Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (26 page)

Everything was monochrome. Gray and black and smeared white.

“Pat's taken us to a ghost town,” said Sean.

“I don't care as long as they have a 66 station. The living dead can pump gas for all I care, as long as they take Visa.”

“I think the living dead have a deal with American Express,” said Sean. “I saw the TV commercial.”

“Then it's going to be fill and fly, partner, ‘cause we don’t carry Amex. And I don't care if you're a cop. We'll send them a check later.”

They started passing a few homes, older two-stories with steep pitched roofs and no garages. Probably built in the forties. Windows like dead eyes looking out from sagging foundations.

“I saw a candle in a window,” said Tracy.

“A candle?” Ashley tried to say candle. “Can-ull”

“The power must be out. Heavy snow will do that. That explains why this place looks like no one lives here. And why the gates were open and unlit.” Tracy sounded slightly happier. A logical explanation tonight was like a surprise birthday present.

Ahead they came to a truncated version of a city center. An administration building, a coffee shop, diner, and police station. Sean almost felt giddy. He pulled into the front of the cop shop.

“I'm turning it off,” he said to his wife. “Don't want to run out of gas. I'll be quick.”

He jumped out and climbed over a snowdrift. The sidewalk hadn't been cleared, and there were no tracks. But what did he expect at midnight on a weeknight in a town the size of a basketball court?

He tried the front door. It was locked.

This time he swore clearly and loudly. His feet were still soaked, and now they were absorbing snow from surrounding drifts with industrial speed.

Sean stepped back and tried to see in the window. No candles or emergency lighting were evident.

Since his feet were already soggy, he surrendered to the snow and headed south. A small diner with a long counter and four booths at the end was next. Lights were on and this time the door worked.

.   .   .

THE SHORT ORDER COOK,
standing behind the deli counter, was wearing blue jeans and a soup-stained smock over a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt.

The man couldn't hide his surprise when Sean walked in the door. Sean guessed what he was thinking – a stranger in town.

The classic movie plot and he was it.

“Hi,” said Sean. The man just nodded. “Nice night.”

Sean stomped his feet, trying to lose some of the snow piled up on his running shoes. The man looked down at Sean's footwear like he had never seen hi-tops before.

“We're just closing up,” said the restaurateur.

“What time is it?” asked Sean. He didn't wear a watch, and his phone was in the car.

“Ten-thirty.” Later than Sean thought. And an odd time to lock-up.

He looked down the length of the service counter. Two customers were hunched over coffee mugs. One was an older male wearing a filthy brown parka, next to him a younger man in a windbreaker, his face covered in purple bruises. They both had their eyes on the visitor.

“I'm almost out of fuel,” said Sean. “I was wondering if there was a gas station in town.”

“Where you headed?” said Mr. Hawaii, hunched over behind the counter.

“Fargo. We have a doctor's appointment there in the morning.”

The guy behind the counter relaxed slightly. “The gas station is closed. Locks up at eight. But sometimes Bill will open 'er up if someone needs a fill.”

Like a stranger trying to get out of town and the locals happy to see it
, thought Sean.

“Where can I find Bill?” The man gave him directions. A few blocks back beyond the row of sad houses they had passed through.

“Bill’s the mayor. So if anyone can help you get out of town, it’ll be him.”

Sean turned to leave, then thought of something.

“You having power problems in town?”

“Yeah. All the hydro is out. Happens a lot during these storms.”

“But not here?” he asked. The diner was fully lit – overhead lights, the outside sign, even the warming lights above the pass-through.

“Industrial generator,” said the man, pointing to the back. Sean couldn’t hear the rumble of a gas engine. Maybe it was installed in a shed. It must be substantial to run a whole restaurant.

“Hey, I hear coffee is an essential service.” He gave the man a thumb's up, but as he expected, got no reply. Just a neutral stare. “Can you give me two to go?”

The man shook his head. “We're all out. And like I said, we're closing up.”

Sean could see half a pot sitting on the warmer, the red power light glowing. He shrugged. No sense starting something; he just wanted to get out of town. But he couldn't help himself.

“Is that decaf on the warmer? I'm not picky. I'll drink anything.”

The man walked over to the coffee pot and lifted it off the warmer. He poured it down the sink.

“That's been sitting there for hours. I wouldn't serve that sludge to a tax collector. Like I said, we're closed.” Then he turned away and headed into the kitchen.

Sean looked at the other two customers. The older guy reached for his coffee as if he thought Sean was going to try and steal it away from him.

“Can't beat small town hospitality,” he said to no one in particular and pushed the door open.

Outside the snow was still coming down, the Explorer's windshield now completely covered in a layer about two inches thick, their owl hostage invisible and unmoving.

Sean opened his door and a chunk of the ubiquitous white stuff plopped onto the driver's seat. He brushed it away.

“The gas station is closed, but the owner apparently will open up for travelers.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Small towns are amazing like that.”

“You didn't think of getting us coffee while you were in there?” his wife asked.

“I thought of it. Sure. But the owner made me aware of a local ordinance. No polite service to out-of-towners after ten PM; apparently, they're quite strict about it.”

“They wouldn't serve you coffee?”

“I'm not sure why. It could be the law, or the fact that I'm a black man, or my non-regulation footwear. Or all three of the above.”

Tracy looked him in the eye. He could see blood rushing into her cheeks.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” was all she said, buckling up her seat belt. Sean was black; his wife was white. Where they lived, that was rarely an issue with anybody. Traveling was a different reality. They often faced subtle hints of racism. Enough to get her blood pressure up.

Sean turned around in the middle of Main Street and headed back the way they came, his foot a little heavier on the gas this time.

“His name is Bill. Besides owning the local gas station, he’s also the mayor. He lives at the end of some street called Oslo. The biggest house in town, apparently.”

“Oslo? Isn’t that the capital of Norway?” asked Tracy.

“You win the geography prize. Again.”

“Let's hope he's not a bigot too.”

Oslo was only five blocks away. Sean turned right past several dark residences. No more candles. People had given up waiting for the power to return and had gone to bed.

After a few blocks the yards got larger, the houses more spread apart. The fourth block ended on an acreage fenced for horses.

About a quarter mile down the road was a new house, two stories; a wide porch wrapped around three sides, several large outbuildings, and a horse barn. The road to the house had been recently traveled.

Sean followed the ruts to a turnaround that passed by a bright-red double door entrance.

“The King of Berzerker must live here,” he said, stopping. “Any of this remind you of the Wizard of Oz?”

“I'm going in,” she said.

“What?”

“I don't want to spend another hour in this place. So I am going to play the tearful mother card.”

“That's one of your best cards.”

“I know.”

“You sure you want to do this?” asked Sean.

“I'll be quick.” She already had the door opened. “Unless I have to have sex with the Mayor to close the deal. Then add ninety seconds.”

Sean frowned. “Oh great. He gets ninety whole seconds.”

She smirked at him, then slammed the door and plodded through the snow up several stairs. She pounded on the door so hard Sean could hear it over the roaring defroster motor.

“That's my Tracy,” he said.

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

I hope you enjoyed
Satan’s Road
. If you have any comments or opinions I would love to hear them. Just write me at [email protected]

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A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

I’ve had a crazy life.

I realized this the day I was being chased with a couple of friends out of a third-world village by men on horseback carrying AK-47 automatic rifles.

Needless to say I figured my life was over.

Everything after that has been a complete bonus. I started an award-winning Advertising agency, built a chain of restaurants, operated computer stores, wrote commercial software applications, spent a night in jail for masterminding a robbery I didn’t do, scripted and directed a TV comedy show…

There’s more. A lot more, but that would just bore you - the greatest crime against readers.

I’ve also met a lot of fascinating people. A Mossad agent, a senior CIA operative, fraudsters, heroin addicts, magicians, stand up comics, rock stars, and movie directors.

All of this goes into the pot. Stir it a bit. Who knows what will come out!

WhatI’ve learned is people everywhere are heroes, have been heroes, and want to be heroes - if given half a chance. I feel compelled to tell their stories.

I started out life like a lot of kids - getting picked on a lot. I discovered the world is full of bullies. My Dad told me to stand up for my rights and taught me a few self-defence tricks.

But books were what got me through those difficult years, and I’m very thankful. I owe a debt of gratitude to writers like Ray Bradbury, Ian Fleming, J.D. Salinger, Elmore Leonard and Robert Heinlein.

Teach your kids to be brave, to believe in themselves, to believe in a just world. I know life is not fair – but that’s no reason not to stand up to bullies and cheaters and manipulators. Sure, you might get a nosebleed once in a while. But it will be worth it.

Theo Cage is the pen name of Russell Smith, a Canadian author and artist.