Serial - Crouch Blake - Страница 12

“Your told-you-so tone isn’t going to get you laid later,” I said. “Just help me figure out where I am.”

Another sigh. I shrugged it off. My long-suffering boyfriend had suffered a lot worse than this in order to be with me. I figured he had to be incredibly desperate, or a closet masochist. Either way, he was a cutie, and I loved him.

“Do you see the mile markers alongside the road?”

I didn’t see any such thing. The highway was dark, and I hadn’t noticed any signs, off-ramps, exits, or mile markers since I’d left Illinois. But I hadn’t exactly been paying much attention, either. I was pretty damn tired, and had been zoning out to AM radio for the last hour. FM didn’t work. Sometimes I wish someone would shoot my car, put it out of my misery.

“No. There’s nothing out here, Latham. Except Murray’s.”

“What’s Murray’s?”

“I have no idea. I just saw the sign. Could be a gas station. Could be a waterpark.”

“I don’t remember passing anything called Murray’s. Did the sign have the exit number?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

I made a face. “The defense attorney never asked me if I was sure. The defense attorney took me at my word.”

“He should have also made you take my GPS. You see those posts alongside the road with the reflectors on them?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep watching them.”

“Why should—” The next reflector had a number on top. “Oh. Okay, I’m at mile marker 231.”

“I don’t have Internet access here at the cabin. I’ll call you back when I find out where you are. You’re okay, right? Not going to fall asleep while driving?”

I yawned. “I’m fine, hon. Just a little hungry.”

“Stop for something if it will keep you awake.”

“Sure. I’ll just pull over and grab the nearest cow.”

“If you do, bring me a tenderloin.”

“Really? Is your appetite back?” Latham was still recovering from a bad case of food poisoning.

“It’s getting there.”

“Aren’t you tired? You should rest, honey.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call soon with your location.”

My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave my head a little shake.

On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all signs pointed to a conviction.

On the minus side, I’d been driving for six straight hours, and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas, according to my gauge.

Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming I could find Murray’s before falling asleep, running out of fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.

The road stretched onward into the never-ending darkness. I hadn’t seen another car in a while. Even though this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?

I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.

“You’re not on I-94,” he said. “You’re on 39.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”

“Which means?”

“You drove three hours out of the way.”

Shit.

I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”

“You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the morning.”

“Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an early breakfast.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”

“That’s not even funny.”

I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.

“I love you, Latham.”

“I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”

“Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”

I squinted at my cell. No signal.

Welcome to Wisconsin.

I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.

MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL. LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON DUTY. TEN MILES.

Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food and coffee would wake me up.

I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.

Murray’s here I come.

3

Taylor paused at the diner entrance, taking everything in. The restaurant was busy, the tables all full. He spotted three waitresses, plus two cooks in the kitchen. Seated were various truckers, two with hooker companions. Taylor knew the owners encouraged it, and wondered what kind of cut they got.

He saw what must have been Candi’s pimp, holding court at a corner table. Rattleskin cowboy boots, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Wisconsin, fake bling on his baseball cap. He was having a serious discussion with one of his whores. The rest of the tables were occupied by truckers. Taylor didn’t see any cops; a pimp in plain sight meant they were being paid off.

The place smelled terrific, like bacon gravy and apple pie. Taylor’s stomach grumbled. He located the emergency exit in the northeast corner, and knew there was also a back door that led into the kitchen; Taylor had walked the perimeter of the building before entering.

With no tables available, he approached the counter and took a seat there, between the storefront window and a pudgy, older guy nursing a cup of coffee. It was a good spot. He could see his rig, and also see anyone approaching it or him.

Taylor hadn’t been to Murray’s in over a year, but the printed card sticking in the laminated menu said their specialty was meatloaf.

“Meatloaf is good,” the old guy leaned over and said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You were looking at the card. Thought I’d be helpful.”

He examined the man, a grandfatherly type with thinning gray hair and red cheeks. Taylor wasn’t in the best of moods—one toe was barely an appetizer for him—and he was ready to tell Grandpa off. But starting a scene meant being remembered, and that wasn’t wise.

“Thank you,” Taylor managed.

“You’re welcome.”

A waitress came by, wearing ugly scuffed-up gym shoes. Taylor ordered coffee and the meatloaf. The coffee was strong, bitter. Taylor added two sugars.

“Showers are good here too,” his fat companion said.

Taylor gave him another look.

Is this guy trying to pick me up?

The man sipped his coffee and didn’t meet Taylor’s stare.

“Look, buddy. I just want to eat in peace. No offense. I’ve been on the road for a long time.”

“No offense taken,” the fat man said. He finished his coffee, then signaled the waitress for a refill. “Just telling you the showers are good. Be sure to get some quarters. They’ve got a machine, sells soap. Useful for washing off blood.”

All of Taylor’s senses went on high alert, and he felt himself flush. This guy didn’t look like a cop—Taylor could usually spot cops. He wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, a Timex. On the counter next to his empty cup was a baseball cap without any logo. A few days’ worth of beard graced his double chin.

No, he wasn’t law. And he wasn’t cruising him, either.

So what the hell does he want?

“What do you mean?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“Drop of blood on your shirt. Another spot on your collar. Some under your fingernails as well. You wiped them with ether, but it didn’t completely dissolve. Did you know that ether was first used as a surgical anesthetic back in 1842? Before that, taking a knife to a person meant screaming and thrashing around.” The man held a beefy hand to his mouth and belched. “‘Course, some people might like the screaming and thrashing around part.”

Taylor bunched his fists, then forced himself to relax. Had this guy seen him somehow? Did he know about Candi in the sleeper?