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  He goes inside, showers, and changes clothes. He eyes a pay phone. He thinks about what the foreman said: both the manager at Armadillo Shipping and Detective Purvis want him to call. He ignored the messages, knowing he has no phone, but now, staring at the pay phone in the corner of the truck stop, he wonders if he should call.

  But the pay phone—just the sight of it—conjures up thoughts of Garth Brooks’s song, how the trucker stopped every hundred miles to feed quarters into a pay phone and call his lover.

  Cal turns away, unable to stand the thought.

  When he starts to climb up into his truck, he spots a billboard down the road.

  GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! the sign exclaims.

  He planned to press on, try to drive through the night. But he knows that’s stupid. He can hardly stay awake. He shouldn’t be on the road right now, but the thought of sitting in his cab, alone with his thoughts, sounds just as dangerous. He tells himself he could go to the strip club, have a few beers, and then stagger back to his rig and sleep through the night.

  He parks his truck in the back lot and grabs a jacket. The sun is beginning to descend, and the early fall Ohio weather is already chilly.

  He starts to head toward the club but then, as an afterthought, returns to his truck.

  He grabs the seven-inch KA-BAR knife out of its cubbyhole and hides it inside his jacket.

  Chapter 71

  AN EERIE SKULL-LIKE moon hovers over the lights of Nashville. The city makes me think of Willow.

  It’s after midnight, and I’ve been driving all day, stopping only for coffee, fast food, and bathroom breaks. The miles are wearing on me, and I need someone to talk to. I call the Pale Horse and ask Darren to please tell Willow to call me when she gets off work. She said she wanted to back off from our burgeoning relationship, so I ask Darren to pass along a message that will get her attention.

  “Tell her I’m driving through Nashville,” I say.

  When he hangs up, I realize I need someone to talk to in order to stay awake. I can’t wait for Willow.

  I know it’s late, but I call Sara Beth.

  “Hey,” she says, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that I woke her up.

  I apologize and explain that I’m driving and I need a friend to keep me awake.

  “I’ll stay up as long as you need me,” she says.

  “Any more prank calls?” I ask.

  “Nope,” she says. “Maybe you scared him off.”

  I ask her if the police have been making their regular patrols, as promised.

  “I saw a couple police cars drive by last night,” she says. “I didn’t see any today.”

  “Goddamnit,” I grumble. “You need to call DeAndre Purvis and tell him that they need to be more serious about this.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “To be honest, I feel a little weird having the police watch me. It seems a little creepy.”

  She tells me that she isn’t going to let anyone into her house, not even someone she knows. And she says that it doesn’t sound like this murderer is the type who kicks down doors. He comes in, makes you feel at ease, and then he starts shooting you full of holes.

  “Are you still tutoring Jim Howard?”

  “Not since you scared the shit out of him,” Sara Beth says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “At this point, I just want my life to return to normal,” she says. “I can’t wait until they catch this guy.”

  “It might be soon,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  I hesitate about telling her what happened, and then I decide she can be trusted.

  “I went into Anne’s house today,” I say.

  “Rory,” she says, her voice a mix of worry and good-natured chastising, probably the way she talks to her students when they’ve been up to something juvenile. “Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

  “I did,” I say, and I can’t help but grin. “Cal has a gun even though he told the cops he doesn’t. Same caliber as the murder weapon. All they have to do is check to see if it’s the same gun that fired the bullets that killed Patty and Anne. And dust the gun for fingerprints.”

  “And what if they don’t match?”

  “They will,” I say. “I think Anne’s murder was a crime of passion. Then Cal went off the deep end and decided he had a taste for it. He killed Patty, and I think he’ll kill again if I don’t stop him.”

  “What do you mean by ‘I’?” Sara Beth says, using that same tone again. “Don’t you mean ‘they’?”

  I tell Sara Beth that I’m on my way to get him. There should be a warrant for his arrest by the time I get there.

  “Oh, Rory. You’re playing with fire.”

  “I’m going to get him, Sara Beth. I won’t let him hurt anyone else.”

  We’re quiet for a few seconds, as if unsure how to continue the conversation. Then Sara Beth breaks the silence by saying, “You know what I was thinking?”

  Her tone is missing the playful rebuke. She is changing the subject entirely.

  “When this is all over with,” she says, “I was thinking—”

  Another call is coming in, and I tell Sara Beth I have to go.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her. “Stay safe.”

  I hang up before Sara Beth can say good-bye. I switch over to the incoming call.

  “So I hear you’re in my old stomping grounds,” Willow says.

  “Just passed through Nashville,” I say. “It’s in my rearview.”

  “What are you doing in Tennessee?” she says.

  “Going after a killer,” I say. “Want to help?”

  “How?”

  “Keep me awake.”

  Chapter 72

  AT TWO IN the morning, Cal stumbles across the field toward his rig with one of the club’s dancers under his arm. She is laughing and doesn’t seem to notice that he isn’t. He opens the passenger door of the truck and helps her climb in. He follows her inside, and she sits on his mattress.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Cal says.

  She pulls off her jacket and looks around for a place to set it among the piles of Cal’s clothes.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she says.

  Her name is Candy, and she’s wearing a black bustier, a short leather skirt, and pink fishnet stockings. Her hair, blond with pink highlights, is piled high on her head, and her lipstick is a bright, gaudy red.

  “Let me see the money first,” she says, no longer smiling and laughing.

  Cal pulls out a wad of bills from his wallet. He tries to count, but his bleary eyes keep getting lost in the numbers on the bills.

  Candy reaches out, wraps her long-nailed fingers around the wad of cash, and says, “It’s enough.”

  Now she’s smiling again. She reaches down and begins to undo the straps of her stockings.

  Cal, still standing, sways on his feet. The stink of Candy’s perfume seems to fill the entire cab, and he feels nauseated. This is a mistake. He thought a bout of brainless, drunken sex would take his mind off Anne.

  But seeing this trashy stripper in his cab only draws attention to what he misses in Anne.

  She was a beautiful woman, inside and out.

  He never deserved her.

  And he never should have done what he did.

  Candy stands up and takes Cal’s jacket by the lapels.

  “Need some help?” she says, pulling the jacket over his shoulders.

  Cal doesn’t help much, just stands there in a daze, so Candy has to tug on the jacket’s arms. One arm pops free, and the jacket swings down.

  The KA-BAR sheath knife falls out and clatters to the floor.

  Candy stares at it. The fear on her face makes her look years younger than she did a moment ago.

  “It’s not what you think,” Cal says. “I carry it for protection.”

  Candy cautiously reaches down and grabs the knife, holding it with her thumb and forefinger like a rotten piece of fruit.

  “Le
t’s leave it over here,” she says, and tosses it onto the passenger seat.

  She directs Cal to sit on his mattress. Then she kneels in front of him and begins to unbuckle his pants. She seems in a hurry to get this over with.

  Cal collapses back onto the bed as Candy puts him in her mouth. After about thirty seconds, she lifts her head and says, “What’s wrong, sugar?”

  His penis is as flaccid as a fettuccini noodle.

  Tears are streaming down Cal’s cheeks. He rolls onto his side, on top of his sleeping bag, and pulls his legs up. He lies there in a fetal ball.

  “Will you just lay here with me?” he asks Candy.

  “Uh, can I still have the money?”

  “Yeah.”

  Candy reluctantly climbs into bed with Cal, letting him spoon her. They lie still for a few minutes, as Cal continues to cry.

  “I killed her,” Cal mutters.

  Candy jumps out of bed and grabs her jacket.

  “You know,” she says, “why don’t you just keep the money.”

  She tosses the wad on the passenger seat next to the knife, and she’s out the door, her heels crunching through the gravel, before Cal even sits up.

  Cal cries himself to sleep in the stink of Candy’s lingering perfume.

  Chapter 73

  I WAKE WITH a start. The sun is up, bathing the interior of my pickup with warm light.

  I pulled over to take a quick power nap, and I must have slept for a few hours instead of a few minutes. I start the truck, put it in gear, and speed out of the rest stop. Patches of morning mist line the interstate.

  When I’m a mile down the road, I realize I should have taken a minute to relieve my bladder before taking off. I grab an empty Gatorade bottle off the passenger seat and use that.

  I see a sign welcoming me to Pennsylvania.

  Cal could be at the shipping yard in New Jersey if he didn’t pull over and get a good night’s sleep. I decide I’ll call Armadillo Shipping later to get an update on Cal, because it’s probably too early for the manager to be at the office.

  I call Freddy instead.

  “Do you know how early it is?” he moans.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I forgot about the time difference.”

  “Time difference? Where are you?”

  “Just tell me if Purvis has issued a warrant for Cal’s arrest,” I say.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “They didn’t find the gun?”

  “What gun?” Freddy says. “What the hell are you talking about, Rory?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”

  I debate what to do next. I consider calling Purvis but decide on a more indirect approach.

  “Morning, partner,” Creasy says, much more chipper on the other end of the line than Freddy was.

  “Ted,” I say. “I need your help.”

  I tell him that I saw the gun in Cal’s refrigerator and that I’m on my way to New Jersey to find Cal.

  “As soon as that arrest warrant is issued,” I say, “I want to be there to put him in handcuffs. Otherwise, we might never see the son of a bitch again.”

  Creasy exhales loudly on the other end of the phone.

  “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you, partner?”

  “No,” I say. “I couldn’t.”

  I ask him if he can apply some kind of pressure to Purvis to go search the house, assuming he hasn’t already done it.

  “How did you get in the house?” Creasy asks. “Was the door open?”

  “The door had been kicked down,” I lie.

  “Uh-huh,” Creasy says, his tone telling me that he doesn’t believe me in the slightest. “You know a defense lawyer is going to say that gun was planted.”

  “Not if it has Cal’s fingerprints on it.”

  “What makes you so sure that his fingerprints are on it?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I just need Purvis to find enough evidence for me to make a legal arrest. He and the DA can put all the pieces to the puzzle together while Cal’s sitting in jail awaiting trial. If we don’t arrest this son of a bitch soon, he might get away. Or kill someone else.”

  Creasy is quiet for a moment, thinking.

  “You’re in a predicament—you know that,” he says. “If this doesn’t go just right, you’re going to lose your badge. Maybe spend time in jail with some of the scumbags you put there. This is high stakes, son.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why I need your help.”

  “I’ll help you on two conditions,” he says.

  “Name them.”

  “You call the local authorities,” he says. “You’ve got no jurisdiction over there unless you’re working in cooperation with the local cops.”

  “And what’s the second?”

  “If there isn’t a warrant for Cal’s arrest, you can’t do anything. You won’t have probable cause to make an arrest.”

  “He has a gun in his refrigerator,” I say, but I know Creasy is right.

  “If you obtained the information illegally,” Creasy says, “then that’s inadmissible. If there’s no arrest warrant, Rory, don’t even go near the guy. Understand?”

  “Understood.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll let you know what happens when I talk to Purvis.”

  I hang up and drive on.

  After a minute or so, I reach over and turn my phone off.

  I don’t want Creasy calling me to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

  Chapter 74

  CAL BACKS HIS truck down the ramp, looking in his side mirrors to make sure he’s bringing in the wagon straight and checking his backup camera to make sure of his distance. He sets the trailer brake, engages the tractor brake, and then pops the rig into neutral. He shuts down the engine.

  He breathes a sigh of relief. There seems to be a finality to what he’s done. Could this be his last job? Is there an arrest warrant waiting for him back in Texas?

  One of the dockworkers comes up the ramp and asks to see the invoice. Cal hands it to him.

  “You’re late,” the guy says, glancing up from the paperwork at Cal.

  The guy does a double take and looks at Cal again. Cal has the sick feeling that maybe the guys have been warned to keep an eye out for him. Maybe the police have circulated a photo.

  But then the guy says, “You look like hammered shit, friend.”

  “It’s been a long trip,” Cal says, glancing at himself in the mirror.

  His hair is greasy and his eyes are bloodshot, but that’s not necessarily what the guy is talking about. Truckers aren’t known for their grooming, anyway. There is something about Cal’s expression that raises the guy’s alarm. Cal has a hollowed, haunted look—like a corpse that didn’t get the news that he’s dead.

  “Your trip’s about to get longer, I’m afraid,” the guy says. “We’re behind, so it’s going to be a while before we get you unloaded.”

  “No problem,” Cal says. “I’ll take a walk and get some fresh air.”

  He climbs down and heads away from the warehouse. The air is cold—a far cry from the Texas warmth—and he buries his hands in his jacket pockets and walks toward a nearby field.

  The brisk air gives him a jolt of energy, and he starts to feel better.

  He’s ashamed of his behavior over the past few days.

  Getting drunk.

  Trying to pick up a prostitute.

  He imagines Anne in heaven, looking down on him, mortified. She always thought he was a better person than he thought he was. Just because she’s gone doesn’t mean he can’t strive to live up to her expectations.

  He leans against a fence post and looks at the world around him. The wind blows back his hair. Icy snakes slither in through the seams of his clothes.

  What would Anne want him to do?

  The answer is simple: go back to Texas. Face the music.

  He heads back toward the shipping yard. Maybe he can take a quick nap while they unload. Then he can go get lunch,
hit the road with a full stomach.

  When he’s coming around the corner of the building and heading toward his truck, he sees something that stops him in his tracks.

  There’s a Ford F-150 parked perpendicular to his truck, blocking its path.

  Cal would recognize that truck anywhere.

  It belongs to Rory Yates.

  Cal backs into an open bay, acting as normal as possible. Inside the warehouse, forklifts zip back and forth.

  He sees Rory wave down a forklift and ask for help. The son of a bitch is wearing his cowboy hat and boots, like he’s still in Texas. His pistol is strapped to his hip.

  The forklift driver points and Rory walks away, headed to talk to a supervisor, no doubt.

  Cal thinks. Minutes ago, he was ready to turn himself in. Let the chips fall where they may. But he can’t stomach the idea of Rory being the one to bring him in. He can’t give that self-righteous asshole the satisfaction.

  He heads toward his truck, acting as if nothing is wrong. The bed of Rory’s pickup is only a couple of feet from the tractor’s front bumper.

  Cal ducks under the trailer and pulls the fifth-wheel pin. Then he sneaks up onto the catwalk between the truck and the wagon and unhooks the coiled colored cords for air and electricity. He backs up, trying to be as discreet as possible, and cranks down the landing gear on the trailer.

  He sneaks into the cab and starts the engine. He looks around, checking the mirrors, making sure he hasn’t been spotted yet. He flips the switch to lower the air suspension. He watches the needle of the suspension as it drops. He disengages the truck’s parking brake.

  The wagon is unhooked. There’s only one thing left to do.

  Cal steps on the gas and his semi surges forward into Rory’s pickup truck.

  Chapter 75

  I’M WALKING THROUGH the warehouse, looking for the foreman, when I hear a loud crash, followed by the screech of metal against metal.

  I run to an open bay and look outside to see Cal’s semi speeding away. His trailer is no longer connected. I spot him in the window. He shifts gears and turns a corner, and then he’s gone.

  I sprint to my truck and do a quick survey of the damage. The driver’s side rear quarter panel is smashed in, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the frame. The wheels look straight.