Vengeance Road (14 page)

“E
ighty for two nights. Best I can do.”

The motel clerk resumed working on his crossword puzzle and the cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“Eighty. Take it or leave it.”

Welcome to suburban Chicago.

Gannon had driven all day and into the early evening, making only food and washroom stops. After almost nodding off at the wheel on the Eisenhower Expressway, he started searching for a motel.

He'd made it as far as Hillside where the better chains were charging a hundred bucks a night. The Hillside Sea of Tranquillity Motel, offered “dirt-cheap rates”—and free wireless Internet.

Gannon was an out-of-work freelancer traveling on his own dime now.

“I'll take it for two nights.” Gannon put his credit card down. “Can I get a room on the upper level?”

The clerk grunted.

Gannon's room smelled of a war among cigarettes, pine air freshener and—what was that—
vomit?
The toilet was hissing.

He was too tired to care.

He showered then turned on his laptop. Waiting for it to warm up, he recalled reading that Al Capone was buried in
a Hillside cemetery. He considered a travel feature to sell to magazines, but set the idea aside as his laptop beeped to life.

Surprise. His Internet connection worked.

He had a number of responses from the libraries and genealogical societies he'd reached in Texas for help on Styebeck. Not much was useful.

He read until he fell asleep.

 

The next morning he bought a four-dollar breakfast at the convenience store across the street from his motel: an egg burrito heated in the store's microwave oven and a jumbo coffee.

While eating in his room, he read a new e-mail that had arrived from Rob Hatcher, who ran the Great Lakes Truck Palace in Buffalo.

 

Hey Jack, just heard new details on the writing on that blue rig you're looking for. Something relating to a sword. A “quick sword.” Thought you'd like to know. Stay safe, pal. Rob

 

Gannon thanked him, closed his laptop, grabbed his car keys.

The Thousand Mile Truck Stop was a few miles away, a 24–7 operation with twenty-two fuel lanes and parking for more than four hundred trucks. Massive American, state, county and corporate flags waved from chrome-tipped poles that reached high above the main building.

Inside, he went to the office of the manager, Kevin Mawby. He was on the phone but waved him in, halted his call, clamped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Can I help you?”

“Jack Gannon, I phoned you yesterday. Freelance reporter.”

“The guy from Buffalo?”

“Right.”

“Kevin Mawby. Have a seat, be done in a minute.” Mawby went back to the call. “So that shit-for-brains thinks he's going to sue us because his piece-of-shit rig catches fire at my fueling station?”

Mawby wore a checkered shirt and jeans and rocked in a chair behind a large computer screen. His credenza had two more. Above them was a bank of security monitors, changing pictures every few seconds.

On one wall, there was a large map of the U.S.

Gannon glimpsed business cards on Mawby's desk but pretended he didn't notice that two of them bore the FBI's seal.

He had to be careful here.

“Okay.” Mawby ended the call and smiled at Gannon. “You're doing a story about trucks? You were vague, as I remember.”

“Well, there's a bit more to it.”

As Gannon explained about Bernice Hogan's murder, Jolene Peller's disappearance and a tip that calls from Jolene's cell phone were made at Thousand Mile, Mawby's smile dimmed.

He started shaking his head when his phone rang.

“I have to take this.”

In one smooth, subtle motion, while reaching for a pen, Mawby made the FBI cards disappear in his hand as he swiveled away from Gannon, who was looking at the wall map, letting on like he didn't notice.

Mawby made some notes and the new call ended abruptly.

“I'm sorry, Jack. I can't help you. Sounds like a sad case.”

Gannon nodded but didn't push it. Mawby was battling other matters. The timing for this was all wrong.

“I see. Well, mind if I walk around, talk to a few people?”

“To what end? We don't know anything about your story.”

“I'm also researching a color travel feature about the area, Al Capone's grave, truck stops, truckers who see things most travelers miss.”

Mawby shrugged.

“It's a free country.”

They shook hands.

Gannon found a private spot, flipped through his notes, then put in a call to the clerk at the county court to see if any search warrants had been executed recently for the Thousand Mile Truck Stop.

“I'll have to get back to you, I'm due in court,” the clerk said.

Gannon began approaching truckers, showing them Jolene's picture, asking if they knew a rig with reference to “quick sword,” or anything related to Bernice Hogan's homicide in Buffalo.

He talked to drivers in the lounge, the billiards room, the stores, the CB-repair shop, the Laundromat, the business office, the freight brokers, the hair salon, the chapel and the arcade.

No luck.

He went out to the lot and fuel lanes, roaming in an ocean of big rigs, with their growling diesels and hissing brakes. He went from rig to rig, driver to driver, showing pictures, asking questions. All he got were headshakes and head scratching.

And a whole lot of nothing as the day blurred by.

Back inside, he made another round of inquiries, going table to table through the restaurant. Nothing. He sat on a stool at the counter and ordered a club sandwich.

While waiting, the court clerk called back, informing him that no warrants had been executed on Thousand Mile.
Another strike. Mawby could have volunteered any potential physical evidence to the FBI, like video security tapes, Gannon thought, feeling a sense of defeat settling upon him as the waitress set his order before him.

“You're that reporter asking about a missing girl and a sword truck?”

“That's me.”

“Tell me a little more about it? I might be able to help.”

As Gannon told her the story she nodded.

“Yup,”” she said. “Two FBI agents were here the other day asking the same sorts of questions, asking us to keep quiet about their inquiries. But you seem to know as much as them.”

Gannon started eating as she continued.

“This morning, I got thinking I should've told them to talk to my brother, Toby. He works at the Central Cargo Depot.”

“The Central Cargo Depot?”

“It's a big cargo-warehouse place. I'd say half the trucks that come here usually pick up or drop loads at Central. You should go there.”

She pulled out her order pad and drew a map.

“It's off the Ike. You can't miss it, it's huge. Ask for Toby Overmeyer. Show him this.” She wrote:
Toby, help this reporter. Big Sis.

Gannon thanked her then followed her map.

In a few miles, the complex of warehouse buildings stretched out before him. He went to the main office, to the service counter, and asked for Toby Overmeyer.

It was busy with drivers coming and going. Gannon estimated some twenty people were processing data at computer monitors. A Willie Nelson song filled the air. The walls had murals of American vistas, the Pacific Ocean, the Rockies, the Grand Canyon, the Florida Keys and Great Plains.

Barely in his twenties, Toby Overmeyer came to the counter. He studied the note and listened as Gannon explained his story once more.

“That's my big sister, Darlene,” Toby said. “Always wants to help.”

He told Gannon that the Central Cargo Depot had ten warehouse buildings, with tenants from major corporations, including a couple of shipping companies that housed and loaded for distribution goods from a spectrum of customers. The shippers used fleets from major trucking operations and hundreds of independents and subcontracted carriers.

“In total, we've got one hundred and sixty loading docks and trucks coming and going nonstop. We're a major hub for the central U.S.”

“Any way you can check for companies or trucks where the word
sword
figures in the name?” Gannon asked.

“Sure, wait here.”

Toby went to a terminal and worked quickly at a keyboard, then came back to the counter with a printed page, shaking his head.

“We got Sawyer, Simpson, Simon, SASX, SWWK, SWANE, SWISTER, nothing specifically with
sword
, although we don't get all subs.”

“Subs?”

“Subcontracted carriers, hauling for other companies listed. Smaller independent operators.”

“Mind if I walk through the complex, check out trucks, talk to the guys?”

Toby hesitated.

“You can't enter the warehouses. What you see mostly are empty trailers backed to loading docks, either being loaded or unloaded.”

“That's fine with me.”

Gannon thanked him and set out walking through the complex. The buildings were identified with large numbers.

For as far as he could see, trailers were backed tight to the loading bays. Every type of merchandise imaginable was loaded, or unloaded, amid the creak and clank of forklifts at work inside the trailers and the constant thunder of trucks rolling in, or out, of the depot.

Gannon had to get out of the way whenever a diesel roared, and brakes knocked as tractors hooked the trailers then maneuvered to begin a long haul across the country.

He found nothing that looked like a blue truck, or trailer, with “sword” in the name, logo or brand. Like searching for a needle in a haystack, he thought as he checked each dock, slowly working his way to Building 2.

Time tumbled by.

Outside, at the edge of Building 5, a group of warehousemen were seated at a picnic table on a break, watching two guys toss a football. Gannon approached them, told them that he was a reporter researching a story and asked them about Jolene, the truck, Buffalo, everything.

Again, his inquiry resulted in a lot of head shaking.

“Sorry, dude.”

“Heads up, buddy,” one of the guys holding the football said.

As a truck rattled past Gannon, he got a quick look at the door.

He froze.

The rig moved fast without a trailer as it swung around the building, disappearing into a dust cloud that hurled grit into his eyes, temporarily blinding him.

It was blue. Wasn't it?

And wasn't there something written that said “sword”?

Or was it “swift”?

Rubbing the grit from his eyes, he wondered if he was losing his mind.

“Did you guys see that? Was that a blue tractor?”

The men were returning to the warehouse, disinterested in Gannon.

Determined to investigate, he trotted after the truck. As he rounded the building, he thought he saw a dust cloud in the distance at the corner of Building 7.

It must've turned in there.

He started to run when he came headlong to a sedan, the light bar on its roof brilliant with flashing yellow and white, like a squad car.

“Hold it right there, sir!” The driver was wearing dark aviator glasses. He held up his hand.

Gannon stopped.

“Sir, your presence here violates our security policy. Do you have identification?”

Gannon passed him his New York State driver's license.

“I was told at the office I could conduct research here.”

“I have authority out here.” The man was making notes on a clipboard. “And I'm going to escort you out of the complex now, Mr. Gannon.”

“But I just need to talk to the operator of the blue rig.”

“That is not going to happen.” The man had to be six foot six inches tall. He was holding the back door open for Gannon. “Get in, please, I'll take you to your vehicle.”

Gannon glanced toward Building 7.

Damn.

“Sir,” the big man said, “get in or I'll report you to the Chicago PD as a trespasser.”

Gannon got in.

J
olene Peller was rising.

Surfacing gradually, her senses adjusting with every breath she took.

The droning had halted. Her mobile prison had stopped dead.

The other woman hadn't stirred.

All was still.

The darkness roared with Jolene's breathing and heartbeat.

Wait.

She held her breath as she noticed the far-off sounds of machinery. Growling engines, creaking, hissing. Big machinery but far away.

So distant and faint.

Where were they?

Jolene pressed her ear tight to the wall, straining to listen.

Voices! Muffled but definitely people far off!

“HELP!” she called. “HELP!”

Jolene's pleas were absorbed by the heavy insulated walls of their small space as something stirred near her in the dark.

The other woman began groaning to Jolene.

“Nooooo.”

Jolene moved to her.

Time had loosened their gags. Their captor didn't seem to care, or bother to secure them whenever he'd stop to toss a half-eaten hamburger, cold fries, chocolate bars into their chamber, just enough food to survive their nightmare.

He seemed to be less vigilant.

Jolene seized the chance to attract help.

But now the other woman was panicking.

“No, it's okay,” Jolene said. “It's good. I hear voices. We're near people. They can help.” Jolene turned to the wall and screamed: “HELP! PLEEEEASE HELP US!”

“No,” the woman rasped. “Stop…must be quiet.”

“No, it's okay. Try to stay calm.”

Jolene resumed fumbling around for the flashlight batteries. Maybe by shouting and creating a ruckus she could draw attention.

“I've got to find the flashlight batteries. I haven't looked under you,” she said. “I'm going to feel under you.”

The roar of engines rose and fell, delivering hope as Jolene's fingers felt for the batteries. She found a small round tube, then another.

“Yes!”

Fumbling for the batteries' button top Jolene inserted them into the flashlight. But as her thumb held them in the cylinder, she realized that the light wouldn't work without the tiny contact cap to keep them in place.

How would she ever find it in the dark?

Jolene cursed then screamed.

“HELP!”

She got to her feet.

“OH PLEASE HELP!”

Exhausted. Terrified. Thirsty. Hungry. Filthy. Angry. Jolene gave in to an emotional, uncontrollable outburst and
slammed her shoulder into the wall, screaming, pounding, kicking.

“Noo. Stop!” the injured woman pleaded.

But Jolene ignored her, until she felt something tighten around her ankles. The woman had gripped Jolene.

“Stop!”

“Honey, we have to scream for help!”

“No.” Her grip on Jolene was hurting.

“Honey, let go.” Jolene lowered herself to the woman. “It's okay.”

“No, if he hears, it will be bad. I've seen what he does.”

“Then we have to fight. We have to get out.”

“No. If you try to escape, it will be worse than anything you can imagine.” Her voice broke. “I've seen what he does. I've felt it!”

“But if we do nothing then we make it easy for him and I refuse to let the freak do what he likes. Not without a fight.”

“You don't understand what he did to me.”

“No,
you
don't understand! All my life I've had to fight. Honey, I understand that you're hurt, you've been through hell. I need to get you to a hospital. Now, I'm telling you that crazy son of a bitch does not get me without the fight of his sick life.”

Broiling with rage, Jolene pulled away as the woman pleaded in vain.

Jolene removed her shoes and used them to hammer the walls with unrestrained fury.

“HEEEEEELLLLLLLP!”