling stuck to the ceiling. Under it was heavy aluminum. I did a 360, looking at all the walls.

There was no way out. We were trapped up here.

Then we both felt it. The truck cab jiggle.

Oh, shit. They’re back.

F
ran the waitress was happy to flip a coin for the two gentlemen who had tipped her so well.

“Tails,” Taylor called.

Fran caught the quarter, slapped it against her wrist.

“Tails it is. Congrats, handsome.”

Taylor gave her a polite nod, then turned to judge Donaldson’s reaction. There wasn’t one. The fat man’s face was blank. Taylor left the diner, his cohort in tow. It was still hot and muggy outside, and the lot was still almost full, but there weren’t any people around.

“Are we cool?” Taylor asked as they walked to his truck.

“Yeah. Fair is fair. You’ll let me watch?”

Taylor shrugged like it didn’t matter, but secretly he was thrilled at the idea of an audience.

“Sure.”

“And you’ll let me do her face?”

“Her face is all yours.”

“You should try it once. The face. You peel enough of the flesh away, you can see the skull underneath. I bet Jack Daniels has a beautiful skull.”

Taylor stopped and stared at him. ”You’ve really got a hard-on for this cop, don’t you?”

“I’d marry her if she’d have me. But I’ll settle for a bloody blowjob after I knock her teeth out. Do you still have Jack’s phone?”

Taylor had pocketed her phone and wallet. He tugged the cell out.

“Does Officer Donaldson want to inform the next of kin?” Taylor grinned as he handed it over.

“That’s a possibility. Might also be fun to call up her loved ones while you’re working on her, let them hear her screams.”

“You’ve got a sick mind, my friend.”

“Thank you, kindly. Let’s see who our favorite cop talked to last. The winner is…
Latham.
And less than an hour ago. Shall we see if Latham is still up?”

“Put it on speaker.”

The phone rang twice, and a man answered.

“Jack? I was worried.”

“And you have good reason to be,” Donaldson said. “Is this Latham?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m the man about to murder Jack Daniels. She’s going to die in terrible pain. How do you feel about that?”

There was silence.

“What’s wrong, Latham? Don’t you care that…” Donaldson squinted at the phone. “Dammit, lost the signal.”

Donaldson hit redial. The call didn’t go through.

They stood there for a moment, neither of them saying anything.

“I hate dropped calls,” Taylor finally offered. ”Drives me nuts.”

“Cops.”

“I hate cops, too.”

“Behind you.”

Taylor spun around and froze. A Wisconsin squad car rolled up next to them. Its lights weren’t on, but the driver’s side window was open and a pig was leaning out. White male, fat, had something on his upper lip that an optimist might call a mustache.

“Did you men happen to witness a disturbance in the diner earlier?”

Taylor thought fast. But apparently so did Donaldson, because he spoke first.

“What disturbance?”

“Seems an Illinois cop got into a tussle with one of the locals.”

“We’re just passing through,” Donaldson said. “Didn’t see anything.”

The pig nodded, then pulled up next to the diner. He let his fellow cop out, then began to circle the parking lot.

“I had to lie,” Donaldson said, “or else we’d have to give statements. I don’t want my name in any police report.”

“I’m with you. But now we’ve got a big problem. One of them is going to talk to our waitress, and she’ll mention us. The other is taking down plate numbers. He’ll find Jack’s car, realize she’s still here, and start searching for her.”