The Grim Reaper's Dance

She pushed on her eyes with the heels of her hands. “We were talking about kids, and families, and jobs…he said Willie Yonkers’ family can’t stand him, but that he has more money than he knows what to do with. Evan was jealous.”

“And you think this is the same man?”

“How many people named Yonkers can travel in the same circles? It’s got to be him.” She glanced up at the sun. “If I hurry, I can…no, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Use the library’s computer. They won’t let you without an ID.”

“Bailey will probably have her laptop after school.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to wait that long.” She growled with frustration. Not having identification was more of a problem than she had ever realized.

“Well, you have to go anyway, or you’re going to be late.”

Death was right. Casey crept from her hiding place, leaving the bag, but taking her turned-off phone. Whenever she heard a vehicle she ducked into a field, if one was available, but each day there were fewer fields remaining unharvested. She just had to cross her fingers and hope the farmers on the tractors didn’t wonder too much who she was and what she was doing, traveling along their quiet road.

She arrived in town about fifteen minutes early and tried to walk as unobtrusively as possible, going down Main Street instead of the residential sections, where a stranger would stand out. There weren’t many people about, and when a car drove past she simply averted her head, looking toward shop fronts. The library parking lot, when she arrived, was mostly empty. Casey didn’t see Westing’s Explorer—not that she really thought it would be there, but it would be stupid not to look—and of course didn’t know what kind of vehicle Wendy Halveston drove.

Casey stood in the shade of a tree for several minutes, waiting until the clock on the bank’s sign across the street showed nine-o’clock. The library was a two-story building, the first floor actually a sort of basement, down the side of a hill, with the main entrance on the upper level, on Main Street. Casey avoided the front door and went inside on the lower floor, through a back door. The basement was cool and quiet, with dark conference rooms and a closed door declaring AV Equipment.

She came upon the open door of a staff room and would have snuck in for one of the bagels she saw on the counter if it hadn’t been for the woman dunking a tea bag into a cup of steaming water. Stomach rumbling, Casey walked quickly past.

She took the stairs slowly, listening for other people, but saw no one until she reached the upper floor. The door opened into the children’s section, and Casey moved quietly past a small play area, where a few mothers sat with toddlers, and found the reference section. Watching a few rows over from between stacks of books she could see only one person in the reference area. She hoped it was Wendy. She went over.

“Mrs. Halveston?”

The woman spun around.

“I’m Casey Jones.”

“Where did you come from? I was watching.” Wendy’s hand fluttered toward the front desk, and then down. Casey recognized the older woman from the picture in the diner. She didn’t look angry today, however. She looked worried.

“Shall we sit?” Casey indicated a table with chairs, which was surrounded by dictionaries, encyclopedias, and books on such varied topics as the greatest American plays and Civil War-era foods.

The woman sank into the closest chair and clasped her hands together on the table. Looking into her face, Casey thought the poor woman was getting even less sleep than she.

Mrs. Halveston looked furtively around the library, as if expecting someone else to come jumping out of the stacks. “Why did you call me?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Casey said. “Why did you call back?”

Her mouth twitched. “I’m just…it’s just…”

“I know about Class A Trucking.”

Mrs. Halveston’s eyes filled with tears. “Class A Trucking.” It sounded like she wanted to spit. “What is it you know?”

“What do you want me to know?”

Mrs. Halveston reached into her purse and pulled out a wadded tissue, which she used to angrily wipe away tears. “It depends who you are, doesn’t it? If you’re with them, or if you’re not.”

“Class A?”

Mrs. Halveston waited, chin up, tissue clenched in her fingers.

“I’m certainly not with them, “ Casey said. “In fact, I’m doing everything in my power to stay away from them. But…I would like to catch them at whatever they’re doing and stop them.”

Mrs. Halveston sniffled, and held the tissue against her eyes for a few moments. When she looked back up she said, “They drove him to it, you know.”

Casey blinked. “Who? Drove him to what?”

“Patty.” Mrs. Halveston closed her eyes. “Poor man. I never thought he’d do it.”

Patty. “Pat Parnell. He killed himself?”

“Killed hims—No. Heavens, no. He just ran away. Left it all. Called Mick, said he was getting out, that he wasn’t up for it anymore. Left his truck at the lot and took off. He’s…he’s completely broken.”

Casey could’ve told her that.

“I’m not going to let them do that to Mick.”

Mick. “Tell me what’s going on, Mrs. Halveston. Please. I don’t understand.”

The woman gazed out the large window beside the table, which overlooked the back parking lot and the tops of several homes, but Casey didn’t think she was seeing anything other than her own thoughts. Casey kept herself from pushing—the woman would tell her story in her own time.

“Mick had…an accident. With his truck.” She glanced at Casey, and Casey nodded to show she knew of the crash that killed an entire family. “After that he couldn’t get work anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be driving with his condition, but driving truck is…it’s what he does.” She turned pleading eyes on Casey, and Casey tried to remain expressionless. While she felt sorry for Mick, she felt ten times sorrier for the family he’d killed when he’d known he had a potentially fatal medical condition.

“He could only find odd jobs,” Mrs. Halveston said. “I was clerking at the grocery store, but that wasn’t enough to pay the bills. He felt responsible, and he tried to find something different, really he did, but nothing came up. Class A called him. Said they were a new company and were willing to use him as a driver, even with his… shortcomings.”

Shortcomings that killed people. “So he took the job?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Halveston’s voice was a whisper now. “I tried to get him to say no, but he wanted to drive. Needed to drive. So I did what I could—I quit my job and said I was traveling with him wherever he went to make sure he didn’t…to make sure he was okay.”

So Class A Trucking hired a man who legally shouldn’t drive. Why? “How did they get around the legalities?” She asked, but she already knew.

Mrs. Halveston hiccupped. “They gave him false identification. A new driver’s license. Made his alter ego younger, healthier. He was so much happier than he’d been in the years since the accident. He was driving again, and everything was going great.”

And everyone on the road was in danger of being crushed when he fainted and his semi crashed. “What was his name on his new license?”

“Simon. Simon Rale.”

A match to one of the names in Evan’s packet. Casey wondered which names fit the other drivers. What had Pat Parnell’s fake name been? Hank Nance’s? And what was keeping them legally off the road?

“So,” she asked, “what happened? Why are you even talking to me?”

Mrs. Halveston pierced her with her eyes. “Because things didn’t stay great. First it was just a gift we had to deliver to the boss’ nephew across state lines. It was wrapped up all pretty in a bow. We didn’t think twice about it—we were just happy to help out, since Class A had helped us. We took it, and that was that…” She paused, looking down at the table.