Leaving Death outside, Casey checked out the inside of the shed. The shade was a relief, and she was surprised at the amount of open space. It had been a couple of days since she’d exercised, and she knew she would be able to concentrate on things much better if she could get in a good session. The area was enough for her needs. She pushed the buckets to the corners of the room, clearing even more space, and found a spot to begin, centering herself and her body.
“I’m leaving,” Death said, peeking in the door. “You’re too boring.”
“Good. This time don’t come back.”
Casey’s muscles were sore from sleeping on the ground, and in the truck before that. She began slowly, taking the time to stretch and perform some jumping jacks and sit-ups. Her bad shoulder complained at the fingertip push-ups, but overall her body seemed happy to be moving in the ways it was used to. When she was ready for the actual kata, the hapkido patterns she went through every day, she chose weapons forms, having been reminded that morning how useful it was to have her body ready for the Bo.
A half-hour later she’d had enough, considering that besides her lack of sleep she hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Sweat poured off of her body, and with another glance outside to make sure she was still alone, she removed her bra, running it under the water from the pump. She took off her shoes and rinsed her socks and pants, hanging them to dry in the sun, taking the chance to even wash and wring out her underwear.
Her underclothes dried in almost no time, so she put them on and got herself settled in the shed to go over the information she’d found in Evan’s truck. She piled the burlap sacks to create a semi-soft place to sit, and spread the bag’s contents in front of her on yet another sack.
Picking out the photos, she laid them in chronological order. The earliest ones showed mostly the men Casey had seen, but soon other faces began to appear, along with trucks. One picture showed the blond guy and the man who’d gotten away from Davey’s seated across a table from an older couple in a diner. Casey would guess they were in their upper sixties. The photo had been taken through the front window, and caught Gun Man leaning over, his finger in the couple’s faces, as if he were making a strong point. Blond Guy sat back, arms crossed, smirking. The man’s and woman’s expressions told different stories. The man’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, as if what he was being told surprised or frightened him. The woman didn’t look afraid. She looked pissed. Her eyes were narrow slits, and her lips were tight, her chin thrust out in what had to be defiance. Too bad Evan hadn’t been able to get audio.
Other photos weren’t as clear, and displayed a varying group of people. The woman at the table was the only female, the rest of the truckers being men ranging from young to what could have been considered past retirement age. Blond Guy—Dix, Gun Man had said—and Gun Man were present in most of the photos, with a supporting cast of others from the crash site, including the two Casey had laid out at Davey’s. In all of the situations the men were talking, often violating the truckers’ personal space. In one they stood at the open back of a semi trailer, Gun Man looking up at the load of boxes. In another, Dix was handing a trucker a small package. No chance of telling what it contained. Casey still couldn’t see a pattern, but hoped that would come with studying the rest of the notes.
Leaving the photos spread out in front of her, Casey picked up the stack of truck manifests. These seemed freshly copied and were held together by a large black clip. They listed drivers and their trucks, along with the trucks’ contents, mileage, fuel stops, and the dates they traveled. Casey could see nothing linking the loads or mentioning a trucking company. As Davey had pointed out, the shipments included a wide range of items, from food to computers to lumber. There didn’t seem to be any consistent inventory.
Finally, she picked up Evan’s spiral-bound notebook, in which he’d scribbled things, many of which were just about illegible. With patience and the return of her headache, Casey was able to work her way through them. For the most part, the notes were a companion to the other information—adding a list of names. Dix, aka Owen Dixon, featured prominently in Evan’s notes, just behind Gun Man, also known as Randy Westing. The two others at Davey’s were named as well, along with the rest of what Evan was calling The Team. A real team of winners, from everything Casey could see.
One page of the notebook featured names Casey figured were the truckers’. She was wrong. None of the names matched the names on the manifests. The names in the book, however, were the ones that matched the photos, if she could trust the squiggly writing on their backs. So she had two different groups of people: the people in the photos and notebook, and the people in the manifests. The notebook held more than just names, however. The last page was filled with personal information. Personal as pertaining to the other truckers, not to Evan himself. Casey read over part of the list, which named the people in the photos.
JOHN SIMONES: uk 2008
MICK AND WENDY HALVESTON: 04-09
SANDY GREENE: DV
PAT PARNELL: Carl Billings, sf
HANK NANCE: Jan, Mar, Jul
Casey couldn’t make sense of Evan’s shorthand notes. The one obviously indicated months—but what about them? The months beside Hank Nance didn’t match up with the photos Evan had—the photos came from much later. And the SF by Carl Billings’ name—what was that supposed to mean? Death would probably suggest it meant Safety First.
Casey’s eyes drooped, and her headache had worsened. She piled the papers and slid them back into the plastic bag, deciding she wouldn’t be able to retain any new information even if she found it. After checking outside again for signs of life—well, human life—and seeing there weren’t any, she put on her now-dry jeans and sweatshirt. Back inside, she rolled up the bag in a burlap sack to use as a pillow, and lay down on her makeshift mattress.
It didn’t take more than a few minutes for her body to give up the fight to stay awake.
Chapter Six
She woke with a start. It was dark. So dark she couldn’t see the other end of the shed. Noises came from outside—the sound of tires on gravel. Not heavy tires, like a tractor, but something lighter. The sounds stopped briefly, then resumed, accompanied by footsteps.
“Here they come!” Death’s breath hissed in her ear.
Casey eased silently to her feet, her brain instantly clear of fuzziness. “Here comes who?” Her muscles tingled and her breath deepened, her senses on hyper alert. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she watched the outline of two bicycles and their riders enter the shed. The people kicked the stands to prop up the bikes, not speaking, or even whispering. Casey waited, hands loose at her sides, balanced on the balls of her feet.
Death watched, quiet now, but so close Casey could feel the chill.
The taller of the two shadows turned toward Casey and jumped back, grabbing toward the other.
“Who are you?” The taller one’s voice—a man’s, Casey thought—was husky, and quiet.
“Nobody,” Casey said.
Death chuckled.
“What do you want?” The second figure. Female, this time.
“I was just sleeping. I didn’t take anything.”
The taller one hesitated, but the female stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in the darkness. “There’s nothing here to take.”
More sounds came from the outside, and three additional people came in the door, halting when they saw the postures of the first two.
“What’s wrong?” Another female voice.
The tall one gestured toward Casey. “We have a guest.”
All three new people turned to Casey, one of them flicking on a flashlight and shining it in her face. “What do you want?”
They were very concerned with that.