What Happened to the Bennetts(73)

I crossed to the counter and sat down on the end, next to a trucker with a thick red beard like a Viking. He had on a denim jacket and a light blue cap that read collins consolidated trucking, with capital CCs in the outline of a truck. He hunched over scrambled eggs and hash potatoes I couldn’t wait to order myself.

I caught a snippet of his conversation with the trucker next to him, who had an Iron Man neck tattoo.

“That dude picked the wrong trucker. Jaybird doesn’t take any shit.”

“I know that’s right. The only thing that man listens to is Carol.”

They burst into tense laughter.

I blinked, surprised. It sounded like they meant the gunfight with Milo. I asked the bearded trucker next to me, “What’s everybody talking about?”

“Oh, it’s bad news.” The trucker’s expression darkened. “Just happened last night. One of us almost got killed. Some asshole shot up a composting plant in Chester County like it was the Wild West.”

I realized it made sense. That would be all over the news. “Oh no. How’s your friend? Is he okay?”

“Yes, thank God, he only got hit in the shoulder. He’s in the hospital in stable condition. The dude also shot a young girl and her grandpa.”

The minivan. “How are they?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

“In the hospital. They’re stable, too.” The bearded truck driver scooped a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “That asshole killed two guys.”

“It’s a damn crime spree,” interjected the trucker with the Iron Man tattoo.

“It burns me up.” The bearded trucker gulped some coffee. “Jaybird only got out of his rig to help the girl. A Good Samaritan. No good deed goes unpunished, right? He’d do anything for anybody. A gentle giant, Iraq vet, too. Last week he got out to move a turtle off the road.”

The tattooed trucker interjected, “Not just any road, the turnpike. Got out on the PA Turnpike to save a freaking box turtle.”

“So what happened to the shooter? Did they get him?”

“The cops? Nah. Jaybird thinks he hit him, but that coulda been an exaggeration.”

The tattooed trucker interjected again, “Ya think? Jaybird and his tall tales?”

“Linda?” The bearded trucker motioned to a waitress in her sixties, and she came over with a pot of coffee. She had a sweet smile, a round, lined face, and spiky short blond hair. She poured me a cup.

“Thanks.” I took a sip, and the coffee tasted terrific and hot.

“What can I bring you, sir?”

“The same thing, please.” I gestured at the bearded trucker’s plate.

“Sure.” The waitress took off, and the bearded trucker shook his head, hunched over his eggs.

“Jaybird drives for us. We’re with Collins Consolidated, outta Wilmington. We got one of the biggest private fleets in the mid-Atlantic, almost twenty-five thousand of us on the road. We’ll find that asshole who shot him.” The bearded trucker lifted an unruly red eyebrow. “We’re on the lookout, all of us.”

The tattooed trucker nodded. “You know that saying, he can run, but he can’t hide? Well, he can’t even run. He better hope the cops find him before we do. Dude’s gonna get his, that’s for sure. We even got a description of the car, black Lexus SUV, 2019.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, too,” I said, sipping my coffee. I made a mental note that Milo’s SUV was a Lexus. In truth, I wouldn’t mind if the truckers found Milo and meted out justice, though I’d never felt that way before.

The bearded trucker called to the waitress. “Linda, where’s that old TV? I want to hear if there’s any news!”

“No more TV, it broke!”

“He ever gonna get a new one?”

“Not unless you give him one!”

“Damn.” The bearded trucker clucked, and the tattooed trucker slipped on wire-rimmed reading glasses.

“What are you, eighty? You don’t need to watch the TV news. Look it up on your phone.”

“Screen’s too small.”

“I told you, get the glasses.” The tattooed truck driver started scrolling on an iPhone in a heavy-duty case. “Here we go. They got an update.”

“Any news about Jay?” The bearded trucker leaned over, and so did I. Heads turned in our direction, and conversations ceased. Eyes lifted from plates, and coffee cups stopped in mid-sip.

“Nothing new on Jaybird!” The tattooed trucker raised his voice to be heard. “Good news, the young girl’s leaving the hospital tonight!”

A trucker called out, “Praise Jesus!”

Another called back, “Praise Jaybird!”

The truckers laughed grimly.

The tattooed trucker continued scrolling. “Hold on, they ID’d the people that got killed at the plant! There were two! ‘The victims have been identified as Phillip Nerone, thirty-four, of Avondale . . .’?” The tattooed trucker stopped reading and scanned the crowd. “Anybody know a Phil Nerone? Kyle, you live in Honey Brook, right?”

The truckers shook their heads.

The waitress came over and set breakfast in front of me. “Here we go, sir.”

“Thanks.” I dug into the scrambled eggs, shoveling them into my mouth. They tasted warm, buttery, and good.