The Lonely Mile(52)
The office door was propped open, and inside, a grey-haired man worked on a computer that took up most of the space on his desk. Whatever he was doing involved a lot of typing, and Bill was impressed by the speed he was able to manage, particularly given the fact he was typing with just one finger on each hand.
He knocked on the open door and the man waved him in, glancing up for about a half-second before returning his attention to his project. “Be right with ya,” he said. “Take a seat, if you like.” He gestured vaguely with his left hand at a single chair placed in front of the desk and continued typing with his right.
Bill sat, tapping his foot impatiently. The man pounded the keyboard for perhaps another three minutes, finishing with a grunt of satisfaction, before lifting a pair of eyeglasses to his face from a chain around his neck and peering at Bill. “How can I help you?”
“You the manager?”
“You could say that,” the man answered with a wry smile. “This is my business. I own it. Ray Blanchard,” he said, leaning across the desk and offering his hand.
Bill shook it and said, “Nice to meet you, Ray. Bill Ferguson. I can see you’re occupied, so I’ll get right to the point. I wanted to ask you about your trucks.”
“About what?”
“Your delivery trucks. How many do you have?”
“Just the one. Listen, Mr. Ferguson, as you said yourself, I’m quite busy here. Are you an auto salesman or something? If so, you should know, I’m not in the market for a new truck and don’t expect to be for quite some time.”
“No, sir, it’s nothing like that. And I’m not trying to waste your time, but this is very important. Is it possible I may have seen one of your old trucks on the road recently?”
“I suppose so,” Blanchard answered. “When I bought my current delivery vehicle about four years ago, I sold the old one. It was still running well at the time, so, if it’s been properly maintained, it is entirely possible that truck’s still on the road. What is this all about?”
“Did you go through a middleman, like a dealer, or did you sell the truck on your own?”
“I sold it on my own; I thought I could strike a better deal that way, and I did. Y’know, I’m just about out of patience here, so I’ll ask one last time: What is this all about?”
“Well, Mr. Blanchard, I need to know the name of the person you sold your old delivery vehicle to.”
The market owner lifted his glasses off his face and chewed on the end of one of the earpieces. It was clearly a subconscious act; Bill could see that the plastic had been destroyed by countless similar moments. Finally, Ray Blanchard shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. For all I know, you’re some sort of serial killer. Why would you possibly need that information, anyway?”
Bill hesitated, then decided to level with him. The clock was ticking, and it was imperative he make the man understand the urgency of the situation. “I assume you’re familiar with the I-90 Killer the authorities have been chasing for years?”
Ray Blanchard nodded. “Of course. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dead to live in these parts and not be familiar with that sick piece of garbage.”
“Well, I’m more familiar with him than most—at least I am now.” Bill hurried through the whole story despite his impatience, leaving out nothing, beginning with the chance encounter last week in the rest stop, emphasizing the kidnapping of Carli, and finishing up with his deciphering the significance of the green letters barely visible on the repainted side of the I-90 Killer’s truck.
“That explains it,” Blanchard said, snapping his fingers. “I was sure I had seen you somewhere before, I just couldn’t place where. I saw you on the TV news after you saved that young girl.”
“That’s right, and it was that news coverage that resulted in the I-90 Killer piecing together enough information about me to target my daughter. I intend to get her back, and that bill of sale is how I’m going to do it.”
Ray Blanchard placed his glasses back on his nose and peered into Bill’s eyes. “This is a matter for the police. Why aren’t they here requesting this information?”
“Honestly, Mr. Blanchard, I haven’t informed them yet about what I deciphered regarding the guy’s truck. They are busy attacking the case from another angle, and I figured I would determine for myself whether this was a dead end before taking manpower away from other avenues of investigation.”
The man hesitated, and Bill was sure he was going to send him packing, then he leaned back, rolled his office chair the three feet or so to the back wall, and opened the bottom drawer of a small, metal file cabinet. He riffled through papers for a few moments and Bill had to choke back the urge to scream at him to hurry.
Finally he muttered, “Aha!” and lifted a single sheet of computer paper out of the cabinet, placing it face down on the desk between them. “This is the bill of sale I made up when I sold the truck, complete with the name and address of the vehicle’s purchaser.” He sat looking at Bill expectantly, his weathered right hand resting lightly on the paper.
Bill waited and the man made no effort to show him the document. “May I have a look?”
“Maybe. Depends what you’re going to do with it. You wouldn’t be planning to go after this man all by your lonesome, now, would you? I know if it was my daughter the I-90 Killer had taken, I’d be storming his front porch myself. Not that I’d blame you for doing that, but it’s a good way to get yourself killed.”