dough-faced trucker who didn't look much older than Jack himself. The counterman had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache to match, and he had not bothered to shave for the previous day or so. His apron was white, and Jack had the idea that he would not have worn the maniac octopus-blueberry apron even if someone held a gun to his head.
Jack caught his eye and the counterman brightened and strolled over, passing an obscene pleasantry with a coffee-skinned man who clutched a cigarette in his teeth and looked more than a little like the actor Laurence Fishburne. With his laughter still echoing, he zeroed in on them.
"So what can I get you folks?"
"I'll have French toast," Molly said immediately. "Orange juice, hash browns, and bacon."
"Hungry," the counterman said appreciatively. "That's the way we like 'em." He focused on Jack. "What about you?"
"I'll have the French toast too. We heard it was something special."
The counterman scraped a hand across his bristly chin and studied them a bit more closely. "You did, didja? We don't get a lot of tourists in the Blueberry, mostly long-haul folks. I'm glad someone around here appreciates us."
"Actually, it wasn't anybody local," Jack explained. "It was a truck driver. Guy with a crewcut. We met him last night. He was with a few other people, these two brothers, Dave and Hank . . . what was it? Cross, maybe."
"Krause," Molly corrected.
The counterman beamed at her and Jack knew it was time for him to keep quiet. He figured they had a much better chance of this guy opening up if Molly did the talking.
"Dave!" the man said happily. "Hell of a guy. Then the crewcut had to be John Ford. Ford always gets the French toast. He has it with berries, though, if he didn't mention it. Sort of our specialty."
"Why didn't I guess that?" Molly teased. Then the smile disappeared from her face. "There was a woman with them. Suzanne. We saw on the news this morning . . ."
Her words trailed off as the counterman began to nod sadly. "Saw that myself. A terrible shame. We were all just stunned in here." Then his eyes widened and he pointed at them. "Wait, you know what? The Krause boys were in here last night and I think they mentioned you two. You're the ones related to the Wilkes boy."
Jack stiffened, a bit taken aback by the man's knowledge of them. But Molly only smiled again.
"You must be Max," she said.
Max's eyebrows went up. "I'm famous now?"
"Your friend John told us you know everyone. I guess he thought maybe you'd heard something that might help us figure out what happened to my cousin." Jack lowered his voice and leaned in a bit. "I've heard about some other things that have happened, about this couple, the Rausches, who were killed, and a trucker just last week, Chester Douglas."
"Yeah, poor Chet. First him and now Suzanne. Been a hell of a month so far," Max said grimly, real anguish in his eyes. "I wish I could help you folks, I really do. I know the stories, of course. Heard about your young cousin and that married couple, and plenty of others in the years I've been working this counter. Bad things happen on the highway, just a fact of life. World wasn't like this when I was a boy.
"Truth be told, every trucker comes through here has a story or a theory. Serial killers, alien abductions, monsters, hoaxes, Bigfoot . . . you name it. Hell, half of the drivers blame the media for blowing things out of proportion, making things seem worse than they are. Planes and trains and boats and cars, there are always accidents, right? But long-haul truckers, that's a story. Still, you get two in a week like we've got here, makes you think."
Jack nodded, but he was barely paying attention now. Given how secretive, even worried, the jarhead had seemed the night before, he had held out a hope that Max would be able to give them a lead, no matter how slim. But the man had nothing. Just rumor, the same way Jack figured the bartender at the roadhouse in Fairbrook would have.
Jack caught his eye and the counterman brightened and strolled over, passing an obscene pleasantry with a coffee-skinned man who clutched a cigarette in his teeth and looked more than a little like the actor Laurence Fishburne. With his laughter still echoing, he zeroed in on them.
"So what can I get you folks?"
"I'll have French toast," Molly said immediately. "Orange juice, hash browns, and bacon."
"Hungry," the counterman said appreciatively. "That's the way we like 'em." He focused on Jack. "What about you?"
"I'll have the French toast too. We heard it was something special."
The counterman scraped a hand across his bristly chin and studied them a bit more closely. "You did, didja? We don't get a lot of tourists in the Blueberry, mostly long-haul folks. I'm glad someone around here appreciates us."
"Actually, it wasn't anybody local," Jack explained. "It was a truck driver. Guy with a crewcut. We met him last night. He was with a few other people, these two brothers, Dave and Hank . . . what was it? Cross, maybe."
"Krause," Molly corrected.
The counterman beamed at her and Jack knew it was time for him to keep quiet. He figured they had a much better chance of this guy opening up if Molly did the talking.
"Dave!" the man said happily. "Hell of a guy. Then the crewcut had to be John Ford. Ford always gets the French toast. He has it with berries, though, if he didn't mention it. Sort of our specialty."
"Why didn't I guess that?" Molly teased. Then the smile disappeared from her face. "There was a woman with them. Suzanne. We saw on the news this morning . . ."
Her words trailed off as the counterman began to nod sadly. "Saw that myself. A terrible shame. We were all just stunned in here." Then his eyes widened and he pointed at them. "Wait, you know what? The Krause boys were in here last night and I think they mentioned you two. You're the ones related to the Wilkes boy."
Jack stiffened, a bit taken aback by the man's knowledge of them. But Molly only smiled again.
"You must be Max," she said.
Max's eyebrows went up. "I'm famous now?"
"Your friend John told us you know everyone. I guess he thought maybe you'd heard something that might help us figure out what happened to my cousin." Jack lowered his voice and leaned in a bit. "I've heard about some other things that have happened, about this couple, the Rausches, who were killed, and a trucker just last week, Chester Douglas."
"Yeah, poor Chet. First him and now Suzanne. Been a hell of a month so far," Max said grimly, real anguish in his eyes. "I wish I could help you folks, I really do. I know the stories, of course. Heard about your young cousin and that married couple, and plenty of others in the years I've been working this counter. Bad things happen on the highway, just a fact of life. World wasn't like this when I was a boy.
"Truth be told, every trucker comes through here has a story or a theory. Serial killers, alien abductions, monsters, hoaxes, Bigfoot . . . you name it. Hell, half of the drivers blame the media for blowing things out of proportion, making things seem worse than they are. Planes and trains and boats and cars, there are always accidents, right? But long-haul truckers, that's a story. Still, you get two in a week like we've got here, makes you think."
Jack nodded, but he was barely paying attention now. Given how secretive, even worried, the jarhead had seemed the night before, he had held out a hope that Max would be able to give them a lead, no matter how slim. But the man had nothing. Just rumor, the same way Jack figured the bartender at the roadhouse in Fairbrook would have.
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