several faces appeared only once.
“These papers,” Davey said, holding them out at arm’s length and squinting. “Some of ’em are truck manifests. Where the truck had been, where it was going, mileage, load, fuel stops, all that stuff.”
Casey took a bite of an almost-ripe apple and scanned one of the pages. “Do they say what exactly the trucks were hauling?”
Davey shuffled through the pages. “All sorts of things. Grain, office supplies, hardware, frozen broccoli. I don’t see a pattern, right off. I’d need some time with this stuff in order to figure anything out. I’m not an expert on trucking.”
“This is just notes.” Wendell held up a small, spiral-bound notebook. “Names, companies, questions. Like Evan was trying to figure something out by writing it all down.”
Trixie barked outside, the sound harsher than her happy conversational yipping. The barks ended with a loud whine, and then silence. Davey looked out the window, and Casey could see immediately that something was wrong. She scooped the papers, photos and last pieces of fruit into a wastebasket at the side of the desk and grabbed it, heading toward the door where Rachel had appeared earlier. Rachel, who sat at a table with an adding machine, looked up as Casey entered, and Casey put a finger to her lips.
Casey closed the door almost completely, still able to peer out the crack, just around the file cabinet, but from knee level, where no one would think to look.
Davey stood, plunking cups of coffee down on the desk where they’d been working, one in front of Wendell, and one at his spot. He was just sitting back down with a donut when a man came in the door—a man Casey recognized from the crash site and from the photos in the wastebasket—the man who had climbed up into the cab and yelled at Evan not to die.
“Help you?” Davey said, his voice an attempt at casual. Casey hoped the man couldn’t hear the underlying nervousness.
“Hope you can,” the man said. “I believe you met some of my friends last night, and you didn’t show them any of our famous Midwestern hospitality.”
Davey took a bite of donut and chewed it. “Don’t recall as I’m supposed to be charming to folks who trespass in the wee hours of the morning.”
The man smiled. “The middle of the night—just when people might need your help the most.”
Casey glanced around the small room where she found herself. There were two small windows, and a larger one probably meant as an emergency exit. She studied it, hoping it could be opened without noise.
“You have something I want here in your junk yard,” the man said. “A semi, would’ve come in yesterday, late afternoon.”
“Sounds familiar,” Davey said. “What’s your business with it?”
“Don’t think I need to tell you that, do I?”
Rachel had gotten up from her chair to join Casey, and she pinched two buttons together on the right-hand side of the window. The pane slid quietly sideways, to reveal a screen. With another pinch the screen lifted up and out, squealing. Casey froze.
“If there’s something in it you’re looking for, I could tell you if we found it or not,” Davey said. “We’ve been through it pretty good.”
“And?”
“Didn’t find much. Nothing unusual, anyhow.”
Casey let out her breath. The man hadn’t heard the screen. She stuck her head out the window, hoping he didn’t have an accomplice standing just outside. No one there. If he had a partner, he was probably out front.
“I don’t think you’d find what I’m looking for,” the man said. “It was probably hidden.”
“Well, then, I don’t guess you were meant to find it, were you?” Davey took a loud a sip of coffee.
“I think I was,” the man said. “And you’re going to help me.”
Davey and Wendell both exclaimed, and Casey dashed back to the crack in the door. The man was pointing a gun across the counter, directly at Davey’s face.
Casey mouthed a thank you at Rachel, who was punching 911 into her phone, and eased the wastebasket liner, along with the papers and photos, from the trashcan. She tied the top with a loop and held it, climbing onto a chair to ease out of the open window, right leg first. She swung her left leg out, then hung onto the window frame, dropping quietly to the ground. She held her breath, listening. No movement outside. Not even Trixie, who lay motionless in the driveway.
On her hands and knees, Casey crawled to the back of the trailer, and saw no one there. A stack of crates sat at the front corner of the trailer, so she couldn’t see around to the front. She lay on her stomach and looked underneath. Two sets of feet. She sat on her heels. The man inside had a gun, so she had to assume these two did, as well. The first man would be bringing Davey and Wendell outside soon, and she wanted to get these others out of the way before she dealt with him.
Quietly, she slid the bag of papers as far underneath the trailer as she could, then looked around for something to use as a weapon. Bricks. Rocks. A shop broom. She grabbed the broom and twisted the head until she freed the stick. She stood and balanced it in her hands. Heavier than the Bo she used in hapkido, but about the same length.
Taking a deep breath and centering herself, she stood with her left side against the crates, her back against the trailer. She held the broomstick against her right side, her right arm extended along underneath it, resting the stick on her fingers, the back of her left hand flat against her right shoulder, the stick balanced on her palm.
She scraped her foot along the ground, the gravel loud in the quiet afternoon.
One of the men out front said something, and she heard footsteps. He came around the corner, turning toward her when he cleared the crates. Casey swung the stick upward, striking him in the groin. He bent over with a grunt, and she stepped forward, sweeping the stick over her head to strike him on the back of the neck. He sprawled at her feet, unconscious.
The second man ran around the corner, gun extended. Casey rocked back, pivoting on her left foot and swinging the stick upward. It hit the man’s wrist, knocking his arm back, but he held onto the gun. Pulling the stick forward, Casey hit the bony back of his wrist, and the gun flew about ten feet away. The man lunged toward it, and Casey leapt after him, striking the side of his knee with the point of the stick.
He screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his now-useless knee. Casey jumped forward, flicking the gun away with her staff, and swung the stick around under the man’s chin, lifting his face toward hers. “Who
He groaned, his eyes bright with pain.
The door to the trailer slapped open and Wendell walked down the steps, his face white. Davey came next, followed by the man with the gun, who held the pistol against his thigh. When he saw Casey he dropped the casual pose and wrapped his arm around Davey’s neck, holding the gun at his temple.
Casey looked quickly for the gun on the ground, but she’d knocked it too far away for her to reach. The man on the ground gave a strangled half-laugh, half-groan, and Casey swung the stick from under his chin and knocked the side of his head, putting him out of his immediate misery, laying him flat out on the ground. She faced the last man, the stick balanced in her hands.
“You again?” the man said, a mocking smile on his face. “Dix will be glad to hear you’re still around.”
“Dix?”
“My friend you met at the accident yesterday. You embarrassed him in front of the guys.”
“You can tell him I’m not sorry.”
The man laughed. “Oh, I’ll tell him. Now, honey, why don’t you just put down that little stick of yours.”
Casey gripped the staff tighter.
“Put it
Casey clenched her jaw, then slowly lowered the stick to the ground. She rose, her hands palms-out at her shoulders. “Let the men go.”
“And do what with them? Let them go back inside and call the cops? I don’t think so.”
The sound of a siren split the air.
Casey kept her hands up. “Guess they won’t have to call now, will they?”
The man looked wildly at his fallen comrades, then dropped his gun hand and ran around the trailer. Casey
