The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(43)

After fitting the nozzle into the gas tank, Jenkins walked into the attached convenience store, ordered a coffee, black, and asked the attendant if he could use the bathroom at the rear of the store.

After relieving himself, Jenkins washed his hands at the sink while considering his image in the dull mirror. He had not slept in thirty-six hours, maybe longer. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and dark bags had formed beneath them. He could run three times a week and watch his diet, but there was no reversing the aging process. Days like this, he felt his years. He hoped that, wherever they were going, he could crash for at least a few hours.

He stepped from the bathroom into the store, scanning the shelves for something decent to eat but finding mostly junk food—chips, donuts, candy, and products he could neither identify nor pronounce. The glass freezers contained soft drinks and alcohol. He hoped Anna had better luck in the store across the street. He looked out the windows as a beat-up compact car with a blue stripe along the side and a light bar across the top pulled into the petrol station. Police. The car continued past the pumps and parked. A young police officer got out, but he did not walk to the store. He went around the back of the Hyundai, pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket and looked to be comparing what was written on the paper with the car’s license plate.

They’d been found.

The officer peered through the driver’s-side window, then tried the door handle, which Jenkins had locked. He looked to the convenience store and started toward the front entrance. Jenkins moved back into the restroom but kept the door partially open so he could hear what was being said.

“Dobroye Utro,” the officer said to the attendant. “Vy znayete, ch’ya mashina nakhoditsya snaruzhi?” Do you know whose car that is outside?

The store clerk nodded to the bathroom. “Chelovek prosto voshel. On v vannoy.” The man just came in. He’s in the bathroom.

The officer turned and pointed. “He’s in there now?” he asked.

“Da.”

The officer walked toward the bathroom. Jenkins let the door close and retreated to the stall. He shut the door but did not latch it, sat on the toilet seat, and braced the door with one hand. He heard the outer bathroom door open and swing shut. Beneath the stall door two black shoes came to a stop. The officer rapped on the door, a metallic ping—a key perhaps. Then he stepped back.

“On ispol’zuyetsya,” Jenkins said. It’s in use.

“U vas yest’ avtomobil’ snaruzhi, Hyundai?” Do you own the car outside, the Hyundai?

“Da. Chto iz etogo?” Yes, what of it?

“I need you to come out now,” the officer said, continuing to speak Russian.

“Who the hell are you?” Jenkins said, also speaking Russian.

“Politsiya.”

“Is it illegal to take a shit?”

“Come out,” the officer said.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until I’m finished.”

“Come out now,” the officer said more forcefully.

“Okay, okay,” Jenkins said, not wanting the officer to get any more suspicious and call for backup, if he hadn’t already done so. “Can a man not take a shit in peace?”

Another rap on the door. “Now. Come out now. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Can I at least use my hands to pull up my pants?”

“Pull up your pants. Then come out.”

“What is this about?” Jenkins asked, hoping the officer would step closer to the door.

“Come out.”

Jenkins stood but paused, as if to pull up and belt his pants.

When the officer stepped toward the door, Jenkins lifted and unfurled his leg, striking the door with his heel. The door sprang open, both surprising and striking the young officer. He stumbled backward, off balance. Jenkins advanced quickly and delivered two blows to the face, knocking him out.

He flexed the fingers of his hand and felt a sharp pain. “Really have to stop getting into fights in bathrooms,” he said.

He didn’t have a lot of time. If the officer had called for backup, they were in serious trouble. He hoped, in a small town, off-season, that backup was not readily available. He half carried, half dragged the man into the stall and propped him on the toilet. Then he removed the officer’s handcuffs and quickly cuffed the man’s hands above his head to a pipe extending down the wall. He took the officer’s keys and tossed them outside of the stall, then removed the officer’s shoes and his socks. He shoved one sock in the officer’s mouth, slipped the second sock between the man’s teeth, and tied the ends around the back of his head. That was the best he could do. He shut the stall door and deposited the shoes and the keys in the trash bin before walking back into the store.

The attendant sat at the counter. Jenkins thumbed through rubles and paid for his coffee and gas.

“Spasibo,” the man said, speaking Russian. “What happened to the police officer?”

Jenkins looked to the door at the back of the room. “I don’t know. I guess he has to go.”

“He asked who owned the Hyundai.” The attendant pointed to the pump.

“Da. His wife wants to buy one, but he is against it. He asked me how I liked mine.”

The man made a face as if he understood. “How do you like it?”