He hesitated. “All right. It’s actually a couple who runs the place. Matt and Nadine Williams. Deerfield Trucking. Foraker, like I said.” He gave her the phone number.
“Thanks, Davey. And please thank Tom for me.”
“Thank him yourself. He’d like to hear how this works for you.”
Casey sighed. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
She shut the phone and filled her cheeks with air.
“These folks sure want to be involved, don’t they?” Death said. “Won’t just leave you to your own devices.”
“They’re good people.”
“And nosey.”
“Not really. Interested.”
She watched out the windshield, her hands limp in her lap.
Death gave a little cough. “So, are we going to continue on to Wichita, or are we taking a break here?”
Casey shook herself and shifted into drive. She swallowed.
“You got this far,” Death said. “You can go a little farther.”
Casey looked in the side mirror. Lots of traffic. Lots and lots of it. More cars and trucks than she ever imagined.
“It’s clear,” Death said.
Oh.
Slowly Casey eased back onto the highway, chugging along at minimum speed. Cars and trucks flew past her, the semis rattling both the pickup and her nerves.
“Prepare to exit freeway onto Route 254 in two miles.” The GPS’ female voice was soothing, as if it knew exactly where it was and who it was talking to.
“That’s nice,” Death said. “Very confident and calming. I think we should name her. Uma, maybe?”
“That’s calming? Kill Bill?” Images of spurting blood and exposed brains filled Casey’s mind.
“Okay. We’ll name her Laura Ingalls Wilder. Is that better?”
Casey watched the road signs and tried to ignore Death’s banter, not wanting to miss the turn and prolong this trip.
“Prepare to exit freeway,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said. “Route 254.”
“Is this right?” Casey asked, panicked. “We’re not in Wichita yet.”
“Suburb,” Death said. “Just outside city limits. Don’t freak out.”
The GPS dinged, and Casey turned off of the highway, her heart pumping. She followed the GPS’ directions faithfully, if anxiously, and found her way to Pat Parnell’s residential section. As Wendell had said, it was a new development outside the center city, with roads named after people. Patrick Road, Jennifer Street…Olivia Lane.
“You have arrived at your destination,” Laura said.
Casey pulled into the driveway of the new house beside a semi, which sat without a trailer to the side of the garage. She hoped that meant Parnell was home.
Death stared at the house. “That’s really something.”
Casey had to agree. Obviously newly built, the two-story house sported a three-car garage, multiple dormers, and a spiral turret on the corner. The yard—half dirt—lay spotted with dead young trees, still tied to poles, and two raised flowerbeds, empty of all but weeds. The huge backyard held one of those wooden playground structures with two slides and a climbing wall, and Casey could just see the edge of a swimming pool.
Death gestured toward the front door. “Ready?”
Casey took a deep breath, centering herself, trying to forget what she’d just done. She hadn’t driven a vehicle for almost a year and a half, and she was feeling it from her head to her toes. She rolled her neck forward, easing the tension, and tried to imagine a happier time.
That didn’t work.
“Somebody’s looking out the front window,” Death said.
When Casey looked up, the face was gone. She took another deep breath, let it out, and opened the door.
The brick sidewalk led to a decorative front door, and the doorbell rang deep and loud. Nobody answered, so Casey knocked, and rang the doorbell again. While she waited she studied the barren flowerbeds, decorated only with a sign declaring the house “guarded by Ironman Security.”
“Who is it?” The voice blared on an intercom, hidden behind a hanging plant by the door.
“My name is Casey Jones. I’m a friend of Bailey Rossford. May I please talk to you? Mr. Parnell?”
After another long minute, the door opened, and Casey tried to cover her surprise. The man in front of her was obviously the same man from Evan’s photos, and from the picture at Bailey’s house, but life had not been treating him well. His puffy, bloodshot eyes were sunken, his skin held a grayish tinge, and he’d lost probably thirty pounds. He winked his left eye, but Casey was sure he didn’t mean to. His hands jerked, his knuckles cracked, and he glanced furtively over her shoulder. Casey looked back, but Death had disappeared. Even so, she wondered if Parnell felt Death’s presence.
“May I come in?”
Parnell swallowed. “What’s this about? You’re not from the bank?”
“I’m definitely not from the bank.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “And you’re a friend of Bailey’s? Danny, too?”
“Her dad? No, I don’t know him.”
He glanced behind her again, as if scoping the street, before stepping back. “Come in, then.”
Casey tried not to react to the inside of the house. She supposed she should’ve recognized the empty flowerbeds and dead trees as clues, but what she saw here took her completely by surprise.
There was nothing there.
No furniture, no pictures on the wall, not even any curtains. The interior smelled like a mixture of new carpet and stale laundry—not exactly pleasant.
Casey gazed at the foyer’s vaulted ceiling and chandelier and wondered if the upstairs was as unoccupied as the first floor. She couldn’t hear any sounds. Not even air-conditioning.
“Come through here.” Parnell led her through a hallway that went from front to back of the house and ended in the kitchen. There was furniture here—one card table and one battered folding chair. On the counter sat two photos—one of three children, and one of a high school football team. Parnell gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”
Casey chose to stand, looking out the sliding door into the back yard. The swimming pool she’d seen was empty, its bottom caked with leaves and dirt, and the swings on the swingset hung limp, water pooled in the plastic seats. A pole with empty birdfeeders tilted toward the ground, and a broken birdbath, its top cracked in two, crumbled beside it.
And Casey thought her life was depressing.
“What do you want?” Parnell stood beside her, shoulders sagging, no spark in his eyes.
Casey set her bag on the card table and pulled out the photo of him taking the package from Owen Dixon. “That’s you.”
He glanced at the photo, looked back out the sliding door, then slumped into the folding chair. “Where did you get that?”
“The trucker who was killed on Sunday had it.”
“Evan. I knew he was up to something.”
“You knew Evan?”
“Sure. He was one of the guys, you know? I mean, the ones you run into at truck stops or picking up a load. Another independent operator, like me. Nice guy.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Can I get you some water?” Casey didn’t wait for an answer, but walked around the counter to the sink. She searched through several empty cupboards before finding a stack of plastic cups. She chose one, rinsed it out, and gave him a drink.
He sipped gingerly. “Last time I saw Evan, he was asking questions.”
“About what?”
Parnell looked down at his drink. “Class A.”
“The trucking company. You work for them?”
“Off and on. Whenever they call.” He looked blankly at the equally blank wall.
“But don’t you get called by other companies? As an independent operator you can work for any outfit you want, right? Isn’t that how it works?”
“That’s how it works.”
“Places like Southwest Trucking? Tom Haab?”
He nodded. “Sure, I’ve driven for them. I like driving for them.” His voice was wistful.