Truck Stop (7 page)

“We need to move our vehicles. Right now.”

Taylor nodded. “There’s an oasis thirty miles north on 39. I’ll meet you there in half an hour. You’ve got the whore’s phone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me the cop’s,” Taylor said. “We’ll exchange numbers if we need to get in touch.”

After programming their phones, Donaldson offered his hand. Taylor shook it.

“See you soon, fellow traveler.”

Then they parted.

Taylor hustled into his cab, started the engine, and pulled out of Murray’s parking lot. He smiled. While he still didn’t fully trust Donaldson, Taylor was really starting to enjoy their partnership. Maybe they could somehow extend it into something fulltime. Teamwork made this all so much more exciting.

Taylor was heading for the cloverleaf when he saw the light begin to flash on the dashboard.

It was the fire alarm. The smoke detector in the overhead sleeper was going off.

What the hell?

Taylor pulled onto the shoulder, set the brake, and tugged his sawed-off shotgun out from under the passenger seat. Then he headed for the trap door to see what was going on with those bitches.

T
he moment the cab jiggled, I began to gather up bungee cords and hook them to the handle on the trap door, pulling them taut and attaching them to the foot stock. When that door opened, I wanted it to stay open.

Then the truck went into gear, knocking me onto my ass. Moving wasn’t going to help our situation. At least at Murray’s we were surrounded by people. If Taylor took us someplace secluded, our chances would get even worse.

I looked around the sleeper again, and my eyes locked on the overhead light. Next to it, on the ceiling, was a smoke alarm. I doubted it would be heard through all the soundproofing, but there was a good chance it signaled the driver somehow.

“Candi! Press the test button on the alarm up there!”

She steadied herself, then reached up to press it. The high-pitched beeping was loud enough to hurt my ears. But would Taylor even be aware of it?

Apparently so, because a few seconds later, the truck stopped.

I reached for the Tupperware container and a broken slat from the chest, and crawled over to the side of the trap door. Then I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. The trap door opened up and the bungee cords worked as predicted, tearing it out of Taylor’s grasp. The barrel of a shotgun jutted up through the doorway. I kicked that aside and threw a big handful of salt in Taylor’s eyes. He screamed, and I followed up with the wooden slat, smacking him in the nose, forcing him to lose his footing on the stepladder.

As he fell, I dove, snaking face-first down the opening on top of him, landing on his chest and pinning the shotgun between us.

He pushed up against me, strong as hell, but I had gravity on my side and I was fighting for my life. My knee honed in on his balls like it lived there, and the first kick worked so well I did it three more times.

He moaned, trying to keep his legs together and twist away. I grabbed the shotgun stock and jerked. He suddenly let go of the weapon, and I tumbled backwards off of him, the gun in my hands, and my back slammed into the step ladder. The wind burst out of me, and my diaphragm spasmed. I tried to suck in a breath and couldn’t.

Taylor got to his knees, snarling, and lunged. I raised the gun, my fingers seeking the trigger, but he easily knocked it away. Then he was straddling me, and I still couldn’t breathe—a task that became even more difficult when his hands found my throat.

“You’re gonna set a world fucking record on how long it takes to die.”

Then Candi dropped onto his back.

Taylor immediately released his grip, trying to reach around and get her off. But Candi clung on like a monkey, one hand around his neck, the other pressing a wet paper towel to his face.

He fell on all fours and bucked rodeo bull-style. Candi held tight. I blinked away the stars and managed to suck in some air, my hands seeking out the dropped shotgun. It was too dangerous to shoot him with Candi so close, so I held it by the short barrel, took aim, and cracked him in the temple with the wooden stock.

Taylor crumpled.

I gasped for oxygen, my heart threatening to break through my ribs because it was beating so hard. Candi kept the rag on Taylor’s face, and part of me wanted to let her keep it there, let her kill him. But my better judgment took over.

“Candi.” I lightly touched her shoulder. “It’s over.”

“It’ll be over when I bite one of his goddamn toes off.”

I shook my head. ”Give me the rag, Candi. He’s going away for the rest of his life. Depending on the jurisdictions, he might even get the death penalty.”

She looked at me. Then she handed over the rag and burst into tears.

That’s when Donaldson stepped into the cab. He took a quick look around, then pointed my gun at me.

“Well what do we have here? How about you drop that shotgun, Lieutenant.”

I looked at him, and then got a ridiculously big grin on my face.

“You gave him the bullets, asshole.”

Donaldson’s eyes got comically wide, and I brought up the shotgun and fired just as he was diving backward out the door. The dashboard exploded, and the sound was a force that punched me in my ears. Candi slapped her hands to the sides of her head. I ignored the ringing and pumped another slug into the chamber, already moving after him.

Something stopped me.

Taylor. Grabbing my leg.

Candi pounced on him, tangled her fingers in his hair, and bounced his head against the floor until he released his grip.

I stumbled out of the cab, stepping onto the pavement. My .38 was on the road, discarded. I looked left, then right, then under the truck.

Donaldson was gone.

A few seconds later, I saw a police car tearing up the highway, lights flashing, coming our way.

“T
hank you, honey.”

I took the offered wine glass and Latham climbed into bed next to me. The fireplace was roaring, the chardonnay was cold, and when Latham slipped his hand around my waist I sighed. For a moment, at least, everything was right with the world. Candi had been reunited with her children. Taylor was eagerly confessing to a string of murders going back fifteen years, and ten states were fighting to have first crack at prosecuting him. No charges were filed against me for my attack on the pimp, because Fran the waitress had sworn he shoved me first. My various aches and pains were all healing nicely, and I even got all of my things back, including my missing shoe. It was five days into my vacation, and I was feeling positively glorious.

The only loose end was Donaldson. But he’d get his, eventually. It was only a matter of time until someone picked him up.

“You know, technically, you never thanked me for saving your life,” Latham said.

“Is that what you did?” I asked, giving him a playful poke in the chest. “I thought I was the one who did all the saving.”

“After that man called me, I called the police, told them you were at Murray’s and someone had you.”

“The police arrived after I’d already taken control of the situation.”

“Still, I deserve some sort of reward for my cool-headedness and grace under pressure, don’t you think?”

“What have you got in mind?”

He whispered something filthy in my ear.

“You pervert,” I said, smiling then kissing him.

Then I took another sip of wine and followed his suggestion.

D
onaldson kept one hand on the wheel. The other caressed the cell phone.

The cell phone with Jack Daniels’s number on it.

It had been over a week since that fateful meeting. He’d headed southwest, knowing there was a nationwide manhunt going on, knowing they really didn’t have anything on him. A description and a name, nothing more.

He’d been aching to call the Lieutenant. But it wasn’t the right time yet. First he had to let things cool down.

Maybe in another week or so, he’d give her a ring. Just to chit-chat, no threats at all.

The threats would come later, when he went to visit her.

In the meantime, he’d been so busy running from the authorities, covering his tracks, Donaldson hadn’t had any time to indulge in his particular appetites. He kept an eye open for likely prospects, but they were few and far between.

The hardest thing about killing a hitchhiker was finding one to pick up.

Donaldson could remember just ten years ago, when interstates boasted a hitcher every ten miles, and a discriminating killer could pick and choose who looked the easiest, the most fun, the juiciest. These days, cops kept the expressways clear of easy marks, and Donaldson was forced to cruise off-ramps, underpasses, and rest areas, prowl back roads, take one hour coffee breaks at oases. Recreational murder was becoming more trouble than it was worth.

He’d finally found one standing in a Cracker Barrel parking lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the cement ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack strapped to his back. He was approaching every patron leaving the restaurant, practicing his grin between rejections.

A ripe plum, ready to pluck.

Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and got out of the car…

For a continuation of Donaldson’s adventures, read
SERIAL UNCUT
by Jack Kilborn & Blake Crouch.

For a continuation of Jack’s adventures, read
FUZZY NAVEL
by J.A. Konrath.

For a continuation of Taylor’s adventures, read
AFRAID
by Jack Kilborn.

Jack Kilborn is as secretive as he is enigmatic, and was tough to get a
hold
of. This interview was conducted by J.A. Konrath via email.

JA:
Thanks for taking time to answer some questions, Jack.

Jack:
I remember you. You write those chick novels, right?

JA:
I write about a female cop who chases serial killers. Some folks think they’re pretty scary. Both men and women enjoy the series, but it’s a bit harder-edged than the average suspense novel. Jack Daniels was the lead in the story we just wrote together, TRUCK STOP. Weren’t you paying attention?

Jack:
She sort of sounds familiar. Aren’t you the guy that visited 600 bookstores in one summer? Signed thousands of books?

JA:
That’s me.

Jack:
I haven’t seen your name on any bestseller lists.

JA:
So, how would you describe your first novel, AFRAID?

Jack:
I tried to write a thriller that included every kind of fear possible. Fear of the dark, or being chased, of drowning, of authority, of burning, of losing a loved one, of pain, of disfigurement… and, of course, fear of being horribly murdered.

JA:
What’s the plot?

Jack:
A helicopter crashes near the small town of Safe Haven, Wisconsin. It’s so tiny it has a population of 904. But not for long.

JA:
So the helicopter lets something loose in town?

Jack:
Something horrible. The town can’t defend itself either—no police force. Soon it’s quarantined, and everyone is fighting for their lives.

JA:
I was lucky enough to read an advanced reader copy of AFRAID. It scared the hell out of me.

Jack:
Thanks. I predict that at least 25% of people who start the book won’t be able to finish it because it’s too frightening. It gave me nightmares when I was writing it.

JA:
There certainly are some memorable scares.

Jack:
I didn’t use any chapters in the book. My goal was to go from one high point to another without any breaks. I hope it worked.

JA:
It worked for me. You call it “technohorror.” What is that?

Jack:
The technothriller genre is about fusing modern day science and technology with big thrills. Michael Crichton perfected the form, which has been used to great success by Dan Brown, James Rollins, Steve Berry, and many others. Technohorror views technology in a more sinister way.

JA:
Do you think the scenario in AFRAID could happen?

Jack:
I wouldn’t be surprised if it already has.

JA:
You’ve sort of come out of nowhere. Care to share your writing background?

Jack:
It’s probably similar to yours. Bitten by the writing bug at a young age, getting a lot of rejections, finally landing a two-book deal with a big publishing house.

JA:
I like the Afraid Game on your website.

Jack:
Thanks. It’s a fun little Flash thing I did. People seem to enjoy it.

JA:
There’s also an excerpt from AFRAID on
www.jackkilborn.com
.