Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  Ramage said, “Two guys… were there two men in here before I came in? Late last night? Around 3AM?”

  “Nobody came in all night. I’ve been asleep behind the counter since midnight.”

  “I’m gonna need to use your phone to call the cops,” Ramage said.

  She sighed. “Not my cell you’re not. You eating? Or, wait, let me guess. The two magic men took all your money?”

  “Not all of it. Give me some coffee and a buttered roll. Help me out and there’s a big tip in it for you. There a cash machine in here? A lost and found?”

  “Nobody’s used the cash machine in a while. They’re supposed to come take it away, but it might work.” Dolores reached under a cash register wrapped in frayed silver Christmas garland and brought forth a carboard box and placed it on the counter. “As to the lost and found, it’s not much.”

  “Thank you. That phone?”

  “In the back. Come with me,” she said as she disappeared through a doorway behind the counter.

  Ramage followed her into a cluttered mess of an office with two desks, each with a computer and covered in mountains of paper.

  Ramage dialed zero and asked the operator to connect him to the Butler County Sheriff’s Department, where a polite woman with a southern drawl picked up on the first ring and promptly transferred him to the watch commander. The WC handed him off to Deputy Sheriff David Grape, a man who sounded like it was an effort for him to pull on his gun belt in the morning.

  “Are you currently in danger, sir?” asked Grape.

  “No,” Ramage said.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Theodore Ramage.”

  “Nature of the complaint?”

  “Theft of my truck, mugging, and threats of continued physical violence in the future,” Ramage said. This conversation was moving too slow, and he was getting impatient. The clock was ticking and somewhere out there Burt and Ernie built a bigger lead.

  The officer whistled. “Well, that doesn’t sound good at all. Where are you, Mr. Ramage? Do you need medical assistance?”

  He did, but he didn’t want to get tied up with hospitals and doctors. “No medical needed. The crime occurred at the rest stop out on I-35. I’m still here, since, you know, no truck,” he said.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sit tight, now.” Deputy Sheriff Grape cut the connection and Ramage placed the phone in its plastic cradle.

  Next stop was the cash machine. It was an ancient analog looking thing twice the size of the modern watercooler-sized models with a scratched plastic screen and old-fashioned push buttons. Ramage slid his card into the reader, pulled it out, and typed his code into the keypad and requested the maximum cash advance allowed by his bank per day, three hundred dollars.

  “Sorry, cannot process transaction for that amount,” flashed across the smudged screen.

  Ramage tried again, but this time only requested a hundred, and the cash kicked into the tray and a receipt curled from below the screen. Another request for a hundred failed, and Ramage was forced to settle for only sixty dollars more. He would have to spend judiciously.

  He rummaged through the lost and found box and discovered a John Deere cap, several umbrellas, multiple swinging-single gloves, and a broken comb. He also found a worn-out blue suit jacket with gold buttons that some salesman had left behind in some bygone era. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. There was also a Kansas City Chiefs t-shirt stained with coffee, and Ramage thought that might be salvageable so he took it and the jacket. On his way to the bathroom he dropped his new sport coat on a stool and placed a twenty on the counter.

  Outside things were picking up. A truck was getting gas and two others sat backed into parking spaces, their drivers walking toward the diner.

  Ramage went into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and cleaned his wounds. He was in bad shape. Purple contusions, some yellowing at the edges, marred his face and most of his body, but the cut above his eyes was scabbing over and his face wasn’t as bad as his chest and back. He needed to do something about the jeans, so he washed them in the sink and wrung them out. The deep blood stains wouldn’t go away, but the jeans looked better wet.

  He rinsed the KC t-shirt, put it on, and slipped back into his jeans, which was no easy task. Wet denim and skin aren’t compatible, but he managed to get his pants and shoes back on. Ramage combed his short blonde hair with his fingers and appraised himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, but he was passable.

  Back in the diner two drivers drank coffee while Dolores cooked eggs on the griddle. The men turned to look at him when he emerged from the bathroom, but they went back to their coffee after giving Ramage a cursory inspection.

  Ramage strode across the diner like he owned the place. Act like you belong and nobody will ask questions. He threaded through the tables like he’d been there a thousand times and went behind the counter and into the kitchen. The men drank their coffee and didn’t look his way.

  Dolores said, “That’s a little better.”

  “I need to use one of those computers in the office,” he said.

  “No way. The boss’ll fire my ass if he finds out. He’s already pissed I won’t sleep with him and I need this job. This area isn’t exactly a bastion of industry, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Fifty bucks and I’ll be fast and won’t leave a trace,” Ramage said.

  “A hundred,” she said.

  Ramage peeled off five twenties and laid them next to the griddle. That left him with only sixty bucks, twenty of which lay on the counter marking his territory and providing collateral for his coffee and buttered roll.

  She nodded. “I’ve got a kid,” she said, telling him it wasn’t just her he’d be screwing over if he got her fired.

  Ramage went into the office and powered up the Dell because it looked older. He was no expert, and most of the computers he used on the road were in libraries whose equipment was several generations behind current standards. So it was that he had no difficulty navigating the operating system dated 2014 and finding his way to the internet.

  He went to the Custom Secure Travel website. He used it anytime he needed to get airline tickets, book a motel room or rent a car. They always had multiple options and once he logged on using his secure password he had access to his travel documents, including scans of his passport and driver’s license. He paid a yearly fee for the Gold service. Redundancy. Backups, and backups to backups were for occasions exactly like his current predicament.

  Ramage searched Butler County for rental car companies and only three carriers were listed as available: Gertz, which was two hundred miles away, a place in Wichita, and Larry’s Bait, Cars, Tackle, and Gifts in Cassoday.

  He rolled back in the desk chair so he could see Dolores next to the grill. “You know Larry over in Cassoday?”

  The woman stared at Ramage and said nothing.

  “The population is a hundred twenty-nine. I’m figuring you know them all, you working at a local eatery and all.”

  Still she said nothing.

  “Twenty more,” he said.

  “He runs a… trading post,” she said.

  “Is he reliable?”

  “Depends on what you need him to do.”

  “Deliver a car.”

  “For the right price he’ll have no problem with that.”

  Dolores hadn’t been kidding when she’d said, “for the right price.” Larry would guarantee the delivery of a 2015 Ford Taurus within two hours. Rental per day was ninety-four dollars a day and the vehicle had to be returned to Cassoday. The price was twice what it should be, and Ramage didn’t know how he’d work out the return, but it didn’t matter. He booked the car for ten days. If getting Big Blue back took longer than that he’d have bigger problems than an unreturned rental car.

  All he needed now was a gun, and Ramage was sure one was hidden in the diner. Not that there was any real money in the register, but for personal protection against bad people coming at bad times
to do bad things. Would Dolores tell him where the gun was if he asked? It might be better if he found it and took it on his own, so she wasn’t involved, but whether she was involved or not, she’d be blamed so he couldn’t steal the gun even if he found it. Logic is a fickle bitch.

  Ramage knew thinking this way gave Chiclet and Piranha an advantage. They’d do anything to win, and he couldn’t even risk a waitress getting fired.

  It was what it was, and karma is as karma does.

  Chapter Three

  It took Deputy Sheriff Grape an hour and forty-five minutes to travel the thirty-nine miles from the police station to the rest stop, and in that time Ramage finished putting himself together. He bought jeans and socks from a trucker heading to California, and though the guy was two sizes larger than Ramage, he made it work along with the faded suit jacket and t-shirt he’d unearthed in the lost and found. He was no spring meadow, but he no longer smelled like garbage.

  Grape wasn’t a big man, nor was he small. He wasn’t handsome or ugly, or overweight or thin. His hair was white-blonde like an infant’s, and his gray eyes receded into dark sockets. He was a man you didn’t notice. Like a squirrel or bird. You acknowledged them as lifeforms, but under no circumstances did you fear them. But Grape had a badge, and in this time and place that meant something.

  The cop lifted his belt buckle when he got out of his vehicle, which was clearly a practiced habit as there was no stomach to lift the buckle over. The patrol car was a duded-up thing with more metal pipes on it than Marty McFly’s time machine. It had top flood lights with strobes and a low rack of fog lights, front and rear tube crash protectors, and three racks of roof lights of various colors and types set at different heights.

  Ramage went out to greet the deputy sheriff, hand extended. “I’m Theo Ramage.”

  Grape didn’t take Ramage’s hand and left him hanging. The officer pulled a notepad and said, “Can we go sit inside?”

  “If you think that will speed things along,” Ramage said.

  “You in a rush? It’s going to take a couple—”

  Ramage couldn’t contain his frustration. “Yeah, I’m in a rush. While I’ve been waiting here for you to take your sweet-ass time driving out here, the guys that took my truck are getting further away.”

  “Sir, you’re not the county’s only problem, as you can imagine, and the staties aren’t going to drop everything they’re doing and jump on this. It will take a couple of hours to get it into the system,” Deputy Sheriff Grape said.

  “Staties? Can’t you go after them? Set up a road block? Put out an all-points bulletin? Do something? They’re getting away with my life!” Ramage took a few steps away from Grape, breathed and mastered himself, then turned back to the deputy sheriff.

  “Sounds like you’ve been watching too much TV, sir. Based on what you’ve told me your truck is already out of Butler County, which makes this a state matter. I am one of two deputies responsible for—”

  “Save it. Let’s go sit so you can take your report and I’ll be on my way.”

  This appeared to be what Grape wanted to hear because he headed for the diner without another word. Once seated, hot coffee before him, Grape pulled a pen and spent several long moments looking at his note pad. “So, walk me through it and pay particular attention to the descriptions of the two males.”

  So Ramage did. He told the tale from the moment he’d pulled off the highway, Dolores standing over his shoulder watching and nodding as Ramage said things she could verify. When he was done, Ramage asked, “You ever hear of guys named Chiclet or Piranha?”

  “Whose interviewing who here?”

  “It’s just a question. Like what’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? Or what football team do you root for? It’s not state secrets and there’s no need to be an—”

  “Can I get you something to eat, Deputy Grape?” Dolores said. She looked at Ramage the way his mother used to, with eyes that cut you down like machine gun fire.

  “No, thank you.” Grape stared at Ramage. “Let me rush back to my cruiser and enter all this into my dash computer and get it up to the staties.”

  If Ramage was going to get his truck back, all his belongings, his trees, he was going to have to do it himself. He’d have to fall back on old skills, dig up the past. He wanted to tell this cop off. Belittle him and say he was a waste of taxpayer money. Then Ramage remembered he didn’t pay taxes and could get in trouble. If he drew attention to himself Rex wouldn’t let him drive anymore. He said, “Thank you, officer.”

  “How will we contact you?” Grape said.

  “You got a card? When I get a replacement phone I’ll call with my new information,” Ramage said.

  Grape handed him a card embossed in gold foil. “Can’t wait.” Grape’s radio buzzed, and he got up and walked out of the diner. No, “Can I give you a ride?” Or, “Do you need help getting a hotel until you get things straightened out?” Not even a “good luck.”

  “Don’t judge Butler by that guy. Most of the fuzz around here are good people. Grape’s just…”

  “An asshole with a badge?” Ramage said.

  “I was going to say broken,” Delores said. She picked up Grape’s untouched coffee and paused, staring out the front window. A black Range Rover Sport and a dirty-white Ford Taurus pulled in to get gas and Grape changed course, veering toward the newcomers.

  A bloated-tic of a man poured himself from the Taurus, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, his gut hanging almost to his knees. He wore reflective sunglasses and his head turned side-to side as he scanned the rest area.

  “Larry?” Ramage said.

  “How’d you guess?” Delores said.

  Grape and Larry talked, and Grape turned and looked back at the diner as Larry gestured.

  “Great. Now this is going to take forever,” Ramage said.

  Grape gazed at the diner as he walked back to his patrol car. Larry opened the rear door of the Ford and pulled out a battered leather briefcase. He slung it over a shoulder and lumbered toward the diner, his gray tent-like sportscoat flapping in the breeze, chest heaving.

  The bell rang as Larry squeezed himself into the restaurant. He looked around, his face twisting like he smelled rotten cheese. He saw Ramage sitting in the front booth and headed straight for him. He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his forehead like he’d run a marathon.

  “That obvious, huh?” Ramage said.

  “Yup.” The man dug out papers and tossed them on Ramage’s table. “You’re rental agreement. Sign at the double Xs, initial at the single Xs, and fill in your credit card number along with its expiration date and security code.”

  Ramage thought the man might go down, so he said, “Would you like to sit?”

  “No, sir.”

  Delores wandered over and said, “Larry, can I get you anything?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  Ramage signed and initialed without reading and filled in his credit card information. He’d already called his bank and filled them in, and he planned to ditch the Taurus when he was done with it. Report it stolen. Larry looked like a guy who had a lot of insurance.

  “Here you go.” Ramage handed over the paperwork.

  The sentient jelly donut examined the signatures, puffing in and out like a steam engine that might blow. Inspection complete, Larry tore off a carbon copy, handed it to Ramage, and stuffed the rest of the paperwork into his bag. He tossed Ramage a key on a rabbit’s foot keychain and said, “She’s on empty, so I left her at the pump for you. Call me if you’re not gonna have her back on time.”

  Ramage didn’t want to push his luck, but he said, “You don’t need to see my ID?”

  “All good. You pay for that travel website, right?”

  Ramage nodded. He didn’t think the man cared whether he ever saw the Taurus again.

  Larry turned and oozed out of the diner and across the tarmac to the waiting Land Rover. He dropped into the front passenger seat and the truck left rubber as it zipp
ed from the parking lot.

  “A man of few words,” Delores said. “Want a refill?”

  “Naw, I need to get going. Find these clowns.”

  She looked disappointed. “Where to?”

  “Good question,” Ramage said. “Chiclet and Piranha had Texas accents, and they were on the southern bound side of the interstate heading toward Texas. I’m going to head south on I-35 and see if I can catch wind of them. Track them down and call in the cops.”

  She nodded and looked at the floor. He was leaving, and she was staying behind. Probably the story of the woman’s life.

  Ramage wanted to ask her why she worked at the rest stop. She could do better. He was shy when it came to social interactions involving women. He said, “If I get my truck back, and don’t get put in jail, can I stop back and buy you a coffee and dinner? A thank you for all your help.”

  She didn’t look him in the eye, but kissed him on the forehead and said, “See you down the road, Ramage.” She picked up a sack of trash and disappeared behind the counter into the backroom.

  He filled the Ford with sixteen gallons of gas and put the stock of food Delores had made in the backseat. The next rest stop was fifty-nine miles, and the one after that one was another sixty-three. Hopefully, Burt and Ernie hadn’t headed north, or got off the interstate and hid, but he didn’t think they would. They’d be anxious, overconfident, and Piranha would want aspirin and bandages and alcohol. Ramage’s money was on them waiting until the second rest area to stop for supplies. They’d put some space between themselves and the scene of the crime, so the first stop available would be unacceptable. Too obvious, but the second.

  Ramage dropped the Ford into gear and the front right tire chirped as the Taurus surged forward down the onramp to I-35 south. He brought the car up to eighty-five miles per hour and set the cruise control. If there was no sign of them at the next two rest stops he’d have some decisions to make. The rest area north of El Dorado was big. He’d been there many times and it had a convenience store where he’d be able to get cash and a cellphone. Then he could call Rex and have him check out Chiclet and Piranha.