The Grim Reaper's Dance

Nadine cocked her head. “And why is that?”

“You saw what happened to Evan.”

“And you think it could happen to me, too?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want you to take the chance.”

Nadine looked at the computer for a few moments, then clicked out of the screen and deleted the site from her browser history. “You were never here.”

“Thank you.” Casey tried not to look too relieved. Besides wanting to protect Nadine, she also wanted to protect her own identity.

“But if you need anything more,” Nadine said, “you have my number.”

Casey stood. “Your receptionist still out there?”

“And still blind as a bat. But I’ll check for others.” She opened the door and peered into the lobby. “All clear. Can’t promise about the parking lot, though.”

Casey pulled the seed cap from her bag, where she’d stashed it for just such an occasion. “Thanks, Nadine. You’ve been great.”

Nadine took a deep breath through her nose. “If someone’s out there endangering truckers, I want them stopped. And if you can stop them…I’m all for that.”

Casey averted her head from the sight-impaired receptionist, and ducked out to the parking lot.

Chapter Twenty

Casey was surprised to find the truck unoccupied when she got in, and wondered what kind of trouble Death was off causing. She looked at the empty seat across from her and wondered if she would be able to drive without the distraction of a passenger—even if that passenger was the Grim Reaper.

The dashboard clock said it was four-thirty, and Casey was determined to return Wendell’s truck on time. She started the pick-up and pulled out of the parking lot, narrowly missing a car pulling in. The man at the wheel looked at her with surprise, pulling sharply to the right. Casey waved an apology and turned onto the street. Great way to not get noticed.

“Make a legal U-turn,” Laura Ingalls Wilder said from the door pocket.

Casey didn’t need to go back to Deerfield Trucking, and she didn’t need Laura harping at her for this trip, as she knew where she was going, so she shut off the application. From what she could see, Bailey had left her several more texts. Casey sighed. Having a teenager after you was worse than a pet dog. She firmly pressed the Off button and felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

It was almost five by the time Casey parked the truck at Blue Lake Gas and Go. Mr. Bored stood in the front door, thumbs hooked in his belt loops as he talked to a customer, whose back was to Casey. Mr. Bored tilted back into the shop, hollering, and Wendell came outside, wiping his hands on a rag. “How’d she do for you?”

“Perfect. It’s been a long time since I’ve been behind a steering wheel. I was more worried about how I’d do for your truck. But no scratches.” She smiled weakly, remembering the near miss in Deerfield’s parking lot.

The customer talking at the office door turned to go, and Casey averted her face until she heard the car drive away.

“I’m sorry about him,” Wendell said, meaning his boss. “He saw my truck was gone, and wondered what was happening.”

“He’d seen me before. It’s not a biggie.” But the more people knew about her, the more nervous she became.

“So,” Wendell said. “You get yourself something to eat?”

“I did. Thanks.” She pulled out the change.

“No, no, you keep it. Get something later, when your lunch wears off.”

“But—”

“Unless you want to come home with me for supper.”

Casey groaned. A home-cooked meal. It was almost tempting enough… She stuffed the money back in her pocket. “Thanks, Wendell, I’d love to, but I’d better not.”

“Figured that’s what you’d say, but I thought I’d ask. You know my wife would be happy to feed you.”

“I know. I appreciate it. And under normal circumstances…”

“But these are hardly normal. I understand. You need a ride somewhere? I’ll be done here in a half hour.”

Casey thought about where she should go next. Her meeting with Randy wasn’t for seven hours, but she would be arriving a lot earlier. Until then? She needed to find a quiet place where she could make some calls to the truckers.

And maybe take a nap.

“I’m fine,” she told Wendell. “Thanks again for the wheels.”

“Anytime. Need the truck tomorrow?”

“Not that I know of.”

“If you do, come on by. You can have it.”

“Thanks, Wendell. I really appreciate it.”

“I know. Have a good night.”

Casey walked down the sidewalk to the first corner, and when she turned to look back, Wendell was watching her. She waved and disappeared down a side street.

The walk out to the shed felt familiar now, and very soon she saw the weathered wood. She began walking more briskly, but then halted. A harvester was kicking up dust in the field, shooting chaff out the rear as it gathered soybeans. So much for that location. At least for now.

Looking around, Casey turned back toward town, then ducked off to the south and found a still-standing cornfield. There were no tractors in sight, so she clambered through the rows until she could no longer see the road. It was a bit claustrophobic, but she only had to make room for one, as Death was still in absentia.

Not that she was complaining.

Casey got herself settled with her back against three stalks which grew together and pulled out the information she’d gotten from Nadine. Where should she begin?

At random, she picked Hank Nance, the driver who was wanted for failure to pay child support.

“Yo,” he said, answering her call.

“Mr. Nance? My name is Casey Jones. I was wondering if I could talk to you about—”

The line hummed in her ear. She dialed again, wondering if Randy or Owen had warned him off, or if he thought she was someone who had hunted him down for the money he owed. This time he didn’t answer, and she went straight through to voice mail. She left a brief message saying she wanted to talk with him about Class A Trucking, and that if he didn’t call her back, she’d be in touch.

She tried Sandy Greene next.

“Listen, lady,” he said. “I’m not going to talk to you, and you better not call me again, or you’ll be sorry.”

Lovely.

John Simones had a different attitude, but the message was the same. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really don’t know what to tell you. I can’t…please, don’t call me anymore.” And he hung up, too.

Casey sat back, letting her head fall against the corn, feeling the prickly stalk against her scalp. These people were scared. Scared to talk to her—to even answer their phones.

She only had one more number to call. Mick and Wendy Halveston. The couple in the photos. The driver who had killed an entire family when he’d overturned his truck. Casey hoped she’d be able to keep her feelings in check when she talked with them. She dialed. The phone rang until clicking into voice mail, and Casey sighed. Should she leave a message? No. It would just give them a chance to be warned of her call.

She let her hand fall against her shin, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’d pretty much just blown that whole angle.

The Bugs Bunny theme filled the air. The number displayed on the phone was the same one she’d just