His head pounded, his body ached, and it felt like there was sandpaper attached to the backside of his eye sockets, grinding away every time he glanced to the right or the left. He hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. What the hell? He’d had less alcohol last night than he had in years. Wasn’t fair.
Bella scampered about, smelling everything she could get to within the arc made by her leash. She barked and pranced in front of a young girl coming out of the door behind them, who squatted down and started playing with her until her mother yanked her away. Joshua wouldn’t swear to it, but it looked like the mother was much more concerned about him that she was about the puppy. Normally that wouldn’t bother him, but right now he had to take deep breaths to stay calm.
They were standing just outside the Quad City International Airport in Moline, Illinois. From here it was a half-hour cab ride to Iowa 80, just over the border into the state next door.
Had was off to the side, talking with one of the passengers from the flight he’d made friends with. The new contact was a big, burly guy with hipster glasses, a flannel shirt, and jeans that were way too skinny for his frame. They were busy exchanging email addresses or something. Joshua couldn’t fathom the amount of energy that must go in to keeping up with the number of friends that guy seemed to make.
They’d had a layover in Chicago, where Had proceeded to gush to both Joshua and Coop, as well as three other customers at the pizza joint where they’d grabbed lunch, that it was his first time there. The young cop had asked every one of them if the wind they’d heard in the jetway was typical. If Joshua heard I guess that’s why they call it the Windy City one more time, he would’ve hurt someone. Okay. Not “someone”. That was far too indefinite. Had. He would have hurt Had.
Thinking of the gregarious cop, Joshua looked up to see that he was done with his conversation, and making a beeline over to where Joshua was standing. “So, I just texted Bilal, and he doesn’t know anyone out here,” Had groused as he approached, clearly upset that their cab driver’s connections had run out. He reached down in an absent fashion to scratch Bella behind the ears. She responded with a flurry of licks to his hand.
“Tragic,” Joshua responded, his tone dry. He rubbed at his eyes, wishing he could somehow reach the back of them. Man, this sucked.
“Right? Who knows what kind of crappy driver we’re gonna get now.” The young cop had yet to learn the intricacies of sarcasm, as far as Joshua could tell. But then Had perked back up. “Maybe he’ll be even better.” His face fell once more. “Who am I kidding? Bilal’s guys are the best.”
Joshua, for one, was looking forward to a driver who didn’t listen to some weird mishmash of international music styles or was obsessed with ethnic cuisine. A white bread cabbie who just wanted to drive sounded like the best idea he’d heard in a while.
They stood in the queue for taxis, and it wasn’t long before their turn had come. Joshua was relieved to note that the driver seemed to have no interest in talking with them. He was a short man with a medium build, a shaggy beard and a scar that cut his left eyebrow in half. It gave him the appearance of being surprised or skeptical, and even Had seemed a little intimidated by him.
Their first interaction didn’t go so well.
“No dogs in my cab,” the driver barked, as Joshua started to climb into the backseat.
“She’s a service dog,” Joshua shot back.
“Bullshit. That’s a puppy,” he responded, unconvinced. “’Sides, there’s no vest.”
“She’s in training, and the vest’s on order.” Joshua was fully prepared to dig in his heels on this one. As far as he was concerned, they could all walk to where they needed to go. Coop was being a little bitchy today and could probably use the exercise.
“No dogs.”
Then Agent Cooper stepped forward. Joshua tensed up, ready for the argument he knew was coming. Here was the proof positive she’d been looking for that Bella was a problem. This was a situation tailor made for her.
She flipped out her badge and flashed it at the driver. “The dog comes with us.”
The cabbie glanced at the ID, took one look at Coop’s face, and turned back to the front, grumbling something about pushy cops. It appeared to Joshua that Coop had won this little battle for him.
He didn’t trust it for a second.
“What?” he leaned over and whispered to her. “You planning on a side trip to the pound?”
“No,” she answered. “Bella’s part of the team now.” She reached over and ruffled Bella’s fur, while the puppy went into a wriggling fit of ecstasy. “Did you really put a vest on order for her?”
“Yeah. Had let me use his laptop. Which was a lot smaller than the one I had back at the agency. Oh, and Amazon’s changed a lot since then, too. It’s amazing.”
“Great,” she replied, and leaned back against the headrest, clearly done with the conversation.
What the hell was going on?
But Bella was in the cab, Coop was playing nice, and the driver didn’t seem to want anything to do with any of them. It was all shaping up to be a pleasant drive.
Maybe, just maybe, Joshua would have some peace on this trip.
No such luck. Five seconds into the drive, Had was trying to strike up a conversation.
“So, you been a driver for long?”
“No.”
There was a pause as Had appeared to recalibrate. “Oh, you’re new?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
“No.”
Another pause. Joshua could only guess what was going through the mind of the young cop. Perhaps he was looking for a question that couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no. Joshua found himself rooting for the driver.
“What’s your favorite thing to do here in Moline?” Had asked, grinning. He seemed to have come up with a good one.
“Nothing. I hate it here.”
“Oh.” This had apparently been a good news/bad news situation. He’d gotten more than a one-word response, but still wasn’t anywhere close to starting up a real dialogue. Must be killing him. Joshua wasn’t too proud to admit that it made him smile.
“Did you know that there’s a building here in Moline that has thirteen-hundred solar panels?” Had asked, a bead of sweat standing out on his brow.
“No.”
“Or that it’s home to the only college campus on the banks of the Mississippi?” Joshua might be imagining it, but it seemed like a note of desperation had crept into Had’s voice.
“No.”
“Well, it is,” he said, his tone weak.
They were now exiting the airport, and their driver peered over his shoulder with some apparent reluctance. “Where to?”
“We’re headed to the Comfort Inn in Walcott,” Coop replied.
“You headed over to Iowa 80?” the driver asked, the first sign of life they’d seen gleaming in his eyes.
“Yeah, you know it?” Had asked.
“I love that place. Get out there as much as I can.” The man shrugged, his expression shy. “Studying to be a truck driver.”
“Really?” Had enthused. “I always thought that if I couldn’t be a cop, I’d want to be a trucker.”
“Wait. You’re a cop?”
“Yeah.”
The driver grinned, showing teeth that had been stained yellow from tobacco smoke. “I always said that if I couldn’t be a trucker, I’d want to be a cop.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
Had stuck his hand over the back seat. “Name’s Had.”
“Darrel. Nice to meet you, man. So, are you a detective or just a beat cop…?”
Joshua groaned and leaned into the window. Maybe Bilal’s suggestions hadn’t been quite as bad as he’d imagined.
For the rest of the trip, the animated conversation between the two trucking and law enforcement enthusiasts continued, waxing and waning with the hum of the wheels on the road. The soothing murmur blended together in a caco
phony of harmonious noise that would’ve put Joshua to sleep if he hadn’t felt rested for the first time in thirteen years. He reached down to rub Bella’s belly as she dozed in the well of the car down next to his legs.
Joshua had been right about the flight attendants. They’d squawked when they’d first spotted Bella nestled down in his arms, but one implication that Bella was a K-9 unit in training, and all had been forgiven. They’d even brought Bella her own bottle of water, giving her belly rubs and cooing over her, no more than fifteen minutes into the flight. That little pup was a charmer.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, she stirred and yawned. She did a little dance that made her butt shake until she fell down again. There was something about this little puppy that was stirring things inside of him that hadn’t felt movement for longer than he could remember. Her dependency, which in a person would’ve irritated him, did nothing but endear her to him even more.
And he’d only had four drinks last night.
It had gotten to the point that it took at least six or seven to see him through, or what sleep he did get would be plagued by nightmares. But he only had the one bad dream, and he’d slept until Agent Cooper finally woke him up for the flight out.
Ten hours. He’d slept for ten hours. Joshua couldn’t remember the last time he’d had four. He glanced over at Coop, who turned her head away as soon as she saw him looking. She’d been acting strange toward him all day. Probably as freaked out by his behavior as he was.
There was something about this whole scenario that was rubbing him the wrong way. On an intellectual level, he understood that less alcohol and more sleep was a good thing. It would eventually make him sharper, more able to outthink the killer. Not that any of that felt true right at the moment.
But it also could lead him into dangerous territory. It felt… healthy. Whole. Like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. He couldn’t afford to forget that at the end of this crime-fighting spree, a confrontation with four graves and an old man awaited him.
He would end up getting punished whether or not he wanted it to happen.
Peering down at Agent Cooper’s ankle, Joshua could make out the lump there. She was still wearing the monitor. Taking the heat for his problem, enabling his drinking so he could keep it together long enough to catch a predator. It was completely dysfunctional. In a strange way, he found that comforting. The road to redemption wasn’t paved with co-dependency.
He was still safe from the lure of salvation.
CHAPTER 13
Had surveyed the sprawling mini-metroplex that was Iowa 80. It was a sight to behold, and even more so than normal, at least according to Darrel, their cabdriver. Somehow, they’d had the good fortune to come to Iowa 80 right in the middle of their Truckers’ Jamboree. In addition to the huge building that was built almost like it was a cross between a huge house and a cabin, with multiple gables all across the roofline of the face that looked out onto the freeway, there were more trucks here than Had’d seen in his life. Big huge 18-wheelers, as well as smaller, more local freight. Bright rigs with garish colors and sweeping aerodynamic wind guards stood right alongside their smaller and more conservative brothers-in-wheels.
There were carnival rides, a pork chop cook off and live country music blaring through the hot, humid air of Walcott, Iowa. The smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy cut through the scent of the ever-present diesel fuel. Had was in heaven.
But much as the Siren song of the fairway… and the funnel cakes… was calling to him, Had knew there was work to be done. He pivoted on his heel and went back into the labyrinthine structure that was the hub of Iowa 80.
As he walked, his cell phone blared the theme from Psycho.
“Mama, what is it now?” he asked. “I’ve got to scope out this place.”
“Is that any way to greet your mother?” she answered. The reception was spotty, but not quite enough that Had could fake a disconnect. He immediately felt a stab of guilt for his thought and hoped that it wouldn’t travel through the phone connection. She was uncanny when it came to stuff like that. “I called to tell you that I ran into that redheaded girl again at the pharmacy. I’m tellin’ you Had. She could be the one.”
He sighed. How many times had he heard that one before? This one sounded intriguing, he had to admit, but now was not the time.
“Mama, we’ll talk about it later. I have to go.”
Why didn’t he just let the calls go to voice mail? Because she would know, and then she’d track you down and shoot you, a little voice inside whispered.
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t actually shoot him, but the voices had a point.
Inside the structure, Had found himself in the Super Truck Showroom. There in the middle of the floor was a bright yellow rig that was one of the prettiest sights Had’d ever taken in. Off to one side was a service kiosk, with a young man that looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was wearing a t-shirt that said Wikipedia is Accurate (citation needed). Had could tell they were going to get along great.
He approached the booth and waved at the attendant. The young man looked over his shoulder, apparently unsure of whether or not Had was waving at him.
“Hey there,” Had called out as he took the last few steps separating him from the stand.
“Uh… hey,” came the response.
“I’m Officer Kyle Hadderly. Do you have a second?”
The attendant pushed a hand through his stringy black hair and licked his lips. “Oh, you’re a cop.”
“Yeah, but I’m way outside my jurisdiction. I’m here helping out the FBI”
“You’re… you’re what?” the young man squeaked, glancing from side to side. “Hey, man… I didn’t know anything about that pot. I totally thought the guy was selling oregano, and my mom was making Italian that night…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Had soothed. “That’s so not what I’m here about. I don’t think the FBI even looks into that stuff.”
“All right,” he muttered, seeming to calm down a bit. “So what are you here for?”
“We’re tracking down a serial killer.”
“What?” The man’s voice cracked again, sending his pitch up into the stratosphere. “You’re hunting for a serial killer?” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “That’s cool.”
“I know, right?” Had responded, grinning. “It’s pretty awesome.”
“Yeah, totally,” he agreed, nodding his head. “Wait. Where did you say you were from?”
“Well, the other members of my team are from D.C. Sort of. One’s kinda living in New York right now. Expect that he’s not, because he got his car…” He stopped, confused for a moment. “You now what, it’s kinda complicated.”
“I get it. I’m complicated myself. Name’s Preston.”
“Hey, Preston.”
“So,” he continued. “Your team members are from D.C. or something like that, but what about you?”
“Oh, I’m from Michigan,” Had answered.
“No shit. I’m from Michigan, dude.”
“You’re kidding. What part?”
“Detroit.” Preston lifted his chin, almost like he was expecting a fight.
That gave Had pause, but only for a second. Detroit was like a foreign country when it came to Michiganders. It’s almost like they didn’t count. But Had wasn’t about to hold that against his new friend. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to rib him about it, though.
“Ooo. Detroit. Wait a sec. Aren’t your pants pulled up too high for you to be from Detroit?”
Preston laughed. “Yeah, my boss won’t let me wear ‘em the way I like. Total hater.”
Over the next few hours spent taking the lay of the land, it appeared that Had’d stumbled across help in the strangest of forms. They’d now bonded over a shared love of marble slab fudge and the gentlemanly sport of curling. That had to be some kind of miracle. No one this far south usually had any idea of what curling even was, unless they’d happened to
catch it during the Olympics.
Had was thrilled to find someone with whom he could discuss the Spirit of Curling, the pros and cons of keen ice and the hog-to-tee time for the Olympic arena in Vancouver back in 2010, although Preston seemed to have some strange ideas when it came to the Spirit part. Had tried not to hold it against him too terribly
But they were both in accord when it came to the Olympics. Much as the Canadians liked to lord their superiority over anyone from the States, they’d both been pretty stoked that the men had beaten the Norwegians, especially after the women suffered that close defeat to the Swedes.
Now he had Preston on patrol, looking out for the suspects they were bringing in for questioning. Preston had actually recognized one of the most likely men on the list.
“That dude was freaked out, man. Like constantly looking over his shoulder and shit. Guy’s probably tweaking.”
“Keep an eye out for him. You can call me on my cell or shoot me an email. Oh, hey… add me on Facebook, okay?” There was wifi throughout the complex, and they should be able to chat with each other in pretty short order.
“Will do,” Preston waved to him. “Oh, and come by tomorrow. Got a dude coming in from Michigan, gonna bring me some black walnut fudge.”
Had waved back, already tasting the creamy confection. He’d be here tomorrow and would hang out the entire day if he had to in order to get a taste of that stuff.
It was only a few hours into the investigation, and Had already had secured a lead and an informant, who was looking like he might turn out to be a good friend, as well. Oh, and the fudge, of course.
This day could not be going any better.
* * *
Sariah hit the “end” button on her phone, finished with the latest call from the local chief of police. There was another body part, and it was right next-door in Cedar Rapids. If there had been any doubt in her mind, it was now fled and gone for good.
They were in the right place.
Cedar Rapids was about an hour northwest of Walcott, over on the I-80 and north up the I-380, both major thoroughfares for trucking routes that snaked through the area. Cedar Rapids was one of the destination routes of two of the truck driver suspects on which they had BOLOs.
Humpty Dumpty: The killer wants us to put him back together again (Book 1 of the Nursery Rhyme Murders Series) Page 15
