The Grim Reaper's Dance

Casey jumped. “Would you stop that?”

“Without the kids you’d be screwed. No money, no clothes, no way to be in touch with people.” Death’s chin tilted toward Terry’s phone. “You thought about who else you could call on that phone?”

Of course she had. Her brother, Ricky. Her lawyer. Eric.

“If I call any of them I might as well just call Pegasus and the cops and tell them where I am. You know Ricky’s phone is being watched, especially now that—” She shook her head. “You know my real name came out in Clymer.”

“I would assume so. But maybe Ricky got a new phone.”

“Which I wouldn’t have the number for.”

Death acknowledged the problems. “So we’re pretty much in a deep, dark hole.”

“Thank you so much for your helpful observations.”

“I aim to please.”

Casey sat down to tie her shoes.

“So,” Death said. “What first?”

“First, I give our friend Bruce Willoughby a call.” She dialed the hospital and asked for his room. The phone rang and rang until Casey finally hung up. She re-dialed, and when the receptionist answered, she asked if Mr. Willoughby had been released—although she couldn’t imagine it. The receptionist assured her Mr. Willoughby was still booked into his room.

“Must be in surgery, or getting tested,” Casey told Death. “I’ll try later. Now for Mr. Pat Parnell.” She picked up the phone and dialed the number, listening as the phone requested she listen to the music while her party was being reached. A song from Oklahoma! blared in her ear and she held the phone several inches away.

“What are you going to say?” Death asked. “‘You don’t know me, but I’m about to ask you a whole lot of personal questions?’”

“’Lo.” A gruff voice answered.

“Hello,” Casey said. “Mr. Parnell? I’m a friend of Bailey’s, and—”

“Bailey Rossford? Danny’s little girl?”

“That’s right. Although she’s not so little anymore.”

“You got that right. Anyhow, what is it?”

“I was wondering if we might be able to get together to talk.”

“About what?” His voice chilled a few degrees.

“About…trucks.”

“Trucks?”

“And driving them.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t know what—”

“You know what happened this past Sunday, in Blue Lake.”

Casey could hear him breathing.

“I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“I don’t know why you would think that. I have nothing to do with what happened. Besides, I’m not driving again till Friday.”

“Mr. Parnell. I have pictures.”

His breath hitched. “Pictures? Of what?”

“Of you. With them. Owen Dixon and Randy Westing.”

“But I haven’t…what is this? Who are you?”

“I want to help…Mr. Parnell, please—”

But he’d hung up.

“That went well,” Death said.

Casey leaned back against the wall. “And now he’s probably going to call Bailey’s dad, asking why some strange woman was calling him.”

“Or not.”

“You don’t think he will?”

Death blew a chord on the harmonica, salvaged from the creek. “Not if he’s into something shady. He won’t want his friends to know.”

“Unless Bailey’s dad is involved somehow.”

“Wow.” Death lowered the harmonica. “You really do think the worst of people, don’t you?”

“Not everybody.” She looked up her notes and punched another number into her phone.

“Wainwright’s.”

“Davey?”

“Hey, I’ve been wanting to call you, but you aren’t answering and…this is a different number.”

“Yeah. Forget that other one. While you’re at it, forget this one, too. Any word from Tom about that database?”

“Not yet. But I had somebody call this morning, ask where I sent the truck. It was a guy, and the number was blocked.”

“Did you tell them where it went?”

“Sure. No reason not to. It’s a huge junk yard, with lots of employees. These bozos will have a hard time pulling anything off there. And I warned the guys there about the possible interest in the truck. They’ll be ready.”

“Good.” No reason for more people to get hurt. “What will they do if Westing shows up?”

“Stall him. They’ll let him at the truck, but they’ll make it take a long time. And they’ll give me a call.”

“Great work. Thanks. Will you let me know if Tom calls?”

“At this number?”

“It’s the only one I have for now.”

“And where is this number?”

“Good-bye, Davey.” She hung up.

“He’s going to find you, you know.” Death blew in the harmonica. “One of these times.”

“If he’s the worst person to come calling, I can deal with that. Seems to me that’s the least of our worries.”

“Unless he and the others find you at the same time.”

“You are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“I try. So, what next?”

“I have Pat Parnell’s address in Wichita.”

“And no way to get there. Davey?”

“He’s involved enough. Maybe Wendell today.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “You trust him?”

“He covered for me.” She flipped the phone open and dialed information. The operator put her through to the garage where Wendell worked.

“Blue Lake Gas,” a man said. The bored one, Casey guessed.

“May I speak with Wendell Harmon, please?”

“Minute.” The receiver crashed down—onto the counter, probably—and the man hollered Wendell’s name.

A couple minutes later Wendell came on the line.

“Wendell, it’s Casey.”

“Hey! Where are you?”

Everyone was so concerned about that.

“Around. Any chance you could drive me to Wichita today?”

“Wichita?” He paused, and when he came back, his voice was muffled, like he was speaking behind his hand. “What do you need there?”

“Somebody I want to visit.”