by Judy Clemens
Nods were coming in very handy.
“Here,” Death said, pointing into a room. “Your guy.”
Casey stopped outside the door. “I wonder why there’s no cop stationed here?”
“Not exactly a flight risk,” Death said. “Plus, the only thing he did—that the cops know about—was get beat up at Davey’s junk yard. By the time they got to him, he had no gun or anything.”
Casey peered in the door’s window, hoping Bruce would be asleep. No such luck. He had his hand on a remote, and his face was lit up by the television.
Death held up a finger. “Lights, camera—”
Casey slid her bag onto the shelf of the rolling desk and backed into the room, pulling the computer behind her, right up to the bed.
“Again?” Bruce whined. “How many times do I have to pee in a cup?”
“No peeing,” Casey said, and she turned around.
“Then what?” Bruce kept his eyes on the TV. “Blood pressure? Temperature? Sponge bath?” He leered at that one.
Casey pinched the top of his shoulder on a pressure point, and his eyes went wide. She relaxed her grip enough he could turn to look at her. It took him a few moments, but recognition hit him like a brick. “You?”
“Yes, Bruce. It’s me.”
He fumbled for the nurse button on his bed, and Casey grabbed his arm. “If you so much as think about pushing that button, I’m going to do this.” She tightened her fingers, and he dropped his hand.
“Good,” Casey said. “We understand each other. Now, you are going to answer some questions.”
He shook his head, as much as he could with his nerve pinched.
“No?” Casey laid her hand on his destroyed knee, and he whimpered. She wasn’t really going to do anything to his poor leg, but the threat should be enough. “I think the people in this hospital—as well as the cops—would be very interested to know how you and your buddies came to the scrap yard with guns and threatened the owner.”
He opened his mouth, but she continued. “There are witnesses, Bruce. Now, what’s your name?”
“You seem to…know it.” He panted in-between words.
“Just a test. Tell me.”
“Bruce. Willoughby.”
“Good. And the name of your boss?”
He shook his head.
“I already know that, too. After seeing him at the scrap yard I looked him up.”
Bruce’s forehead smoothed. “Him? That’s Randy. Randy Westing.”
So he wasn’t Bruce’s boss. Just an underling, of some sort. “And the other guy? Craig?”
Bruce sneered. “Dumbass.” He looked her up and down, trying to look tough. “Knocked out by a girl without a fight.”
Casey twisted his shoulder. “At least he’s walking.”
Bruce had no response for that. Not that he could’ve responded at that moment, anyway.
“So,” Casey said. “Where is Randy camped out? Where is he waiting for you?”
“Don’t know. He called. Said he’d…be in touch.”
Casey nodded. “And what was it you were looking for at the scrap yard and at the accident? You wanted something in Evan’s truck.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked away, and then back. “Something Randy wanted. I don’t know what.”
Casey shook her head and leaned ever so slightly on his knee. “You disappoint me, Bruce. I was expecting more.”
He closed his eyes and turned his head away. “I can’t…tell you what…I don’t know.”
Casey glanced up at Death, who shrugged. “Maybe he’s just stupid.”
Casey thought there was a good possibility of that.
“So who are all the others, Bruce?”
“Others? What…others?”
“The guys with you at the crash site? And why are they bothering the truckers?”
“Bother— Look, lady, you need to…get your facts…straight.”
“So straighten me out.”
Something flashed on the television screen, and his face went deathly pale before reverting to the blue. “We ain’t bothering any truckers. The only trucker involved was Evan, and he ain’t bothered anymore.” He smiled wickedly.
Casey restrained herself from snapping his knee. “And how did you know Evan? Did he drive for Class A Trucking?”
Bruce blinked. “How do you know about that?”
“Evan. How else?”
His mouth dropped. “So you did find his stuff?”
Casey kept her hand on his knee and bent down to retrieve her bag from the computer desk. She dangled it just out of his reach. “It’s all in here. Maybe you can help me decipher it.”
She picked up her other hand and held it just above his knee. He nodded. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Keeping a close eye on him, she reached into the bag and pulled out the first thing she found—a photo of Westing and Dixon sitting across from the Halvestons, the trucker couple.
“That’s Randy,” Bruce said. “And Dix.”
“And who are the other people?”
His eyelids fluttered. “Don’t know.”
Casey licked her lips, watching him steadily. She set down the photo and pulled out another one. “How about him?” Pat Parnell.
A look of disgust flitted across his face. “Don’t know.”
“Um-hmm.”
She pulled out another photo, and another. “I suppose you don’t know any of these people, either.”
“No, ma’am, not by name. Just Randy and Dix and Craig.”
“And a few others of your group.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Okay. I suppose you have no idea why these people are in the photos with your friends. Or with you, for that matter.” She held up one of him with Hank Nance.
Bruce swallowed. “I suppose they could be…truckers?”
Casey gasped and clapped her hands twice, slow. “Good answer, Bruce. Now, try again. Why are you guys bothering the truckers?”
He shook his head.
“Are the truckers driving with fake licenses?”
He bit his lips together.
“And who is your boss?”
He lifted his chin. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are. You show up in Evan’s truck, and we don’t know why, or what you’re doing there. Well, I ain’t telling you anything more. And you can’t make me.” He clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling.
Death’s forehead furrowed. “He’s not going to answer you. He’s made up his mind and he ain’t changing it.”
“Okay, Bruce.” Casey patted his thigh. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Hey. Look at me.”
He did.
“You’re going to get in touch with your buddies—”
“—I don’t know how—”
“—and you are going to tell them I have what they’re looking for—” she dangled the bag where he could see it “—and that I want to deal.”
“But—”
She placed a finger just above his mouth, not touching him. “I am going to call you tomorrow. If you’re in surgery I’ll call back. You are going to tell me where and when to meet them and…” She held up a finger to keep him from talking. “You are going to give me a number where they can be reached.”
“And if they don’t call me before then?”
She leaned close, whispering. “Then I’ll be back.”
He whimpered. “Lady, who are you?”
“You shouldn’t be worried about me. You should be worried about that.” She pointed at Death.
Bruce looked where Casey was pointing. “The television?”
Casey opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Remember what I said about the nurse’s button. Don’t even breathe on it until I’ve been gone several minutes.”
He shook his head. “I won’t. I promise.”
“Good.” She held up the bag. “Until tomorrow then. I’ll be talking to you.”
Casey exited the room, leaving the rolling computer desk beside Bruce�
�s bed. As the door eased shut, she glanced back. Bruce was turned toward the TV, but she would’ve bet none of it was registering.
Chapter Sixteen
“Wow, you were like Clint Eastwood in there,” Death said. “Or maybe even the Terminator.”
Casey jogged down the hospital steps and into the night air, taking a deep breath. She walked briskly down the sidewalk and into the residential section, leaving the bright ER sign behind her.
Death skipped ahead and stopped, studying her as she walked past. “But you look much more like Uma Thurman. Now she’s a badass.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use words like that.”
“Uma Thurman?”
Casey stopped, getting herself acclimated. “That way.” She retraced a few steps and turned a corner.
“We going back to the shed?”
“I am.”
“Well, if that’s the way you’re going to be.” Death pouted, and disappeared in a poof of smoke, a choir sounding in the night, like the last few measures of a choral symphony. Or like angels.
No, not angels.
It took Casey about forty-five minutes to make her way back. By the time she arrived the shed was already full of kids, and John Mayer was playing on Martin’s iPod. Bailey and Martin were dancing to “Daughters.”
“See! I told you she’d be back.” Bailey bounced away from Martin. “She promised.”
Sheryl lay on the floor, picking at a chocolate cake in the middle of the blanket. “Well, whoop-de-doo.” Terry sat beside her, carefully not looking at Casey.
“I was right.” Martin grinned at Casey. “You cleaned up pretty good.”
“I’ll take the credit for that.” Bailey walked around Casey, examining her. “You didn’t even destroy your hair. But you haven’t slept on it or washed it yet. Then we’ll see.” She stopped in front of her. “So, did it work? Could you do whatever it was you wanted?”
“Well enough. I take it you didn’t get caught this afternoon?”
“No problem. Dad was gone when I got back, and by the time Mom got home I was all set up doing my homework—my teachers sent my stuff home with Sheryl. So, you still have all the make-up?”
Casey held up the now-bulging bag. She had removed the scrubs when she was a safe distance from the hospital. If Bruce was brave—or stupid—enough to tell somebody at the hospital about her visit, she didn’t want to be too obvious on the streets. “Can I keep them for a day or two? Just in case?”
Bailey waved her hand. “Keep them forever. Not exactly my style, you know. So sit. We’ve been waiting for you before we cut Terry’s cake.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Bailey insisted.” Terry held up a knife. “But now that you’re here…”
Casey lowered herself to the blanket, wondering where Death had gone. She expected to hear that annoying rubber band twanging any second. She also wondered what had happened to the store-bought cookies. Terry must’ve skipped his nap and made a trip to the bakery, after all.
“Here.” Bailey set another bag beside Casey. “Food. And more clothes.”
Casey stomach rumbled in response. “Thank you. You guys are all really— Hey, where’s Johnny?”
“Football.” Bailey rolled her eyes. “His dad makes him play. He doesn’t seem to realize that one more good knock to the head and Johnny’s history.”
“Really? Why? Too many concussions?”
“No,” Sheryl said. “Because he’s already dumb as rocks. Where can he go from there?”
“Sheryl…” Terry said, but it was half-hearted.
“Oh, Terry, don’t be such a sap. You know it’s true.”
Terry looked away, obviously uncomfortable.
Bailey wrinkled her nose at Casey. “We all love Johnny, you know? He’s a great guy, just—”
“—stupid.” Sheryl said.
A heavy silence fell, with only Sheryl willing to lift her eyes.
“Anyway,” Bailey finally said, “Johnny’s dad’s this bigwig doctor at the hospital.”
Casey blinked. “Not Dr. Shinnob?”
“Shinnob?” Bailey laughed. “Hardly. Dr. Cross. That’s Johnny’s last name. And Dr. Cross seems to realize Johnny’s never going to be doctor material, so he figures he’d better do something, like play football. You’d think the big doctor, of all people, would realize what that could do to Johnny’s head, but…” She shrugged. “Oh, well.”
“So, Martin,” Casey said, feeling sorry for Johnny. “Bailey says you have something for me. Oh, thank you.” She took the piece of cake Terry offered.
“I do.” Martin waggled his eyebrows. “What you gonna give me for it?”
“Martin!”
“Just joking, Bail, don’t have a shit fit. Here.” He dug in his bag and pulled out a manila file. “One accident report, fresh from the cop shop.”
“Thanks.” Casey wiped her fingers on a napkin and took the folder. “Anything you noticed?”
“What? You think I read it?”
“Yes.”
He grinned. “You’re right. I did. And you know what bugs me? Those machines on the road. They weren’t supposed to be there.”
It seemed obvious. Casey had thought the same thing. They had mentioned it in the newspaper articles. Why had no answers been found?
“It wasn’t a surprise the construction vehicles were around,” Martin said. “They’ve been clogging up that road for weeks. But when the road crew left on Saturday they were parked way over to the side. Nowhere near the actual driving area. And there were still tons of caution signs around.”
Casey hadn’t seen any of those. “So someone moved them on purpose.”
“Well, duh,” Sheryl said.
Bailey smacked Sheryl’s shoe.
“Another thing,” Martin said, scooting forward on the bucket. “The cops gave someone a speeding ticket on that stretch of road five minutes earlier.”
“Five minutes?”
“So the machines were beside the road then. Not on it.” Martin’s face was grim. “Whoever moved those machines did it just before you and the trucker came that way. Why would they do that?”
Casey’s stomach twisted. She’d known it. It couldn’t have been any other way. But to have confirmation that the machines were moved on purpose was almost too much to take.
“Casey?” Bailey looked up at her. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
Casey nodded, and let out a huff of air. “What else does the report say?”
Martin gestured to the file in her hand. “It’s all there.”
“But what else stuck out to you?”
“No witnesses.” Bailey spoke up this time.
Casey laughed. “You read it, too?”
“Of course.”
“Did anyone not read it?”
Sheryl and Terry shrugged. They’d read it, too.
“Anyway,” Bailey said, “there was no one who saw what happened. At least, no one who will come forward.”
“But you know what they did find?” Martin said. “Just before the accident? Somebody stopped the traffic going east, on the other side of the highway. So nobody was coming the opposite direction to see anything, anyway.”
“The police didn’t check out the traffic problem?”
“They tried. But by the time they got there, whoever had stopped the cars was gone, and traffic was moving again. They couldn’t find the people from the first stopped cars, who had seen what had stopped them to begin with. They were long gone.”
“And,” Bailey said, “the same thing happened on the western side. When the ambulances and stuff were coming to the accident from the other way, they had to get through a bunch of cars who’d been held up.”
“And nobody saw what caused that, either?”
Martin shook his head. “I talked to one of the cops who was called to the scene, and he said there were construction signs all over the highway, saying there was stopped traffic, and then orange barrels across the road.”
&nbs
p; So that’s where the warning signs had gone.
“But there were no people. The cops just left the barrels there while they worked on the crash and got…well…took you to the hospital.”
Casey couldn’t believe it. She didn’t think these guys were that organized. “They planned every aspect of this.”
“Who did?”
Casey wasn’t sure who’d asked, but all four pairs of eyes were on her. “I don’t know yet.”
“But you know something,” Bailey said. “Don’t you?”
Casey knew some very important things, the main one being that the papers in her bag were worth killing for. No. The men hadn’t meant to kill Evan. At least not right then. But Randy Westing, Bruce Willoughby, and the other guy had brought guns to Davey’s scrapyard, and didn’t seem nervous about using them. She rubbed her temples. What was in those papers that was so damaging? Could it be simply that the drivers were operating under false names? Tom hadn’t seen anything blatantly illegal in the photos. Just that weird business of the logos being on, and then off, the trucks.
Casey looked around at the teenagers. Kids who were allying themselves with her. Forget herself—she was going to get them killed.
“You know, guys,” she said. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a long couple of days.”
Bailey’s lip stuck out. “Are you kicking us out?”
“She can’t kick us out,” Sheryl said. “It’s your shed.”
“And we’re not done with the cake.” Terry waved his fork over the half-eaten dessert.
Martin shut off the music. “Come on, guys. We said we’d help her out.”
“And we are.” Bailey grabbed Casey’s sleeve, and Casey steeled herself not to react. “Come on, Casey. What else can we do?”
Casey closed her eyes and tried to relax her shoulders. “You’re already giving me a place to stay, feeding me, clothing me, and getting me police reports. You’ve done a lot.”
“And I can see what else we should do,” Martin said. “Leave her alone.”
“But—”
“Let’s go, Bail,” Sheryl said. “We can see when we’re not wanted.”
