off ramp, pulling into the same rest stop where Frank had cracked the trucker in the head.
“Why are we stopping?” he asked, keeping his voice level and unconcerned.
“Can’t cross the state line in daylight,” Jack said. “We’re gonna have to stop here and wait it out. Soon as its dark, we’ll cross.”
They parked all over the place so as not to make it obvious the trucks were traveling together. The place was busier than last time, full of semis, tourists squeezing in one last trip of the summer, and students headed for college. Frank hoped the tranquilizers would hold; he didn’t want some family in a minivan getting curious and one of the big cats chewing off a toddler’s groping hand.
Frank got out to stretch. He slowly walked along the line of rumbling semis, easing the kinks out of his back and shoulders. There was a sharp, twisting pain in his right side and he wondered if he’d pulled something while whipping the fence post over his head. It didn’t feel serious, but it was enough to make him catch his breath.
He squatted in the thin shade of a few dusty trees and looked back at the semi. Heat waves danced on the trailer’s roof. Frank realized the temperature inside the trailer had to be over a hundred and ten. Maybe a hundred and twenty.
He found Jack eyeballing a carload of sorority girls. “We gotta cool these animals down somehow,” Frank said. “They’re gonna cook.”
The girls giggled and cast tentative glances at Jack, eyes full of lust and fear. Jack never looked away from their car. “Then take care of it. You’re the vet.”
Frank couldn’t argue with that. He should have known better. He walked the length of the grassy area on the outskirts of the parking lot and found what he needed. After grabbing a wrench, a hammer, and a screwdriver from Sturm’s toolbox, he had the automatic sprinklers on in under a minute. Like machine guns, the sprinklers spit arcs of water out in precise bursts, first spraying the grass, then the trucks once Frank adjusted their aim.
The cats weren’t happy. Still not fully awake, they pressed themselves into corners, turning their faces away from the water. Except one. It lay sprawled near the back and never flinched even as drops of water rolled down the matted fur. Frank watched the sharp ridges and valleys of the cat’s rib, but it wasn’t breathing. “Shit,” Frank whispered.
He went looking for Sturm and saw the poster instead.
It was up near the vending machines, tacked up over the maps. Frank recognized the trucker’s face from over fifteen feet away. Glancing around, he saw that the posters had been put up everywhere. Something cold grabbed at his heart. People pushed past, ignoring the poster and Frank. He went and stood next to it, pretending to study the map. Above the stark red “INFORMATION WANTED” was a grainy, black and white picture of the trucker’s face, apparently from his driver’s license. Below, it read, “Please contact the Nevada State Police with any information regarding the death of Randall James Stark, 32, murdered on August 13 th .” There was a phone number, but Frank had turned away, ice spreading throughout his body despite the sizzling midday temperature. Three men in three days.
When he finally looked up, he saw Sturm, on the far side of the rest stop, taking down one of the posters, carefully folding it and stowing it safely away in the inside pocket of his duster.
* * * * *
Someone yelled. Frank heard honking and saw a woman wave a chicken nugget towards one of Sturm’s trucks at the far end of the parking lot. The two chimps were scrambling across the top of the trailer in their swaying, bowlegged run. They swung down from the exhaust stack, nimbly scurrying away from a diving tackle from Jack, and darted across the parking lot before disappearing behind another truck.
Frank half-jogged through the vehicles and met up with the clowns. The chimps had taken off in a loping run through the
“Why are we stopping?” he asked, keeping his voice level and unconcerned.
“Can’t cross the state line in daylight,” Jack said. “We’re gonna have to stop here and wait it out. Soon as its dark, we’ll cross.”
They parked all over the place so as not to make it obvious the trucks were traveling together. The place was busier than last time, full of semis, tourists squeezing in one last trip of the summer, and students headed for college. Frank hoped the tranquilizers would hold; he didn’t want some family in a minivan getting curious and one of the big cats chewing off a toddler’s groping hand.
Frank got out to stretch. He slowly walked along the line of rumbling semis, easing the kinks out of his back and shoulders. There was a sharp, twisting pain in his right side and he wondered if he’d pulled something while whipping the fence post over his head. It didn’t feel serious, but it was enough to make him catch his breath.
He squatted in the thin shade of a few dusty trees and looked back at the semi. Heat waves danced on the trailer’s roof. Frank realized the temperature inside the trailer had to be over a hundred and ten. Maybe a hundred and twenty.
He found Jack eyeballing a carload of sorority girls. “We gotta cool these animals down somehow,” Frank said. “They’re gonna cook.”
The girls giggled and cast tentative glances at Jack, eyes full of lust and fear. Jack never looked away from their car. “Then take care of it. You’re the vet.”
Frank couldn’t argue with that. He should have known better. He walked the length of the grassy area on the outskirts of the parking lot and found what he needed. After grabbing a wrench, a hammer, and a screwdriver from Sturm’s toolbox, he had the automatic sprinklers on in under a minute. Like machine guns, the sprinklers spit arcs of water out in precise bursts, first spraying the grass, then the trucks once Frank adjusted their aim.
The cats weren’t happy. Still not fully awake, they pressed themselves into corners, turning their faces away from the water. Except one. It lay sprawled near the back and never flinched even as drops of water rolled down the matted fur. Frank watched the sharp ridges and valleys of the cat’s rib, but it wasn’t breathing. “Shit,” Frank whispered.
He went looking for Sturm and saw the poster instead.
It was up near the vending machines, tacked up over the maps. Frank recognized the trucker’s face from over fifteen feet away. Glancing around, he saw that the posters had been put up everywhere. Something cold grabbed at his heart. People pushed past, ignoring the poster and Frank. He went and stood next to it, pretending to study the map. Above the stark red “INFORMATION WANTED” was a grainy, black and white picture of the trucker’s face, apparently from his driver’s license. Below, it read, “Please contact the Nevada State Police with any information regarding the death of Randall James Stark, 32, murdered on August 13 th .” There was a phone number, but Frank had turned away, ice spreading throughout his body despite the sizzling midday temperature. Three men in three days.
When he finally looked up, he saw Sturm, on the far side of the rest stop, taking down one of the posters, carefully folding it and stowing it safely away in the inside pocket of his duster.
* * * * *
Someone yelled. Frank heard honking and saw a woman wave a chicken nugget towards one of Sturm’s trucks at the far end of the parking lot. The two chimps were scrambling across the top of the trailer in their swaying, bowlegged run. They swung down from the exhaust stack, nimbly scurrying away from a diving tackle from Jack, and darted across the parking lot before disappearing behind another truck.
Frank half-jogged through the vehicles and met up with the clowns. The chimps had taken off in a loping run through the
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