The Lonely Mile(11)
Martin knew he would have to alter his routine if he wanted to find a playmate and satisfy his contact before the fuss and furor died down; that would take a couple of months and there was no way in the world his contact would be willing to wait that long. Taking a girl from a highway rest stop was going to be practically impossible for a while, and waiting two to three months because of that interfering busybody was simply an unacceptable alternative.
This will not stand, he vowed to himself through teeth clenched so tightly shut, it made his jaw ache. It most certainly will not.
The seeds of an alternative plan began growing in Martin Krall’s head, and he smiled and nodded, all alone inside his box truck. He would have to spend more time fully developing the idea he was considering, fleshing it out, so to speak, but for the first time since hearing that guy yell “Freeze!” behind him and ruining everything, he thought things might work out okay, after all.
CHAPTER 11
BILL TOOK THREE, WOBBLY, running steps toward his vehicle, a dark blue Ford Econoline van with “Ferguson Hardware” stenciled on each side, parked a couple of hundred yards away in the ocean-sized lot. He could chase down the kidnapper. It would be a race of turtles, sure, and the scumbag had gotten a pretty sizeable head start, but that piece of crap truck Bill had seen was certainly not built for speed. It might take a few miles, but he could catch the guy, assuming he was still on the highway.
After those three steps, though, Bill slowed and then stopped in his tracks. Sure, he could run the kidnapper down. Maybe. But there was another consideration. Leaving the scene of an attempted kidnapping where handguns had been brandished about like swords was not something that would sit well with the cops, who were, undoubtedly, just moments away. If he were to leap into his vehicle and careen down the highway in search of a little vigilante justice—Clint Eastwood in a hardware store van—there was a very strong possibility it would not end well. If he didn’t end up dead at the hands of the I-90 Killer, the police might just put him down, not realizing he was one of the good guys.
Bill cursed again, slapping his hands together as he had done just seconds before. The adrenaline was still coursing through his body, and the thought of just sitting and waiting for help was frustrating in the extreme, especially since he had practically had the man in his grasp and then lost him. A young couple strolling toward the plaza gave him a wary glance and a wide berth, just as the elderly couple had done.
He turned and followed them back into the plaza, smiling a little at their reaction when they opened the doors and came face-to-face with the devastation inside the building. It looked like a twister had touched down in this one spot and then disappeared, leaving the exterior of the building untouched. Overturned tables were everywhere, and smashed glasses and dishes littered the floor. People milled about, uncertain of exactly what to do until the authorities arrived and took control. The buzz of excited voices was chaotic.
The young girl Bill had saved was on her feet, still in the exact spot where she had become tangled up with Bill and fallen to the floor. Her mother and father fussed over her, ringed by a crowd of strangers who wanted to help but didn’t know how. Bill hoped more than one ambulance was on the way, because the girl’s parents looked like they might need medical attention as much as their daughter did.
He moved, unnoticed, across the floor toward the counter where he had purchased his coffee a few minutes ago, stepping around, over, and through plastic serving trays and shattered glasses and dishes. He walked past the strange little family reunion and into the throngs of people, the majority of whom were still congregated on the northern end of the room, away from the exterior doors, as if maybe the guy with the gun was going to come back and try again.
He walked toward the coffee counter and the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. Bill wanted another cup of coffee to sip while awaiting the arrival of the cavalry, since he, clearly, wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Behind most of the other counters, employees were taking the first, tentative steps toward reestablishing service. Broken glass was being swept off the floor, tables and chairs were righted, even some orders were being taken across the room at the pizza place, but the kid with the acne problem who had served him before was nowhere in sight. That seemed monumentally unfair to Bill. Shouldn’t it be easier to start pouring coffee than to cook and serve pizza? He wondered whether the kid behind the coffee counter had been working alone and had slipped out the back doors when the trouble started—there had to be an employee entrance somewhere—and was, even now, sprinting toward town.
Tired of waiting, Bill clambered over the counter, dropping to the other side with the distinctive crunch of hard-soled shoes on broken glass, and grabbed a small, Styrofoam cup. He figured a small would do because, once the cops arrived, he would be pretty busy for a while, and sipping coffee would likely be out of the question. No point being wasteful. He placed the cup under the spigot and enjoyed the rich aroma as the brew drained out of the urn. Employees behind the other counters looked at him curiously, but no one challenged him.
Bill walked to the register and placed two, one-dollar bills in front of the drawer. There was still no sign of the coffee kid. He climbed back over the counter and walked slowly toward the plaza’s entrance. This time, as he moved through the crowd, he thought he could hear people whispering and muttering, “That’s the guy,” as he passed, but nobody spoke directly to him. He imagined people nudging each other and nodding in his direction, too embarrassed to point.