Truck Stop Page 4

  My eyes were stinging like crazy, and I wanted to put my hands to my face, rub the pain away.

  Don’t. Move. Don’t. Breathe.

  My chest began to spasm, my diaphragm convulsing and begging for air. In moments it wouldn’t be under my control anymore. I would breathe in those toxic fumes whether I wanted to or not.

  Hold it in don’t breathedon’t breathe DON’T BREATHE—

  “Too much and you’ll kill her.” The fat guy talking.

  The hand over my face eased up, the noxious rag being pulled away. I wanted to gasp, to suck in air like a marathon runner, but I managed to take a slow, silent breath through my nose.

  The fumes still clinging to my face smelled like gasoline, and by sheer will I didn’t sneeze or cough. I kept my breathing slow, like I was sleeping, even though my heart pounded so loud and fast I could hear it.

  “She’s out. Grab an arm.”

  I felt myself lifted into an upright position, my arms over their shoulders. Then I was dragged, my feet scraping against the asphalt, which tore at my bare toes like sandpaper. I bit my inner cheek. If I made a peep, they’d use the rag again.

  “Her feet! Watch her feet! I don’t want them messed up!”

  “Shh! Lift higher.”

  Then I was completely off the ground. I tried to peek, to see where we were, but everything was blurry and opening my eyes made the pain worse. I could feel the weight of my purse still hanging at my side, and I had a dull throb in my shoulder where I’d hit the pavement, but it didn’t seem dislocated or broken.

  “It’s this one.”

  My body was shifted, and I heard the jingle of keys and a vehicle door opening.

  “I’ll get in first, pull her up.”

  “Check around for witnesses.”

  “We’re alone out here, brother.”

  Another shift, and then strong hands under my armpits, pulling me up, hands on my ankle, my right shoe coming off, and then…

  Something warm and wet on my big toe.

  Jesus… he’s got my toein his mouth.

  His tongue circled it, once, twice, and then I felt the suction. Heard the slurping. Heard him moan.

  This freak is sucking my toe.

  Wet and sloppy, like a popsicle. I wanted to flinch. I wanted to scream.

  Stay still, Jack. Don’t kick him. Don’t move.

  His teeth locked on, scraping along the top and bottom, not enough to break the skin but enough to hurt, the pressure increasing…

  I felt a surge of revulsion unlike any I’ve ever experienced, and my muscles involuntarily locked and my stomach churned, threatening to upload the burger and curds. I was half-hanging out of a truck, and I couldn’t see, but I was going to take my chances and kick this bastard in the face, hopefully burying my shoe heel into his eye socket. It was two on one, and they had my gun, but I wasn’t going to let him chew my toe off without a fight.

  “Taylor, let’s hold off until we get her inside.”

  My toe was abruptly released, and then I was violently shoved upward onto the fat guy’s lap. I assumed he was sitting in the driver’s seat of a semi. I felt his hot breath on my ear, and then the clammy touch of his lips. One hand pawed at my chest, tugging at my bra through my shirt. The other slid up my leg.

  “Such a pretty lady,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “I’m going to love feeding you your face.”

  When his lips touched my cheek it was like a taser shock, and my bile began to rise again.

  “Take her in the back,” Taylor said. “We’ll bring her up to the sleeper.”

  The fat man gave my knee a final squeeze, then grunted as he hefted me up in his arms and shifted his bulk. Once again I was lifted, tugged, and pushed. I chanced a peek, everything dark and blurry, wanting so badly to rub my eyes, and all I could make out was a ladder of some sort.

  “There’s a handle on the trap door. Turn it.”

  “Where?”

  “Right above your head.”

  I was shoved through an opening in the ceiling of the cab, then dropped unceremoniously onto a mat. It was hot. I smelled bleach, cheap perfume, and the copper-pennies stench of fresh blood. Also, underneath everything, was an odor that scared me to my core, an odor I recognized from hundreds of cases from more than twenty years or cases. A cross between meat gone bad and excrement that all the bleach on the planet couldn’t ever fully erase.

  The stink of dead bodies.

  People havedied in this room.

  “Warm up here.”

  “When we get started, I’ll put the air conditioning on. I’ve also got recessed stereo speakers, for mood music, and an AC outlet up by the fire alarm, if you want to plug in any power tools.”

  “I like power tools.”

  “Give yours a tap, see if she’s awake yet.”

  I heard a slapping sound, skin on skin, and then a feminine whine.

  “She’s still groggy.”

  “She’ll be up soon. I know she’s not much to look at, but that really doesn’t matter once you get started, does it?”

  “Actually, Taylor, as grateful as I am to you for inviting me into your home, I’ve been reading about Jack Daniels for years. She’s every killer’s wet dream.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What are you saying?” Taylor said.

  “I’m saying I want the cop.”

  “We already agreed, she’s mine.”

  “You can have her feet. I want her face.”

  “Maybe I want the whole thing.”

  Donaldson laughed. “You know, you remind me of my younger brother. I miss that kid, so much that I sometimes regret killing him. But I remember something my father used to say when we were fighting over a toy. He said, If you can’t share, then neither of you can haveit.”

  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of my .38 being cocked.

  -7-

  Standing on the ladder, with his upper half through the trap door, Taylor stared at the gun in the kneeling fat man’s hand. It was pointed at the cop’s head, but Donaldson’s eyes were focuses on him.

  Goddammit, why did I let him grab the gun?

  Taylor felt himself go dead inside, like his body turned to ice. He chose his words carefully, keeping his voice even. ”You know what, Donaldson? Maybe you’re right. Sharing seems like a fair thing to do, and it might even be fun. Besides, it would be a shame to deprive such a famous lady of either of our company. But I have to say that seeing you holding a gun makes me a bit nervous. We don’t want to make enemies of each other, do we?”

  Donaldson smiled, shrugged, and then uncocked the gun and shoved it into his front pocket. “I appreciate your generosity, Taylor. Really, I do. And normally I wouldn’t be so ungracious to a fellow traveler. But this woman just doessomething to me. I haven’t been this excited in years.”

  “I can see that.” Taylor was eye-level with Donaldson’s crotch. “Or maybe that’s the gun.”

  “So let’s have a meeting of the minds.”

  “Fine.”

  Taylor relaxed a notch now that the weapon was out of play, but he had no doubt Donaldson would use it again. His original fantasy of tag-team action had been replaced by the unpleasant image of Donaldson tying him up and feeding him his own face. When there are too many foxes in the henhouse, the foxes kill each other. A shame, because Taylor was starting to like the older man.

  “Since you agree to sharing,” Donaldson said, ”would you be adverse to both of us going at her at the same time? You take the bottom half, I take the top?”

  Taylor reached a hand behind his back and touched the folding knife clipped to his belt—Donaldson had given it back to him in the parking lot. Killing him right now would probably be the best bet, but the guy was big, and the knife blade was short. Unless he died quick, Donaldson would fight back and be able to grab his gun.

  No, the knife wasn’t the way to go.

  But Taylor did have a sawed-off shotgun under his passenger seat. All he needed to do was jump down, l
ock the trap door, and grab it.

  “Sharing would be okay.” Taylor tried to look thoughtful. “But I want to look her in the eyes when I’m doing my thing. Be tough to do if her eyes were gone.”

  “They wouldn’t be gone. They’d be in her mouth.”

  Taylor shook his head. ”That wouldn’t be good for me.”

  “I could leave her eyes alone. Maybe just take off her eyelids so she’d be forced to look. It could work. We could do a trial run on the whore, here.”

  Donaldson kicked Candi in her side. She moaned.

  Taylor figured there were three steps beneath him. He would need to grab the door and tug it closed before Donaldson pulled his gun. He didn’t know if the cop’s bullet would go through the half inch steel the sleeper was made out of, but his shotgun slugs certainly would. Lots of damage, though, and it would make a lot of noise.

  “I’m not exactly keen on a two on one. If you promise to leave her eyes alone, and that she’ll stay conscious and not die on you, I could let you go first.”

  Donaldson’s face remained blank for a moment, then he raised his eyebrow.

  “I appreciate your offer. I sincerely do. But I can’t help but think that while I’m doing my thing, you might make some sort of effort to do me harm. Or perhaps lock me in here.”

  Taylor began to wish he never parked at this truck stop.

  “We seem to be at an impasse.”

  “No,” Donaldson shook his head. “I believe we can work this out. I have no desire to harm you, Taylor. And I am grateful for this opportunity. I shouldn’t have flashed the gun. That was a mistake. I’ve been playing this game solo for so long, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I know you have a knife on you, and probably some other weapons in the truck, and I fear I just began a war of escalation.”

  “I don’t want to kill you either.” It was the truth. Not that he had any real affection for Donaldson, but trying to muscle the dead fat man out of his sleeper and drag him to a river didn’t seem like a fun time.

  “We don’t know each other well yet. But we’re kindred spirits. Maybe we could even become friends.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How long will the cop be out for?” Donaldson asked.

  “A few minutes, probably more. Pinch her, see if she flinches. When they’re really under, they don’t flinch.”

  Donaldson leaned over Jack Daniels and squeezed her breast. She didn’t move.

  “She’s out. You have some rope?”

  “More bungee cords in the trunk.”

  Neither man moved to get them. Eventually, Donaldson raised an eyebrow. “Are you a gambling man, Taylor?”

  “I’ve been known to play the odds.”

  “Let’s flip a coin. Winner gets first crack at the cop.”

  Taylor considered it. ”I’d be up for that, if it were a fair toss.”

  “We could go in the diner, have our waitress do the flipping. I’ll even let you call it. Would be good to get out in the fresh air, clear our heads.”

  “Let’s say I agree. You still have me at a disadvantage.”

  Donaldson nodded. “The gun. Firing it wouldn’t be smart for either of us. Cops might already be on their way, after what Lieutenant Daniels did to that pimp.”

  “I’ve got a solution.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “An empty gun isn’t a threat. Hand me the bullets. But do it slowly, or else I might get nervous and lock you up here for a few days with no air conditioning or water.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Donaldson gently reached back into his pants and removed the gun. He held it upside-down by the trigger guard, and swung out the cylinder. Then he dumped the rounds onto his palm and handed them to Taylor.

  Taylor grinned.

  Maybe this tag-team thing willwork out after all.

  “Are we good?” Donaldson asked.

  “We’re good. Let’s hogtie this pig.”

  Taylor climbed into the sleeper, and after an uneasy moment of sizing each other up, the two of them began to bind the cop. Donaldson quickly got the hang of it, and they soon had Jack suitably trussed.

  “You sure she’s safe here?” Donaldson asked, admiring their handiwork.

  “Never had an escape. Bungee cords are tighter than rope. The enclosure is steel, the lock on the door is solid. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Taylor grabbed the cop’s purse, wound it over his shoulder, and crawled down out of the sleeper after Donaldson. He made sure the trap door was locked, took what he wanted from the purse, and together they walked back to the diner.

  -8-

  The moment they were gone I rolled onto my belly and inch-wormed up to my knees. My hands were behind my back, the bungee cords so tight my fingers were tingling. I strained against the elastic, trying to twist my wrists apart, but couldn’t free myself.

  More cords wound around my chest and upper arms, and encircled my knees and ankles. I flopped onto my side, wincing at the pain. My shoulder still hurt, and there was a throb in my left breast where Donaldson had pinched me. If he’d done it for a few seconds longer, I would have screamed.

  Pretending to be unconscious seemed like a better choice than really being unconscious, but when they tied me up I realized that maybe fighting back and yelling for help when I had the chance might have been the better move.

  Panic threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to hyperventilate. Fear and I were old adversaries. There was no way to squelch it, but if I kept my focus I could work through the fear. The goal was to not think about any potential outcome to this situation other than escape.

  Still unable to open my eyes because of the stinging, I rolled to my left, hoping to bump into anything that would help me free myself. I hit something soft. I brushed my cheek against it. Foam of some kind. I rolled right instead, eventually coming up against something more suitable. Something hard, stuck into the floor. After maneuvering around onto my knees, I rubbed my hands against the object.

  It felt like a board, only two feet tall, and thin. Midway down the side was some sort of protrusion. Though my hands were quickly getting numb, I could tell by the sound when I jiggled it that it was a padlock.

  I got my wrists under the lock, trying to wedge it in between my arms and the bungee cords. Then I took a deep breath and violently tugged my arms forward.

  The elastic caught, stretched.

  I pulled harder, feeling like my arms were pulling out of their sockets.

  Then, abruptly, my hands were free, and I pitched forward onto my face, bumping my forehead against the padded floor.

  I spent a few seconds wiggling my fingers, wincing as the blood came back, and made quick work of the other cords around my arms. Then I spit in my hands and rubbed them against my eyes. The stinging eased up enough for me to have a blurry look around the enclosure. There was moderate lighting, from an overhead fixture. I saw beige mats. A black slanted ceiling covered with sound baffles. A trunk. And a bound woman, her feet in some sort of wooden stock, my wrist bungee cord wound around a padlock on the side.

  I unwound my legs, tugged off my remaining shoe, and crawled over to her, unhooking her bindings. ”Can you hear me?”

  The woman moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.

  “You need to wake up.” I gave her a shake. ”We’re in trouble.”

  “My… foot… hurts…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My… foot…”

  I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.

  “Listen to me. I’m a cop. We’re in a truck sleeper and some men are trying to kill us. What’s your name?”

  “Candi. I… I can’t move my feet. It hurts.”

  I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could erase the image from my mind.

  “What’s wrong with my foot?”

  “You’re missing your little toe.�
�

  “My… toe?”

  I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six screws held it in place.

  I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared back my right heel.

  “Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”

  I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.

  The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I’d break my heel.

  “Don’t you have a gun?”

  I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was anything inside I could use.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown stains on it—dried blood—and I got an uneasy feeling looking at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.

  It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked like prunes.

  Then I realized what they were, and came very close to throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.

  That sick bastard…

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.

  “What’s in that box you were holding?”

  Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.

  “Candi, do you smoke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”

  “In my purse. He took it.”

  Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen pounds.

  “What was in the box!”

  I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.

  “Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”

  I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest into the top of the stock. There was a loud crack, but both objects stayed intact.