by Jeff Siebold
“They’ll call me when they need me, Ma says. At least I’m on their radar.”
They drove on for a little while.
“Did the police say whether they have any suspects?” she asked.
Albert shook his head. “Not that I heard about. But that was a couple hours ago. I’ll check when I get home. Ma always has the news on.”
A while longer, Albert said, “This is my exit. I’ll need to drop you here. Is the truck stop OK?”
“Sure,” said Susan. “That’s perfect.”
“You’ve only got another 75 miles to go to Des Moines,” he added.
“I appreciate the ride,” she said.
* * *
The truck stop was average in condition, but with overflowing trashcans near the pump islands and a fast food restaurant attached to the building. There were a few cars refueling under the main canopy, and five eighteen-wheelers parked around the side of the building, a couple with their engines running.
Susan ate something that tasted like it may have had soft chicken parts in it, drank a diet coke, and used the restroom. Then she wandered into the retail area of the building.
A tall man with a bushy beard and bright green eyes was standing in line, getting ready to check out. She got in line behind him and asked, “By any chance, are you heading west?”
He turned and looked at her for a minute. “You’re not a hooker, are you?” he asked. “‘Cuz I don’t want any of that kind of trouble.”
Susan smiled what she hoped was a disarming smile.
“No,” she said, “I saw you from the restaurant window. You came in on the westbound off-ramp, so I figured you’re headed west.”
The man nodded, as if satisfied. “I guess I could use some company. How far are you going?”
“Des Moines,” she said. “Just an hour or so. I could really use the help.”
He was wearing a flannel shirt, dirty jeans and a baseball cap that read, ‘Kubota’ above the bill. His face was pock-marked in places, but his eyes were almost cat-like. He said, “Sure,” and turned back toward the counter.
* * *
“I’m a preacher,” the man said, once they were seated in the cab of his old Kenworth. “People call me ‘Father Fred.’”
“I’m Susan,” she said simply, looking at him directly. “Where’s home?”
“Oh, I’m a long way from home,” he said. “I work out of Memphis, but I’m heading to Denver on this run. Had to pick up this trailer in Naperville, didn’t want to dead head. You know, ride with an empty load.”
Susan nodded and said, “I’m a student at Joliet. Heading home for a week.”
Father Fred eased the truck out from under a canopy and maneuvered it across the parking area. At the highway, he turned right on the on-ramp for Interstate 80 west. In minutes, they were on their way toward Des Moines.
“The reason I asked about hookers,” started Fred, “is that they drive up and down the freeway and try to get drivers to stop at the truck stop for sex.” He said it matter-of-factly.
Susan nodded.
“They pull up next to you in your truck and honk their horn and wave out the window. Some of them call out nasty things to you.”
Susan nodded again.
“Sometimes there’s two or three of them in a car, and they want you to follow them off the freeway. And usually it’s to a truck stop, sometimes a rest area.”
Susan said, “Well, that’s not me.”
Fred asked, “What are you studying?”
“Nursing,” said Susan. “Only one more year to go.”
“What’s in the bag?” asked Father Fred, looking at the backpack on the floor between Susan’s shapely legs. It was light gray and orange, and an empty plastic water bottle was attached by a black carabiner. His piercing green eyes stared at her just a beat too long.
Susan said, “Just some clothes and books. And my laptop. Gotta study.” Then she thought, That was an odd question.
Fred nodded and said, “You can throw it in the back, if it’d be more comfortable.”
Susan looked over her shoulder and saw the sleeper section of the truck cab. It held an unmade bed behind an open curtain and a small pile of clothes, probably dirty from the way they’d been heaped in the corner. There was room on the floor for her bag.
“It’s OK, thanks,” she said, calmly. “I’m only going a little ways.”
“Suit yourself,” said Father Fred. “Do you go to church?”
“Um, well, I did when I lived at home,” she lied. “But not so much, now. But my school is a Franciscan school.”
Father Fred nodded, watching the road. “You should go to church,” he said.
“That’s what my Mom says,” Susan said. Then she added, “I know I should.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Father Fred said, “I’ll drop you up here.”
They had taken Interstate 235 around the city, a slightly longer route but one that Susan mentioned would take her closer to home. Father Fred eased the truck off the Interstate and a short distance north to the Walmart entrance.
“I’ll drop you here. Then I can turn around in the parking lot and get back on.”
“Thank you,” Susan replied.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not one of those truck stop hookers,” said Father Fred as he stopped the truck. “But you need to go to church. We all do.”
* * *
She spent the night at a nearby Days Inn, paying $59 cash for the room and, more importantly, the shower. Hitchhiking was a tiring business, with the uncertainty of the rides and their erratic timing. But it was a virtually untraceable method of travel, random and without any paper trail. She slept soundly and was up early, back to the on-ramp heading for Interstate 35 south, her knife in place and her backpack slung over one shoulder.
This early in the morning, the traffic included long-haul drivers mixed with commuters. The commuters wouldn’t do her much good, but once she cleared Des Moines, she should be able to hop a ride that was a straight shot to Kansas City.
About fifteen minutes later, a State Police car pulled over on the ramp and asked her where she was going.
She said, “Breakfast,” and he gave her a ride to a Cracker Barrel, about four miles away. But it was generally in the right direction and it got her to Interstate 35 south. He dropped her off, and she thanked him and went inside and ordered two eggs over easy with toast and sausage and a cup of coffee.
“Here you go, honey,” said the matronly waitress, refilling Susan’s coffee cup.
“Thanks,” said Susan. Then she thought, The last leg of my journey.
* * *
The vehicle that finally gave her a ride that morning wasn’t at all what she’d expected. After thirty minutes standing outside of the Cracker Barrel on the on-ramp south, Susan decided to use another tactic. She walked back to the restaurant’s parking lot and stood close to a long, brown and tan RV. She’d been watching from the ramp for a while and had seen it exit from the southbound ramp. She figured the occupants would be done with breakfast soon and ready to roll.
Seven minutes later, a man and a woman walked out of the restaurant and toward the RV. They were retirement age, she thought, and overweight. The woman walked carefully, as if she might stumble and fall at any moment.
“Hi!” said Susan politely. “Are you by any chance heading south?” She aimed the question at the man, and complimented it with a worried expression.
Susan saw the woman hesitate, becoming visibly defensive, outside of her comfort zone.
She said, quickly, frantically, “I’m trying to get to Kansas City. My Mom was in an accident and she’s in the hospital and I’ve got to get to her.” Then she added, “My car broke down, so I’ve had to ask for rides. Some really nice people have been helping me.”
“What happened with your Mom?” asked the woman, more compassionate, now.
“She was in a car accident,” said Susan. “They took her to St. Luke’s Hospital. They
said she’s hurt pretty badly.”
The man looked at his wife. “We should help her,” he said. “We’re going that way.” That Susan was young and attractive wasn’t lost on him.
“Sorry to hear about your mom’s accident,” said the woman. “Yes, we’ll take you. We’re planning to be in Kansas City this afternoon, just after lunchtime. Our second son and his family live there.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” said Susan. “I’m so grateful. I didn’t know what I was going to do. No one’s stopped for me…”
“That’s alright, dear. We’ll get you there,” said the man, unlocking and stepping up into the RV. He came back out with a step and set it down on the ground and helped his wife into the bus. Then he helped Susan up and pointed to a built-in couch. “That’s probably the most comfortable spot to sit,” he said. “My name is Eric Stratton, and this is my wife, Sophie. We’re retired.”
“I’m Susan,” said the girl. “Susan Del Gato. Thank you again, so much. I’m frantic about my mother…”
Sophie said, “Poor dear. I can’t imagine.”
Eric closed the side door and slid behind the wheel of the RV. He started the engine and fiddled with the controls for a moment, then he looked back and said, “Hang on, Susan, this bus is moving.”
* * *
The ride was fairly boring, passing farm towns with names like Bevington and Osceola and Decatur City before crossing into Missouri and breezing by Eagleville and Cameron and Kearney, until they finally reached the Missouri side of Kansas City. The trip took three hours, and the Stattons dropped Susan at the main entrance to St. Luke’s Hospital. They offered her some money, which she refused, and asked if she wanted them to stay with her while she checked on her mom, which she also declined, but gracefully.
Susan turned and waived goodbye toward the RV, ducked into the hospital entrance, and followed the red stripe on the walls through a maze of corridors and to the Emergency Room, where she exited the building using the ER’s oversized sliding glass doors. She walked four short blocks south to a coffee house named Kadin’s Coffee. There, Susan ordered a latte and took it to an outside table for privacy.
Once situated, she took out her cell phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Hello?” asked a man’s voice.
“I’m here, in K-town,” Susan said. “No way to have tracked me here.”
“Good,” said the man.
“Is your guy here yet?”
“He’ll be there tomorrow. He’ll pick you up as planned.”
“Good. It’ll give me time to look around,” she said.
* * *
Susan sat on the porch of the house across Metropolitan Avenue from the prison, and watched carefully. She had been sitting on the porch of the old, empty wooden home for about an hour, now. The afternoon sun cast shadows across the small space and made her nearly invisible when she was still.
The house looked like a mill-town house, built for workers in a neighborhood close to their employment. In this case, though, it was one of several houses along Metropolitan Avenue that faced the prison, seven hundred feet away, across a lush grassy open space.
She doubted that anyone from the prison could see her, if anyone was watching. The old structure rose up out of the prairie like a castle. It’s solid stone walls extended forty feet up and forty feet underground.
This would be a formidable place to try an escape, thought Susan. But she wasn’t there for an escape. This time, it would be something more dramatic.
* * *
At three-thirty on that cloudy afternoon, a gate opened on the east side of the compound and a small man walked out. He looked around, then back at the gate, as if waiting for permission or approval. The gate closed behind him indifferently.
The only vehicle nearby was a yellow cab parked thirty feet away from the gate in a marked parking area. The door to the cab was open and the engine was off, waiting patiently. The man walked over to the cab.
“Are you here for me?” he asked.
The cab driver, a large, rawboned man in his forties, looked up from his newspaper and asked, “Are you Diaz?”
“Yes, Eduardo Diaz,” said the man.
“Then I’m here for you,” the man said.
Diaz nodded and pulled the cab’s back door open. He got into the seat, setting his brown grocery bag next to him. Then he quietly shut the door.
The cab started up and the man said, “Where to?”
“Where do most of the prisoners go when they’re released?” asked Diaz.
“There’s a restaurant in town, right next to a Traveller’s motor court. That’s a popular spot,” said the man.
“OK, yes, let’s go there,” said Diaz.
* * *
Susan was certain that she was well off of anyone’s radar, after her cross-country trip. No rental car, no trail, everything paid for with cash. Despite her quick lies and plentiful stories, she had actually started this journey in Chicago, three days ago, on April 17, 2005.
Eduardo Diaz was a Federal prisoner and had been held in Leavenworth for his part in an international drug smuggling operation between Mexico and the United States. When the FBI broke up the operation, Eduardo bargained with them for a reduced sentence in return for his testimony against his partners. In the end, he had spent just three years in prison.
His partners were not so lucky. The other leaders were incarcerated for between ten and twenty-five years for their part in the drug smuggling and distribution operation, and were being held in maximum security prisons in other states. Eduardo was quietly processed into Leavenworth and served his time with no fanfare.
Word came to Susan a month ago. “Eduardo Diaz is being released soon. We need you to take action against him for us.”
“I can do that,” she’d said. “You’ve called the right person.”
When her mother died, Susan Del Gato had decided to become a killer. For years, her father had been an enforcer, a hit man for the Chicago mob, which also meant that he had quite a bit of free time to spend with his daughter. His wife had died of cancer, wasting away for two years before she eventually died, and the loss damaged every member of the Del Gato family, but none as badly as Susan. After her mother died, Susan was overwhelmed with the feeling that she had to pay someone back for it, to get even.
After that, Susan spent her time with her father, learning everything she could about his trade. She approached the profession as a business, studying and practicing. She would work out complex case studies with her father as her coach, and plan the tiniest details of each kill. He involved her in his “projects” and they spent hours together planning his kills.
Her father was an enthusiastic coach, teaching Susan and fueling her efforts with his own energy, energy that he had once hoped would go to help his son follow in his footsteps. But he’d had no son. And he doubted that he’d marry again.
Susan riled against the unfairness of her mother’s death. Those who knew her said that she had a chip on her shoulder, something to prove. At first, they were wary of her.
But Susan’s reputation grew over time with the help of her father’s contacts. By the time he retired from the profession, due to his advancing age and failing eyesight, she was proficient enough to step in and take over the key role.
And now she’d been sent to deal with Eduardo Diaz.
* * *
“I’d like to go to the motor court, please,” Susan said to the cab driver. “At Fourth and Poplar.”
The Traveller’s motel was one of the few located in the Town of Leavenworth, and it wasn’t difficult for Susan to determine that room 11 housed her target.
To the desk clerk, she had said, “I’m supposed to meet Eduardo Diaz here.”
The clerk looked on his computer screen as a matter of habit and said, “Sure. Do you want me to let him know you’re here?”
“Thanks,” said Susan. The desk clerk dialed two digits, a number which Susan memorized. Room 11.
Ther
e was no answer.
“No one’s picking up,” he said.
“OK, thanks,” she said, “I’ll come back later.” Then, “I’ll bet you’re busy on visiting day.”
“Oh, gosh, yes,” said the young clerk. “Crazy busy.”
* * *
In fact, Eduardo Diaz was at that moment across the street from the motel, eating a hamburger with onions and mushrooms heaped on top, and drinking a Coke. The restaurant, a local establishment named for a President, was moderately busy with dinner customers this afternoon.
The server came by to top off his Coke.
“Are you the prisoner they released today?” she asked, seemingly without any judgment for or against him. She was about fifty and overweight. Her fingers were stained yellow from nicotine.
“I am,” said Eduardo Diaz. Then he added, “I’ve served my time.”
“Oh, no doubt, honey. I’ve heard about what goes on in that prison. My nephew was a guard for a while.” She shook her head. “Anything else for you?”
“No, I guess not,” said Diaz. “Here, let me pay you.” He reached into his pocket.
“You can pay at the counter,” said the waitress, with a wave toward the cash register. Losing interest, she wandered away.
He finished up his meal, paid with cash, put a tip under his glass to hold it down and left the restaurant, walking back toward the motel.
As he crossed the street he felt a sudden chill in the air. Eduardo wasn’t yet used to being a free man, and he found himself looking around to see who was watching him. There was no one in sight.
The room key stuck in his motel door and he had to jiggle the handle to room 11 to make it work. It finally opened and he stepped inside.
Chapter 7
The red-eye American Airlines flight from Washington to Logan International Airport took about an hour and a half, and shortly thereafter, Zeke had his rental car aimed at Cambridge. The radio in the Toyota was rocking Aerosmith’s “Dream On” as he crossed the Charles River and pulled up in front of the hotel.
