William Brown - The Undertaker

Finally, I looked at the padded door panels. Like most cars, they were fastened to the doorframe with plastic clips. I got the flashlight up close and worked my way around the edge of each panel, looking for any scratches or signs it had been pried off. I started with the driver's side front, then went to the passenger's side front, and on to the passenger side rear before I finally saw something. Along the top edge, the painted metal doorframe bore the unmistakable signs of having had been scratched. I didn't care about leaving more marks, so I wedged the Jimmy under the panel and popped it off. Sure enough, I saw what appeared to be a cigar box duct-taped to the inside of the door.

I ripped it loose and leaned back in the seat with a huge grin on my face. The box said White Owl cigars. Figured. That was about as cheap of a brand as you could buy, and I could picture ‘Pete’ with a White Owl in one hand and Racing Forum in the other, leaning back in his desk chair in that dumpy accounting office on Sickles. Inside the box lay a dirty business-size #10 envelope with a rubber band wrapped tightly around it. Inside the box was a New Jersey Driver's License in the name of George Deevers. The photo was of a fat man with thinning hair and round cheeks. DMV photos anywhere were notoriously out of focus, but this guy bore a striking resemblance to one of the photos I saw in the public library yesterday morning. I tried to remember which one, then it suddenly came to me. It was Louie Panozzo, Jimmy Santorini's bean counter who ratted him out and put him in the Federal pen in Marion. That answered a lot of questions. I stuck the driver's license in my pocket. I could say I had lost a hundred pounds working out with Fergie at Weight Watchers. After all, when you have no papers, even a bad ID is better than no ID at all.

In the envelope, I also found a New Jersey insurance certificate in George Deevers’ name, a Visa card, and $2,500 in cash. So you did have an escape plan, eh, ‘Pete?’ In the bottom of the box, under the money, I saw three small computer flash drives and knew I had just hit the Power Ball Lottery.

A flash drive is smaller than a lipstick tube and the latest in data storage devices: cheap and very easy to use. Even one could hold an unbelievable amount of data — reports, spreadsheets, data files, photos, whatever you might want. The top one had a black “#1” written on it in Magic Marker. The others were similarly labeled “#2” and “#3.” You had to give bean counters high marks originality, but other than the three numbers, there were no other markings or hints as to what they contained. Louie had been a Mafia accountant, and I'd bet the farm these were copies of the financial records of the Santorini crime Family in New Jersey. No doubt, they were what Tinkerton had been trying to pry out of me on the embalming table, and what he had tried to pry out of the other ‘Pete', and that had made my life a whole lot more interesting and a whole lot more dangerous.

Indiana: Get thee behind me, Satan…

Uncle Ike's parking lot was the size of several football fields. Seventy or eighty 18-wheelers were parked three-deep, filling the lot, plus twenty more sitting around the perimeter and out on the exit road leading back to the Interstate. Most were big, fully equipped, over the road rigs. Like the pioneers out west who circled their wagons in Indian country, they used these big truck stops to keep an eye out for each other at night. Having them all in one place was a whole lot more efficient for the hookers, fences, bookies, and drug dealers. If there was strength in numbers, there were discounts for volume, too.

I started at the exit, figuring I'd catch the ones leaving early and work my way back. Four big rigs rolled past me, but they didn't stop despite a thumb and my best smile. I walked back up the ramp, but the first three I passed that were parked were dark. Their drivers must be asleep. The next guy was awake, but that guy completely ignored me. The one after that at least leaned out and asked where I was going. When I said Chicago, he said, “Sorry, I'm peeling off on I-80 and going west.”

With the fifth truck, I got a break. The driver of, a big White long-haul rig, motioned me over for a closer look. “We ain't supposed to pick nobody up,” he said.

“I know, but I really need a ride.”

“Yeah, you look like you do,” he said as he eyed me up and down. “Okay, hop in, son,” he pointed at the passenger side door. I didn't wait. I ran around and climbed up before he could change his mind. Even in the dim light from the dashboard, I could see he was a big man, maybe in his late-fifties, with muscular forearms from wrestling with steering wheels for too many years to think about. He wore a plaid, flannel shirt like I did, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Under the shirt, I saw a set of long johns, which I suspected he wore summer, winter, spring, and fall, along with the pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots and the greasy Boston Red Socks baseball cap. With a beer gut that hung out over his belt, he was a classic.

“I'm George, George Deevers,” I told him.

“Marty Sims,” he answered as he dropped the big White into gear and steered it down the long ramp toward the Interstate.

I looked around the cab, surprised at how spacious it was. It even had a built-in sleeping compartment up behind the front seats. “This is nice in here, Marty. You could almost rent out rooms.”

“Yeah, but when you're in here all day long except for meals, for maybe a couple of weeks on-end, it don't seem big at all.” He looked over and studied me for a moment. “Where you goin’, Son?”

“There's a wedding in Chicago I've got to be at.”

“Yeah? Looks like you're travelin’ light. No suitcase? No bag? I had to do that myself a couple of times, travel light and fast, and staying one step ahead of the cops.”

“You were a bad guy, Marty?

“I wouldn't say bad exactly, but I shot a man once.”

I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I didn't try. I sat back in the seat and tried to relax as the truck picked up speed. The cab was plush, with nice seats, all leather, and a laptop computer and a CB radio on brackets fastened to the dashboard.

“A laptop?” I asked. “You've got to be kidding. ”

“A driver's worst problem used to be a bad disk in his back or hemorrhoids. Now it's a bad disk in his computer and viruses in his e-mail. Most truck stops have Wi-Fi now and our “paper work” is all electronic. I have to check in every night to get new pick-up orders, routings, bills of lading, all the rest of that crap.”

“And a CB? What's happening out there?” I asked.

“Not much. A couple of accidents, some come-ons from the hookers back in Indy, and warnings about where the bears got their radar set up. The usual stuff.”

“The usual stuff, huh?” I said, relieved.

“Now, there was a lot of commotion about two or three hours ago back in Ohio. Some sheriff went missing up in Campbell County, north of Columbus. Him and his car.”

“No kidding?”

“Name was Dannmeyer, and all the little bears are tearing up the woods trying to find Papa.” I saw a sly grin cross his lips. “Funny thing, at least a half-dozen truckers called in sayin’ they'd go the bail for whoever it was put that big prick down.”

“Really! A hard ass, huh?”

“Last year he beat up a couple of truckers in that cracker-box jail of his. Word is he does even worse to women.”

“Maybe he got what he had coming.”

“You know, maybe he did. Maybe he did, at that.” Marty said with a twinkle in his eye as he looked across at me again.

I leaned back in the seat and relaxed. After all the stressful things that had happened to me that day, we weren't on the road for five more minutes before I fell asleep in the corner, slumped against the door. As I faded into that floating world of half-sleep and half-dreams, I saw Terri's face hanging in front of me, all hazy and ephemeral. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but my arms wouldn't quite reach that far. Finally, I dropped into a deep, black well of sleep and I felt her wrap herself around me like a thin, protective haze. Terri. It was strangely comforting to know she was there with me like that. I only wished she would learn how to talk. It would make figuring her out a whole lot easier.