by Carolina Mac
She had found a tiny trailer park north of the city on the Guadalupe River. Only twenty units in the whole park, and one was for rent. Her editor, Derrick Rumford, checked it out and thought she’d be safe enough there. He found nothing in his search to indicate otherwise, but still he protested the move.
“Grace, why do you want to live way up there? You know I care about you, and not just as your editor. You and Joey are welcome to stay with me. How many times have I verbalized the offer. You must be sick of hearing it. Or, I can find you a nice townhouse or a condo in the city where you’d be safe and close to everything. You’re going to be twenty miles from the nearest store up there, and every time I need to talk something over with you in person, you’ll have to make a special trip into the city.”
After Lon left the way he did—angry at her, and convinced she’d been cheating on him—she blamed herself for his accident. How could she not? Lon was a safety-conscious driver—meticulous to a fault—he would never have ignored the warning signal and driven into the side of a train.
The words of the detective who investigated the accident were etched into her brain. “Your husband didn’t apply the brakes, Mrs. Chandler. He was either sound asleep when the accident occurred, or…”
Grace stared out the front window of the trailer and asked herself the same questions she asked every morning. Should she go home and live with Jerry and Kate until she was stable and could take care of herself? Or should she tough it out and try to finish the three books her publisher was waiting for?
The writing had been going poorly. Poorly? That was a joke. Poorly meant she’d been putting words on the page, no matter how bad. Nope, not even close to poorly. Her mind was clouded with so much guilt she was unable to come up with an original thought, much less a convincing plot line.
She’d tried reading books by her favorite authors to get her back on track and she couldn’t focus on the words printed on the page.
Nights were the worst. Sleep wouldn’t come, and when it did, nightmares exploded into her head like a bloody stampede. Images of the train wreck and Lon’s broken body were too horrible to live with.
Joey missed his father and talked about him all the time. That made matters worse for Grace. She had to answer his questions and try to reassure him that things would be okay for the two of them—even if she didn’t believe it.
Never had she felt so alone. Next time she made the trip into town, she’d buy a new charger for her phone and call Jerry. He might be worried by now.
He would be worried. Don’t kid yourself. He’s protective.
She felt pressure against her right leg and reached down to stroke Ted’s large head. Lonnie’s Red Bone hound was missing him terribly and Grace couldn’t explain to Ted why Lon was gone. She dropped down onto her knees and sobbed as she hugged Ted.
Since she arrived in the trailer park two weeks before, she hadn’t ventured outside. She knew she needed to leave the trailer, make some friends and try to find another young mother with a child Joey could play with. But instead of it getting easier—every day she found it harder to open the door and go through it and face the world.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, I’ll drive into Dry Springs, stock up on groceries and get my phone fixed.
ROB LEFT THE rest area, thankful he had avoided an all-out brawl. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to get on the wrong side of any of the local clubs. He was busy enough watching his back, feeling sure now that Frobisher had his whackos tailing him.
Heading down I-281 his baby coughed once. She blew out a puff of black smoke, then she caught, jerked ahead and seemed to be fine for the next fifty miles. When he pulled into the passing lane and squeezed the gas, she didn’t seem to have the power she usually had. A lot of miles had gone under her tires since they crossed the border. Maybe she was tired, or needed an oil change. He dropped back and cruised into the slow lane.
Signs on the right said a town was coming up. He couldn’t read the name of it, but he read the number—over sixteen thousand people. Decent population. Should be a bike shop. He’d get gas and have someone check her out. Might get a sandwich too. Nothing on the interstate but those franchise things and he couldn’t bring himself to eat their food. He’d eaten terrible food for the past few years in order to survive, but he wouldn’t put crap like that in his body on purpose—if he could help it.
He veered onto the off-ramp and slowed, not knowing which way to turn when he hit the local highway. He hung left and aimed for a Shell station he could see in the distance.
At the pumps, he filled up, then sauntered into the convenience store and checked out the packaged sandwiches. Roast beef on whole wheat looked like the best bet, but he couldn’t tell when it was made—no date stamp. When Grace made his lunch for the welding shop, he had no worries—he knew everything she made would be exactly the way he liked it. He reached into the cooler, took two bottles of water and stood in line at the cash.
He was next to pay when he felt a hand on his butt. He turned his head and was eye to eye with a chesty blond in a Harley shirt. “I hope you touched me by accident,” he said in a low voice.
She smiled. “Oh, a tough guy. What a turn-on.”
Ignoring the girl hovering so close behind him he could feel her hot breath on his neck, Rob stepped up to the counter when it was his turn, and paid for his lunch. “Any good bike shops in town?” he asked the cashier.
The old bald guy, with glasses perched on the end of his nose, nodded. “Harley dealership on First Street.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction. “Keep going down the highway and take the first right. You’ll come across it.”
“Thanks a lot.” Rob picked up his change and left the store. He parked his bike under a tree and unwrapped his sandwich. It was almost fresh and tasted good, but anything would. He was starved. He drank half a bottle of water and was about to start the second half of his sandwich when blondie strutted towards him.
Whoa, her jeans are so fuckin tight. They might split wide open.
“Thought I lost you for a minute,” she giggled. “Didn’t see you parked over here.”
“I’m not looking for company.”
“Why not?”
“Things to do. Places to go.”
“Good looking rider like you should have somebody like me in the bitch seat. Don’t you think?”
Rob shook his head. “Nope. Don’t think so.” He twisted the top off his water and tipped the bottle up. After he drained the bottle, he flipped it into the container under the oak tree and started his bike.
The girl stepped closer, pointed at the passenger seat and made a pouty face. Rob shook his head, squeezed the gas and took off down the road.
He followed the sketchy directions the store clerk had given him, but they proved to be good enough. When he turned onto First Street, he could see the Harley logo atop a pole in the distance. By the time he pulled around to the back of the building and found the garage, his bike was sputtering and choking out black smoke. “Fuck,” he mumbled as he parked her.
He left his baby, thinking she might need serious help, strode around the building and found the office. The guy behind the counter was about mid-fifties, Rob guessed. Long gray hair and a beard. He peered down at a Harley catalog through steel-rimmed glasses and seemed to be having trouble reading the print. He never looked up. “Saw some nasty looking shit coming out of your pipes, buddy.”
Rob nodded. “Anybody got time to take a look at her?”
“I’ll check.” He pointed to the three vinyl chairs lined up against the wall. “Take a load off and watch TV.”
Rob looked up at the wall-mounted flat screen and tried to decipher the CNN highlights running across the bottom. His eyes were growing heavy by the time the guy returned.
“Be an hour before he finishes the one he’s working on. Got anybody to pick you up?”
“Nope. I’ll have to wait.”
“We usually have two mechanics
on, but one called in sick. Sorry about the wait time. You not local?”
“Canadian.”
“Long way from home.” The guy perched on his stool behind the counter and went back to work. He lifted his head a few minutes later and said, “For what it’s worth, a lone rider like you in these parts—be healthier if you was packing.”
Rob nodded. “Thought about that after I ran into a few boys at one of the rest areas. I felt less prepared than some.”
“Dandy shop in town. Tommy Steele’s place. Range out the back too, if you need to sharpen up any.”
“I definitely would need to do that,” said Rob. “Haven’t fired a shot in quite some time.”
“Been on vacay?”
“You know it.”
“Coffee’s fresh.” He pointed to a table in the corner. “Help yourself, if you want.”
Rob walked over, filled a cardboard cup and added powered cream—something he hated, but there was no other choice. He was sauntering back to his chair when the guy fired another question at him. “What were you in for, or is it none of my business?”
“It’s not,” said Rob, “but it ain’t a secret. “They said I killed my brother.”
The old biker raised a gray brow and peered over his glasses. “And… did you, kid?”
Rob nodded as he sank into his chair. “Pretty much.”
The news highlights had crossed the screen numerous times, and Rob was working on his third coffee when the
mechanic, dressed in black coveralls with the orange Harley logo on the pocket, came into the office. “Bring her in for me, will you, buddy?”
“Yep.” Rob set his cup down and went to get the Sportster from the parking lot. In the three-bay garage, he sat on an unopened case of oil and watched the mechanic rip his precious ride apart looking for the problem, then Rob went outside the building, sat on the stone planter that surrounded the only live oak on the property and he smoked. He thought of phoning Jerry, but he didn’t have a damn thing to tell him. Nothing on Grace. Not yet.
Jesus, it was hot in Texas. He wiped his forearm across his wet forehead and his hair matted together. Shit. He must look like a fuckin joke. He was heading for the can to wash himself down in cold water when the mechanic stuck his head out the door and beckoned to him.
“See you a minute?”
Rob walked into the air-conditioned garage and blew out a breath of relief. “What’s up?”
“Need a part and I haven’t got it in stock. It’s got to come from Dallas and I can’t get it until tomorrow morning.”
“Shit,” said Rob. “Okay. Nothing I can do but wait. Is there a motel I can walk to from here?”
“Closing time in a few. I’ll punch out and drop you. Nothing close by, but there’s a couple near the interstate—not out of my way.”
“Thanks, man.” Rob shook his hand. “I’m Rob.”
“Jason, they call me Jay.” He pointed through the window. “That’s my black pickup over there. I’ll lock up. Won’t be a minute.”
THE SUPER EIGHT was close to the interstate, and next to a strip mall containing the usual—hair salon, copy place, diner,
convenience store and a laundromat. At the opposite end—not attached to the stores was a sports bar called ‘Frank’s. Closer to the highway was a huge truck stop complex loaded with the comings and goings of the big rigs.
Rob eyed the bar as Jay flicked on his blinker. “Buy you a beer. Owe you for the ride.”
Jay grinned. “Okay, one. Don’t want to piss anybody off at home.”
“I hear ya’.” I always headed straight home from work. Couldn’t wait to hold Grace in my arms. Jesus, I miss her so fuckin bad.
“You okay?” Jay was out of the truck, standing with the driver’s door open, the key fob in his hand.
“Shit, sorry. I wandered off for a minute.”
“By the look on your face, I’d say you got things on your mind—maybe a woman.”
“Yep, my wife is always on my mind.”
They walked together across the parking lot and Jay pulled the door open. “You look young to be married.”
Rob grinned. “Twenty-seven, but I am so… fuckin married. Five years at Christmas.”
A booth near the back was vacant and they sat down. Rob asked the server, “Any Coors on draft?”
She nodded. “Special on the large for four bucks.”
“Yep,” said Rob and looked at Jay. He nodded that he’d have the same. Rob pointed at the menu. “Want food?”
“No. You go ahead and order if you want. I’ll have one beer and get my ass home for dinner.”
Rob decided to eat later. After the one round, he left with Jay, gave him a wave and hoofed it to the Super Eight. He’d forgotten his clothes and toiletries in the saddlebag of his bike. His change of clothes was dirty, but if he had them he could have gone to the laundromat. Lights were still on when he walked past and a couple people were folding clothes. Do it tomorrow.
He checked into the hotel, slept for a couple of hours and woke up hungry. Until he hit the convenience store, all he could do in the bathroom was use the facilities and wash his face. He ran his hand over the stubble and shrugged.
FRANK’S WAS PACKED at nine-thirty. Booths and tables all full. The only option was a stool at the bar. Rob squeezed between a chunky biker wearing his colors and a construction dude wearing a fluorescent marker.
“What can I get you?” The bartender was on the move trying to keep up with the orders.
“Coors draft,” said Rob, “and a burger and fries.”
“Yep.” The barman grabbed a glass, put it under the tap and expertly filled it without making a head. “Food will be a while. Kitchen’s busy.”
Rob nodded and took a long pull on his beer. The bar was noisy, and Rob wasn’t a talker. He couldn’t think of a time he’d ever started a conversation—except with Grace—something inside him made him talk to Grace the first time he saw her—outside at her barbeque. He smiled thinking of it.
The guys on either side of him were staring up at the flat screens over the bar. The construction guy watched baseball and hollered now and then when things weren’t going his way. The biker was silent—his eyes glued on monster trucks.
After Rob’s second beer, his food arrived. The bar tender placed it in front of him along with cutlery rolled in a napkin. He added ketchup to the fries and wolfed the food down, not realizing how hungry he was. He paid his tab, tipped the bartender and left the bar.
The temperature had dropped slightly after sundown, but it was still a hot night. No breeze. As he walked along in front of the strip mall towards his hotel, he wondered if Grace liked it down here in Texas where it was so fuckin hot, or had she just sucked it up because of work and gotten used to it? One of many questions he needed answers to. All in good time—first he had to find her.
Wham. He was flat on his back on the asphalt looking up at the biker who’d been sitting next to him at the bar.
“Gimme your wallet, asshole,” the big guy growled.
Rob rolled to his right, jumped to his feet and like a stroke of lightning, swept the guy’s leg. The second the biker hit the pavement, Rob pounced on him and pounded him twice in the face. The biker was bigger, but Rob was quicker. Every day was a fight to survive in prison and you had to be ready.
Behind him, he could hear chains rattling—boots on the pavement—guys running to help their buddy. They’d be armed, and he wasn’t—at least not yet. He left the asshole bleeding on the asphalt and beat it to the hotel.
Time to call it a night.
CHAPTER FIVE
May 8th.
THE DINER IN the strip mall was half full at seven in the morning. Rob took a booth near the back, so he could watch the door, and ordered the breakfast special that was written with blue chalk on a blackboard above the cash—he couldn’t make out the words, but the five-buck price was clear enough.
When the waitress asked him what he wanted, he pointed and the amount of foo
d she laid on the table surprised him. Two eggs, over easy, sausages, home fries, two biscuits and bottomless coffee. All for five bucks. That much food might last him all day. He was used to getting by on a lot less. Better for your health to avoid the food in the slammer, if possible—eat enough to survive and no more. Rob’s rule.
His back had been stiff and sore when he got out of bed, and a long, hot shower didn’t do much to ease the pain. Nothing to blame it on but his sudden contact with the parking lot, the night before. Assholes. He was lucky the guy’s buddies didn’t catch him. Four to one—bad odds—even in Vegas.
Today, he’d even the odds with a visit to a gun shop. This was Texas. Open carry. Concealed carry. Everybody had a fuckin pistol in their waistband, or a rifle in their pickup truck. Knowing how plentiful guns were in Texas put him more on edge than he already was.
Jesus. Where the hell is Grace? Does she have a gun? She doesn’t know how to shoot.
After eating more breakfast than he had since that last Sunday morning with Grace, he strode back to the hotel and used the taxi phone he’d noticed on the wall of the lobby. He stood outside and smoked until his ride pulled up. He jumped in the front seat with the cabbie and said, “Steele’s Gun Shop.”
“Got an address?”
“Nope. Don’t you know where it is?”
“Heard of it,” said the fat driver, “Never been there.”
Rob pointed to the GPS.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have to look it up.”
Lazy asshole.
“How big is this town, anyway?” asked Rob. “Don’t seem big enough not to know where everything is—if you’re a cab driver.”
“You trying to piss me off?” The guy turned fat, flushed, cheeks towards him. “Cause you’re doing it.”
Rob grinned. Couldn’t help himself.
The gun shop was five minutes away. Took the asshole longer to call it up on the nav system than it did to drive there. By the time the guy made three attempts to call it up, Rob wanted to stick a shiv through the fat outer layer of his gut and bury it deep in his ribs—if there were ribs under all that blubber. Must be. Everybody has ribs.
