65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  Kelley backed me away, reached down for his friend. “Duff, please, let us take care of this.”

  Duffy nodded, seeming to calm down. Kelley helped him up. He looked down at his shoes, wiped his hands on his pants, and then the son of a bitch shoved me aside and ran for the hallway.

  He was fast. Real fast.

  But I’m fast, too.

  I stretched out, hooking my foot around his ankle, tripping him forward. Duffy caught himself against the wall, whipping around to face me. Herb blocked his side of the hallway. My partner was reaching for his gun, but I gave him a stern head shake.

  “I know you’re upset, Mr. Dombrowski. But this is a police matter. You have to let us handle it.”

  He pretended to go left, then went right, not telegraphing the move at all. I threw a roundhouse after him, aiming for his ear, but he anticipated the punch and bunched up his shoulder. It was like hitting a side of beef, but it staggered him enough to bounce him into the opposite wall.

  Duffy shook his head and looked at me.

  “I don’t fight women. I’m just trying to find my dog.”

  I unconsciously widened my stance, kicking off my heels and planting my feet on the carpet, my left slightly ahead of my right.

  “I sympathize. But there’s more at stake here than just your dog. And if you try to run away again, I’ll take you down.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, something that looked vaguely like amusement. And though he said he didn’t fight women, I noticed he’d adopted a stance similar to mine, feet wide, hands in front of him.

  Then he threw a very fast uppercut.

  I flinched back, but his punch was just a feint, and he again tried to take off. I whipped my foot around, snapping my leg back in a spin kick, catching him on the side of his head.

  He staggered but didn’t go down.

  “Duff…” I heard Kelley say.

  I didn’t pay attention to the local cop, following up my kick with a one-two combination to the body. Duffy braced his stomach muscles, dancing away from my blows, and then threw a combination of his own, each one stopping short of its mark.

  He had pulled the punches. Dombrowski didn’t want to hurt me, but he was showing me he could.

  But I’d beaten faster, stronger guys before, and the fact that he wasn’t willing to hit me made my job a lot easier. I faked a lunge kick, got in close, and clipped him under the chin with an elbow. Then I reared back my knee, ready to punt his balls up into his neck.

  Duffy grabbed my leg, blocking the blow, and held it while he looked into my eyes.

  “Not on the first date,” he said.

  I smiled, batted my eyelashes, and gave him all I had, right in his kidney.

  Duffy doubled over.

  I reared back, ready to break his nose, when Herb cried out.

  “Jack!”

  Before Kelley or I could react, a flash of darkness bolted up the hallway.

  A man. A sprinting man, covered in blood. Coming right at us.

  I heard a thwak, and then Herb went down.

  My partner had a knife in his chest.

  Duffy

  The tough broad from Chicago got off me to tend to the fat guy. He had a throwing knife sticking out of his chest.

  I paused, wondering if I could do anything to help, but realized she’d take care of him, and I needed to find Al, so I ran down the hallway after the dark figure.

  He staggered and wobbled a bit, and by the time he reached the doorway for the stairwell I was within ten feet of him. He made it through the stairway door before me and tried to slam it shut. I blocked it with my foot and got in behind him. He sprinted up four or five steps but fell hard, rolled over and then slid down toward me.

  I slammed my knee into his chest, and then punched him square in the nose. The familiar crack let me know I broke it.

  He didn’t move. Dead or passed out, I didn’t care. His shirt was covered with blood. Al’s blood?

  “Duff!”

  Kelley, coming up behind me. I didn’t have time for him right now.

  Above where the guy collapsed the blood trail continued. I took off after it. At the second floor I found another bloody hand print on the wall. I got to the hallway, turned and headed to my left.

  Then the trail died. No more blood. No more hand prints.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Al! Boy, where are you? Al!”

  I listened for an answer. None came.

  If that son of a bitch had hurt my dog, and I’d killed him on the stairs, I’d go back, revive him, and kill him again. Images of Al flashed, unbidden, through my head, and I felt my knees begin to give out, like someone had just socked me in the temple.

  “Al,” I whispered.

  That’s when I heard it. A muffled bark.

  I felt my heart rate kick up again, hope spurring me toward the sound.

  But the bark tapered off, followed by a terrifying, gagging wheeze.

  The same sound Al made when he almost choked to death eating the foam rubber off my sofa.

  “Al!”

  I ran to the cubby with the soda and ice machines. There was Al, drenched in blood, lying next to a curled-up little girl.

  Jack

  As Kelley cuffed the guy on the stairs, I ran to the second floor and saw Dombrowski turn in by the ice machine. My gun was drawn, just in case. From ahead came a choking noise. I reached the corner and spun fast, clutching my .38 in a two-handed Weaver stance.

  There were all three of them. Dombrowski, the dog, and the missing little girl. All were spattered with blood.

  The dog, a portly basset hound, was coughing and retching. Dombrowski sat next to the mutt, its head on his lap. I knelt down and felt the girl’s neck.

  “She’s just asleep,” Duffy mumbled. He stroked the dog’s nose. “C’mon, Al. C’mon and be okay. Be okay.”

  Dombrowski had tears running down his face. The fat pooch opened its mouth as wide as an alligator’s and dry-heaved with an awful, disgusting sound. He seemed to be in a really bad way.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Duffy. “Can we move him? Get him to a vet?”

  I heard wheezing from behind me. Herb had finally caught up.

  “Aw, jeez,” he said, staring at the bloody dog. To Duffy he said, “Ambulance on the way. What the hell did you do to that guy on the stairs, man? Did you see his hand?”

  The boxer’s face went grim. “Whatever it was, he deserved that and more.”

  “What the hell did you do? Bite him?”

  Duffy looked up at us, confused. “What?”

  Then Al made the most revolting sound yet, sort of a cross between a wet-vac sucking up water and the world’s loudest belch. Something long and covered in mucus shot from the dog’s mouth, plopping onto the floor.

  “Oh, there it is,” Herb said. “One of the scumbag’s fingers. The guy on the stairs was missing a few.”

  “How many?” I asked, both fascinated and repulsed.

  “Three.”

  Herb nudged the digit with his toe, and then the dog gagged again and threw up the other two on Herb’s shoe.

  “And there they are. I think he’s giving you the finger, Duffy.”

  “You okay, boy?” Duffy said, cradling the dog’s head in his hands.

  Al licked him, wagging his tail.

  “All that blood in his fur must be from the perp,” Herb laughed. “Your dog’s a hero.”

  I now had the sleeping little girl in my arms. She wasn’t bleeding either. The hound had gone to town on the bad guy, and all of the blood seemed to be from him.

  Al bayed, howling like the wolfman, and the girl opened her eyes.

  “Nice doggy,” she said, yawning.

  Dombrowski had lifted the dog and kissed him on the back of the head. Kelley came down the hall.

  “The guy’s alive but he’s lost a lot of blood. He…” He didn’t finish, staring at Herb. “Hold it, didn’t you take a knife to the chest?” Kelley’s face blanched like he was standing i
n front of a big fat ghost.

  Herb reached in to his jacket and pulled out a paperback. Afraid by Jack Kilborn was written across the cover in bright red.

  “Best book I ever bought.” Herb said. The book had a two inch rip in the cover that went three quarters through the thickness. “If it wasn’t filled with so many pages of unrelenting horror, the knife would have gone through and killed me.” Herb grinned. “God bless authors who write long descriptions of gratuitous violence.”

  “We should all go out right now and buy copies,” I said.

  “I’m buying two,” said Kelley.

  Al barked in agreement.

  Duffy

  Turns out, the little kid was the daughter of Wilkerson, the fight promoter. They reunited tearfully in the parking lot. Al, messy with blood, remained as healthy as an eighty-five pound hound could be. The scumbag and his three buddies from AJ’s got arrested. Things got even worse for them when Kelley found a shoe box full of heroin in the hotel room. They wouldn’t taste free air again for quite some time.

  I cleaned Al up with a thick Holiday Inn towel. He began to bark incessantly, his polite way of telling me he was hungry. I guess finger food wasn’t enough for him.

  The cops took reports and interviews and I changed into a pair of sweats and a hoodie I had in the trunk.

  The chick cop in the fancy suit came over to the Cadillac. She reached down and scratched Al under the chin, then looked up at me.

  “No hard feelings.” She extended her hand.

  “No hard feelings.”

  Her hand may have lingered just a bit. Or maybe mine did. She was much cuter when she wasn’t trying to kick my ass.

  “Akido?” I asked.

  “A little. Training’s in taekwondo, but I’ve tried to pick up as much as I can.” She smiled, which softened her features even more.

  “Not bad. You ever box?”

  “Nah. Too rough for me.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  She looked down at Al. “Your dog protected that kid, didn’t he?”

  “Probably.” I thought about it for a second. “Might’ve been something else too.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “What?”

  “He doesn’t like bullies, and there’s something inside him that goes bad when he sees someone getting mistreated.”

  She nodded and stood up. “He’s not the only one.”

  We stared at each other, maybe for a little longer than we needed to, and then she turned to leave.

  “You know…” I said. She paused. “Every once and a while I’m on a fight card in the Windy City. If you’d be interested, I can get you some tickets.”

  “I’d like that.” She reached into her purse pulled out a business card, and handed it to me, offering one last smile before walking back over to the fat guy.

  I looked down at the card.

  Lt. Jack Daniels.

  And for all these years, I’d been drinking Jim Beam.

  Maybe I’d have to give Jack Daniels a try.

  But first I had to go out and buy that book everyone was talking about. Afraid by Jack Kilborn.

  Al loved a good book, too. He’d already eaten most of mine.

  I tucked the card into my pocket, herded Al into the Caddy, and headed straight to my nearest all-night bookstore. If your town doesn’t have an all-night bookstore, you can also order Afraid at many fine online retailers.*

  *Konrath put that ending in. In the ending I wrote, Duffy takes Jack back to his place and rocks her world—Schreck**

  **I like my ending better. And I’m Jack Kilborn, if you haven’t figured it out—Konrath

  TRUCK STOP takes place before the events portrayed in AFRAID by Jack Kilborn, SERIAL UNCUT by Jack Kilborn & Blake Crouch, and FUZZY NAVEL by JA Konrath. Reading the authors’ previous work isn’t necessary to enjoy TRUCK STOP, though both authors encourage you to buy everything they’ve written. They also encourage you to buy them beer.

  “He who is unjust, let him be unjust still; he who is filthy, let him be filthy still; he who is righteous, let him be righteous still…” —REVELATION 22

  -1-

  Taylor liked toes.

  He wasn’t a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn’t derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted.

  Painted toes were yummy.

  The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet — they looked like a size five — and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.

  He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.

  The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Hiya, stranger. My name’s Candi. With an I.”

  “I’m Taylor. With a T.”

  He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.

  Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an I was nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy make-up, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many truckers she’d already blown on this midnight shift.

  But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower lip.

  “Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”

  “Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill armadillo.”

  She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn’t been good, making this run much less profitable than it should have been.

  But Taylor didn’t become a trucker to get rich. He did it for other reasons.

  “You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little company?”

  Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.

  It was just a question of which need he’d cater to first.

  He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the pumps, and Murray’s Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.

  On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other restaurants and gas stations, but Murray’s was always busy because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides the no-hassle companionship the management and local authorities tolerated, Murray’s had a full-size truck wash, a mechanic on duty, and free showers.

  After twelve hours of caffeine sweating in this muggy Midwestern August, Taylor needed some quality time with a bar of soap just as badly as he needed quality time with a parking lot hooker.

  But it didn’t make sense to shower first, when he was only going to get messy again.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “That depends on —”

  “Half and half,” he cut her off, not needing to hear the daily menu specials.

  “Twenty-five bucks.”

  She didn’t look worth twenty-five bucks, but he wasn’t planning on paying her anyway, so he agreed.

  “Great, sugar. I just need to make a quick stop at the little girls’ room and I’ll be right back.”

  She spun on her wedges to leave, but Taylor caught her thin wrist. He knew she wasn’t going to the washroom. She was going to her pimp to give him the four Ps: Price, preferences, plate number, parking location. Taylor didn’t see any single men hanging around; only other whores, and none of them were paying attention. Her pimp was probably in the restaurant, unaware of this particular transaction, and Taylor wanted to keep it that way.

  “I’m sor
ta anxious to get right to it, Candi.” He smiled wide. Women loved his smile. He’d been told, many times, that he was good-looking enough to model. “If you leave me now, I might just find some other pretty girl to spend my money on.”

  Candi smiled back. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. But I’m short on protection right now, honey.”

  “I’ve got rubbers in the cab.” Taylor switched to his brooding, hurt-puppy dog look. “I need it bad, right now, Candi. So bad I’ll throw in another ten spot. That’s thirty-five bucks for something we both know will only take a few minutes.”

  Taylor watched Candi work it out in her head. This john was hot to trot, offering more than the going rate, and he’d probably be really quick. Plus, he was cute. She could probably do him fast, and pocket the whole fee without having to share it with her pimp.

  “You got yourself a date, sugar.”

  Taylor took another quick look around the lot, made sure no one was watching, and hustled Candi into his cab, climbing up behind her and locking the door.

  The truck’s windows were lightly tinted — making it difficult for anyone on the street to see inside. Not that Candi bothered to notice, or care. As soon as Taylor faced her she was pawing at his fly.

  “The bedroom is upstairs.” Taylor pointed to the stepladder in the rear of the extended cab, leading to his overhead sleeping compartment.

  “Is there enough room up there? Some of those spaces are tight.”

  “Plenty. I customized it myself. It’s to die for.”

  Taylor smiled, knowing he was being coy, knowing it didn’t matter at this point. His heart rate was up, his palms itchy, and he had that excited/sick feeling that junkies got right before they jabbed the needle in. If Candi suddenly had a change of heart, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She was past the point of no return.

  But Candi didn’t resist. She went up first, pushing the trap door on the cab’s ceiling, climbing into the darkness above. Taylor hit the light switch on his dashboard and followed her.

  “What is this? Padding?”

  She was on her hands and knees, running her palm across the floor of the sleeper, testing its springiness with her fingers.