Ted Bell - Spy

He smiled and shook his head. It was a side of Mrs. Daisy Dixon that he’d never imagined. She was such a quiet, churchgoing lady from what he’d seen. When she didn’t have her nose buried in some Nora Roberts novel, she was fixing supper, tending her knitting, mending Franklin’s shirts, or mucking out the barn. He’d never seen her at a single solitary Saturday night square dance, and he’d pretty much decided she had to be one of those foot-washing Baptists who frowned on dancing.

To be truthful, Homer had been a little worried about Mrs. Dixon ever since the boss had left town. All alone out there, and, things being as unpredictable as they’d been lately, it scared him some. She’d always been good to him, the problems he’d had, and he appreciated it maybe more than she knew. It was time to give something back.

But, when he’d mentioned it at work, his idea of just dropping by to check on the missus occasionally, June Weaver had told him in no uncertain terms to leave her be. “You do that, she’ll bless you out from here to next Sunday, Homer Prudhomme,” June had said. “She’s settler stock, Homer, Texas women can take care of their selves. You’ll just make her mad you show up out there looking worried.”

So Homer had left well enough alone. If things got worse in Prairie though, he’d make sure to look in on her or just make up an excuse to call and check. Drop off a new mystery book, maybe.

Homer felt right guilty about sticking with his ghost truck convoy while there was a big fire going in Dolores. But he’d convinced himself it was okay. He’d heard some police radio chatter here about twenty minutes ago, and he knew the other two Prairie PD cruisers and a couple of PFD fire trucks and EMS vans were en route to the scene to render assistance. He’d taken a deep breath, shut his radio off and concentrated on minding his own beeswax.

He knew it was against regs, strictly against regs, but he just couldn’t stand all the police chatter right now. He had to think. Had to concentrate on this trucker mystery he’d stumbled on to. He didn’t know what it was all about yet, but he could guarantee dollars to donuts it wasn’t good. When he got to the bottom of it, and he would, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been wasting anyone’s time.

The big rig hit the brakes for a sweeping curve and Homer slowed it up a bit, too. He was staying five hundred yards back. Just above the rear doors, he’d seen a little camera doohickey. Some of the big trucks were fitted with them these days, so they could see behind them when backing up. He guessed you could turn it on anytime, see who was behind you. Pretty good system.

He was on to something big. He could just feel it.

Homer knew the expression for someone in his position. He was what you called a man on a mission. He’d been following the convoy of eighteen-wheelers for pretty near an hour now. He knew they were headed north, that was for dang sure. North, and by the looks of things, east maybe. Twelve trucks, all headed northeast, carrying God knows what all in those fifty-foot long trailers. Wherever they were going, they’d have to stop for gas at some point. He checked his gauge. Luckily, he’d filled her up just before spotting the convoy.

One by one they’d put their blinkers on;the big rigs had peeled off as they came to different highways. Like it was all pre-arranged, he thought. He had his map spread out on the seat beside him. He’d looked at all the possible routes and decided that all of them were basically headed in a northeasterly direction.

Not one truck had taken a turn that would indicate it was headed west, or circling back to the south. Homer could have picked any one of the trucks to follow. They were all basically the same rigs. Up front, Mack, Freightliner, Kenworth, and Peterbilts. All heavy-duty trucks, standard forty eight-foot aluminum vans, all weighing in at around 26,000 pounds. But they had different logos on the trailers. Even though the cabs were all the same. Funny, he thought, trying to study his map and drive at the same time.

Headed north on Texas Highway #59 out of Laredo, he’d watched them gradually peel off, trying to decide which one would be best to follow. There was no method to it. The big citrus hauler, Big Orange, had turned right off of #59 at Freer. She was headed east over to Alice, Texas maybe. He stayed with the main convoy headed north, biding his time.

At Beeville, Texas, and again at the little one-horse town of Victoria, another truck turned north, heading up Route 181 or 183 to the I-10, most likely. That was the interstate that ran due east to Houston and points north. He stayed with the main body of trucks, taking #59 all the way to the Houston Tollway.

The trucks all must have had EZ-Pass, because they all got in that lane and blew right through. He stayed right with them around Houston, then followed the convoy when it got right back on #59 again headed for the Louisiana border and Shreveport.

But then he got lucky, if you could call it that. At Shreveport, all the trucks got on the I-20 which headed east to Jackson, Mississippi, then northeast up to Birmingham, Alabama, and up to Chattanooga, Tennessee where you could pick up I-75 headed north. All the trucks but one, that is. What happened was, the last truck separating him, it was owned by the Valley Spring Electronics Company, took a right on a two-lane going due east.

Bingorama, as the saying goes.

The truck now in front of him was very familiar. It was the one he’d followed into Gunbarrel. The one that had disappeared inside the garage. The very same one that he and Sheriff Dixon had stopped that terrible night the posse came home without their hats.

It was the same truck, all right, the big Yankee Slugger. When it had braked for a moment on Route #59 just outside of Nacogdoches, Homer had pulled up alongside and tried to look inside the cab.

One thing they’d done to all the Slugger Garage trucks, they tinted all their cab windows dark. Illegally dark, if you wanted to get picky about it. Tinted to almost what he called full limo black. He could pull the truck just for that alone if he wanted to. In his experience, pulling low riders and hot rods, people tinted their windows that dark for only one reason.

So you couldn’t see what they were doing in there. Or, who was in there.

It wasn’t a ghost driving that rig, haunted garage or no.

He was pretty sure of that much, at least.

Homer didn’t believe in ghosts. But, one thing he did know for sure. This truck didn’t run on air. Sooner or later, whoever or whatever was driving that thing was going to have to stop for a pee or diesel. And when it did, watch out. Katy bar the door, as his grandma used to say. He was going to follow this truck until it ran out of diesel fuel and then he was going to climb all over that thing, tear that big rig apart and see what the heck made it tick. He was going to get to the bottom of this case.

Because that’s just what this was. A case. And by God, Homer was on it.

The truck, if you discounted the illegally tinted windows, was acting like a solid, sober, law-abiding citizen. Very conscientious driver, Homer, Sheriff Dixon would say. Never speeding. Signaling every lane change or turn. And, for some reason or other, taking the scenic route. They’d mostly been sticking to the secondary roads instead of the freeways or the Interstate, which raised a question in his mind. Why do that? It was slower. Wherever these trucks were headed, they didn’t seem in much of a hurry to get there.

Never more than a few miles over the posted limit. Stopping completely for every single stop sign (not a “low-rider drive-by,” which meant slowing and then cruising right through) and never, ever crossing the double lines. Of course not, he thought. The truckers, or, whoever, didn’t want to give law enforcement any excuse to pull them.