by Judy Clemens
“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 Ca
sey 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?”
He nodded. “Sure, I’ve driven for them. I like driving for them.” His voice was wistful.
But he hadn’t driven for Southwest for a couple years, Tom had said. “How often does Class A call you?”
Parnell gave a little laugh, devoid of humor. “Not as often as I need. Obviously.”
“When was the last time?”
“A week ago. No, two weeks. Long enough.”
“And what did you haul?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Electronics. Televisions, I think. I’m driving again this Friday.”
Casey pushed the photo toward him on the table. “And what is Owen Dixon giving you in this photo?”
He bit his lip and looked away. “Nothing.”
“I see.”
He blinked rapidly. “Nothing that matters to you.”
“Or to the cops?”
“Cops? You said you weren’t—”
“I said I wasn’t from the bank.”
He stood up so quickly his chair banged backward onto the floor. “What do you want?”
She held out her hands. “Whoa. I’m not from the cops, either. Relax. I’m sorry.”
His hands twitched more rapidly now. “I think you should go.”
“How did you get started with Class A Trucking, Mr. Parnell?”
“Please go.”
“Did they call you? Or did you call them?”
He stumbled around his chair and back down the hallway toward the front door. Casey put the photo back in her bag and followed. “Mr. Parnell? Did they call you?”
“They called me, okay? They called me and offered me a job. I took it. All right?” He swung the door open and stepped to the side. “Go now. Please.”
She hesitated, wanting to ask more about Owen Dixon and Randy Westing, and whoever it was that told them what to do—that boss Bruce Willoughby wouldn’t name.
Parnell jerked his hand toward the door. “Go. Please.”
Casey walked past him, stopping in the doorway. “If you want to talk any more, please call me. Okay? You have my number on your phone.”
His eyes widened, and he patted down his pockets. “My phone? On that phone?”
“Remember? I called you?”
He whimpered and ran back into the house, still searching his pockets. She heard a door opening, and Parnell talking to himself as he hunted. “What if they find it? What if they know she called?”
“Tragic case.” Death sat on one of the flowerbed’s raised brick borders, playing a violin. The melancholy tune hovered in the air, a perfect accompaniment for the depressing surroundings. Casey listened, waiting for Parnell’s return, but when he didn’t come back after several minutes she headed for her car, getting in without too much personal trauma.
Death stopped playing. “Did you happen to take a look at the photos in the kitchen?”
“Sure. His kids, and a football team. Is his son old enough for that?”
“Hardly. He’s only six.”
“So who was it?”
Death ran the bow across the strings. “Parnell.”
Casey blinked. “He’s got nothing in the entire house, but puts a photo of his high school football team on his counter?”
Death filled the passenger seat. “It’s really very sad. Some men just can’t mature past high school.” The violin shrank to adjust to the interior of the car, but the tune was just as mournful.
“Let’s go see what that database can tell us about our new friend, Pat Parnell,” Casey said. She turned the key and backed away from Parnell’s wasteland of a home.
Chapter Nineteen
The trip back wasn’t as bad as the trip there, but that was probably because Casey was thinking more about Pat Parnell than she was about driving the trunk.
“I think you do better in that seat than this one,” Death said, bowing a riff on the violin. “You’re going a whole forty-five miles per hour this time. And you’re not even sweating.”
“Prepare to exit freeway in two miles,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said.
Casey couldn’t figure out exactly what had Pat Parnell so freaked out. He was afraid of cops, looked like hell, and about had a conniption when she mentioned her number being on his phone. She had to wonder—which came first? His deterioration or his job with Class A Trucking? He was obviously losing it—not only his health and sanity, but his home. How long could he keep that truck in the driveway? Unless it was paid off.
“How much would a truck like that cost?”
Death laid down the violin. “Don’t know. A lot, I would think.”
“So how can he afford it?”
“Seems to me he’s keeping it for last.”
A truck blew by them in the passing lane, and Casey’s heart rate skyrocketed. “Why do they drive so fast?”
“Time is money, darling. Time is money.” Death plucked the Dire Straits tune Money for Nothing.
“Prepare to exit freeway onto Wickham Street,” Laura said. “After turning right, remain on current road.”
Casey eased the truck onto the off ramp at the same time Terry’s phone rang on the seat.
“Can you see who it is?”
Death squinted at the screen. “Your good friend Bailey. She wants to know ‘whr r u?’ Want to reply?”
“No!” Casey snatched the phone off the seat and stuck it in the pocket on the side of the door. “She’ll just have to wait to find out.”
“Touchy, aren’t you?”
A Wendy’s restaurant sat just off the exit, and Casey went through the drive-thru, eating chili and a baked potato in the parking lot.
“Aren’t you going to offer me any?” Death asked.
“No.”
“Fine.” Death pulled out the rubber band. Casey somehow refrained from retaliating with a wad of sour cream.
Casey followed Laura’s directions to a large gray building with a huge sign out front. DEERFIELD TRUCKING. This outfit looked larger than Tom’s Southwest, and the parking lot held at least fifteen cars.
“People,” Casey said.
“They’re just all over the place, aren’t they?”
Casey mulled over her options for getting inside, and decided to try the hospital again. This time Bruce Willoughby answered his phone. He sounded exhausted.
“Hi, Bruce,” Casey said. “You doped up too much, or do you remember me?”
“He says to meet him tonight. Behind the grocery store at t
he end of town.”
“Who says?”
He hesitated. “Randy.”
And all his homeboys? Probably. “What time?”
“He’ll let you choose.”
Casey laughed at Westing’s attempt to make her feel like she had control of the situation. “Okay. Now.”
Bruce hiccupped. “Now?”
“Sure. I want to talk to him, he wants to talk to me. Let’s get it done.”
“But I can’t…he said…”
She knew he wouldn’t go for it. “You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”
“No. I don’t.”
Right. “I told you I wanted his number.”
“I’m sorry, he told me not to—”
“Okay, okay. Tell him midnight.” Might as well go with dramatic. “But no funny stuff. And I want to see just him. Not the whole crowd of them.”
“Really? Midnight? I mean, good. That’s good. I’ll let him know.” Casey could hear Bruce’s relief. Randy had probably told him to get her to agree to his plan or else. Or else what she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have been good.
“Thanks, Bruce. Hope you feel better soon.” She hung up on his sputtering.
“Well,” she said, “at least there won’t be customers that time of night.”
“Could be a few employees, though,” Death said. “Stocking shelves and cleaning.”
“We’ll just have to avoid them. Just how I have to avoid the people here.”
“You know he won’t come alone,” Death said.
“Of course not.”
“And what would you have done if he’d agreed to meet you right now?”
“I knew he wouldn’t. He needs time to get his men in position. Now be quiet.” She dialed Deerfield’s number, hoping Terry had unlimited calling, and a receptionist answered cheerfully.
“Hi,” Casey said. “My name is Casey Jones, and—”
“One moment. Mrs. Williams is expecting your call.” Her voice cut off, replaced by a Muzak version of a Nickelback song.
“Ms. Jones?” The voice was husky, like she’d had one—or a thousand—too many cigarettes.
“Yes. Mrs. Williams?”
“Nadine, honey.”
“Um, Nadine, Tom Haab told me you have a trucker database I could take a look at.”
