Chapter Three
City Lady Country Killer
The trucker’s name was Dennis, and he drove a bulldog. The Mack ripped past the charred corpse of the German auto. I watched it fade to nothing in the side mirror. The semi punched through the rain. I kept an eye out for a tail, but didn’t see anyone.
Rita moaned on the driver’s cot. I wrapped her arm tight with the driver’s soiled sheets, tying a tourniquet around her armpit. Dennis had a first aid kit for treating burns and small cuts. He also had painkillers and a needle. I set the steel into a vein and pressed the relief into her system.
I spread her drooping eyelids with one hand while the other held the phone to her face. It unlocked.
It bothered me.
I had seen plenty of people die, by battle and by torture. But Rita was a woman who paid for my help.
Those blue city eyes twisted my brain.
“What the hell’ve you got yourself into, brother?” Dennis asked as I came out from the back of the cab. I wiped my hands on the seat cover.
“Hell, if I know.”
I sat shot gun and went to her messages. The only texts were to her husband “Davie” and Lalli Nowhich.
To Lalli, she sent a heart after Lalli sent my address.
The messages to Davie were more interesting.
The texts from her were fighting words, cusses, and great walls confessing infidelity. He responded to her with things like “i cant deal w this right now” and “hon I have to work” and “we’ll talk when I get home”. The more she begged and prodded the fewer words he used.
Then four days ago: “Steelson case is moving slowly. I’ll be home late. The judge doesn’t want to move the money outside of the county. Can you stop by Gorman and Sauk’s? They’ve got a packet for me.”
“Gorman and Sauk’s,” I whispered.
Dennis laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“They’re on the radio every fifteen minutes.”
“What do they sell?”
“Wills,” Dennis said. “Getcha will on, getcha getcha will on with Gorman and Sauk’s. That’s the tune. Sticks to your brain. How’s she holding up?”
“Rough,” I said. “Nothing else I can do for her. The shots missed her heart by an inch.”
“That’s a blessing, then,” Dennis said, looking up at the iron cross dangling from his sun visor.
I kept scrolling through Davie’s messages. I was looking for a reason that he would want her killed. There had to be a connection between a will, the stolen bin of photos and wanting the woman dead. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Why would someone set another person up to be blackmailed, and then try to kill them? Maybe there were two people at play. Maybe one thought she was better off dead than exposed. There were too many unknowns. I looked at older messages. There was nothing. I went to her social media apps when the cell connection flushed full. The highway ramp rose in the distance, lit by million-watt LED bulbs.
She was happy in the pictures, on the beach, at dinner, at a concert. She looked good when she wasn’t in bulky dark clothing. In the deep-sea eyes, I could see pain. In every money-laden smile there was a lack of hope dignity. It left a sour taste in my mouth.
I wondered what this woman might have gotten up to. Who took the pictures in the plastic bin. If she was in the pictures alone. In many of the posts she made, she was nearly naked.
I cursed myself for not asking more.
Dennis cut over into the middle lane. The wind blew the road water into small waves. We passed cars with their blinkers on, crawling on the right.
“Where am I dropping you off?” Dennis asked.
I looked back. The sheet was maroon.
“Mind two stops?”
“You just tell me where to go.”
“Hospital. I’ll pay you for the sheets.”
“And the holes in the door.”
“I didn’t ask you to drive in front of those guns.”
“But your glad as shit I didn’t, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ll cover the holes.”
“Yes.”
The headache started when the houses began to outnumber the fields. Every room in every house was dark, but inside zombies shuffled around, phones flickering like firelight.
“What’s the second stop?”
“Descartes Building. Downtown.”
“You got a cross street for me, pal?”
“I’ll find it.” I squinted as I opened up a map.