Cervantes sped down the road toward us and slammed the brakes a few seconds too late. The car screeched past, leaving a wave of burnt rubber in its wake. I scrunched my nose against the odor as I climbed into the backseat of the sedan. The vehicle had been on long enough that it had sufficiently cooled down. I pulled my sweat-soaked collar away from my neck while leaning back against the seat.
The two detectives held a hushed conversation that I didn’t bother to lean in closer to hear. By this point I realized if they wanted my input, they’d tell me what I should say. Cervantes nodded at Pennington, then shifted into drive and pulled away from the skid marks.
“The witness says she never saw a van or a truck drive by,” Pennington said.
“Where’s this road come out?” I asked.
Cervantes glanced up in the rearview. “Pretty close to where she was stranded. She would’ve noticed if Cassie was taken back that way, especially with how wound up the lady was after hearing the accident.”
“Or she might’ve missed it for that very reason,” I said. “Or forgot, what with all the other thoughts going through her mind at that time. We sure she wasn’t cowering in her back seat, afraid she heard a gunshot and someone was coming for her next?”
Cervantes shook his head and turned his gaze back toward the road. His death grip on the steering wheel told me he didn’t care for my assessment.
“I’m not trying to be contrary for the sake of it,” I said. “But we gotta consider these things.”
Pennington intervened yet again. “Hey, now, we get where you’re coming from. But if Novak took her that way—,” he aimed his finger over my shoulder, “—then they could be anywhere right now.”
“They already are anywhere right now,” I said.
“We know what’s back there, Tanner.” Pennington faced forward in his seat. “We’re gonna see what’s up ahead. Hell, maybe they ran off the road.”
“I don’t doubt that possibility.” I pictured Cassie in my mind, never giving up. “That girl’s a fighter.”
“She is,” Pennington said. “Any of us went through what she did, forget about it. We’re not coming through it like her. She’ll hang in there long enough for us to get to her. Bank on that.”
The sky grew overcast in a matter of minutes while we raced down the winding country road. The woods gave way to pastureland. Dozens of cows lined up along a splintered wooden fence as if a passing car was a big event.
Pennington had his phone held up. He was manipulating a map on the screen. “Couple of miles, we’re gonna come across a gas station.”
“I’ll stop there,” Cervantes said. “Maybe someone saw something.”
“How likely is it Novak would stop five minutes after leaving the woods?” I said.
“How likely is it the guy would abduct the woman who was responsible for putting him away? The guy’s crazy, so maybe we need to think a little crazy ourselves.” Pennington rolled down his window and let the wind rush overtake the conversation.
A couple of minutes later the gas station crept into view. A rusted roof over the pump island stood out in the deserted parking lot. If not for a neon open sign next to the front door, I would’ve thought the place had long since been deserted.
Cervantes pulled up next to a pump and cut the engine. We sat there for a moment. The heat quickly penetrated the cabin through Pennington’s open window. The cicadas ended their momentary silence and sang their shrill song from behind rows of palmettos.
Behind the front window a man looked out at us as we exited the car and approached the store. Anyone with half a brain could tell we were cops. So the question was did this guy have something to fear from us? If so, it wouldn’t be as easy to get any information out of him. He’d be too afraid of uncovering his own tracks.
The door jingled as Pennington pulled it open. He remained in place and held it for me and Cervantes. It seemed they wanted to keep me between them. And I had no doubt they wanted me to keep my mouth shut while inside the store. I’d oblige, for a minute or two. If I didn’t like the way the questioning was heading, I’d make my mark.
The guy behind the counter pegged us for cops right away. His lips drew tight and his eyes danced around the store. Drugs? Guns? He was giving away something, but not what we were there for.
“How ya doing, buddy?” Pennington strode up to the counter, hands in his pockets. Seemed a stupid move to me. No telling what the clerk had hidden behind the counter. The guy could pull out a .357 and that’d be all she wrote for Pennington.
The clerk nodded and glanced over Pennington’s shoulder at me and Cervantes.
“Can I get a pack of Camels and some matches?” Pennington said.
The clerk turned to the wall of cigarettes and reached for the Camels. Pennington leaned across and took a look around.
“What are you doing?” The clerk drew his hands tight to his chest as though the pack of smokes would protect him.
“You got surveillance in here?” Pennington said.
“Wha—why?” If the guy could’ve retreated into the wall, he would’ve at that point.
Pennington spread his arms, placed his hands wide on the counter, making himself look larger and more intimidating. “You see a van come through here in the past two or three hours?”
The clerk’s tight face relaxed for a beat as he realized we weren’t there to shake him down. “You-you guys are-are cops?” He must’ve been a thespian in a past life with the way he pulled that line off.
Cervantes and I moved in closer. The label on the clerk’s shirt said his name was Craig. I decided to break rank and say something.
“You know we are, Craig. Now at the moment, we aren’t here to look into what you’ve been doing during your downtime.”
Craig’s eyes darted to his laptop and his hand slowly moved toward it.
“Just leave that where it is,” Pennington said.
“Craig, just answer the questions as they are asked and we’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes,” I said.
Cervantes leaned in and bumped my shoulder. A subtle gesture telling me I better shut the hell up. Now.
“Back to the van,” Pennington said. “You seen one?”
We weren’t one hundred percent sure it was a van. The forensics team would need to gather all the evidence from the tire imprints, match the tread to specific tires, measure the distances between the impressions, and so on. From that, they could make a determination on types of vehicles and in some cases, provide specific models. But eyeballing and spitballing, I’d call it a van.
“Couple hours ago,” Craig said. “An old Dodge or Ford, primer gray, a panel van.”
“A family? Man and a woman? Hunting dogs? Migrant workers? A load of illegals?”
Craig furrowed his brow and stared out the window at the vacant gas pumps. “It was a guy. He pumped some gas then came in for some coffee, water, few other things. He kept, um, glancing out at the van.”
“That seem strange to you?”
Craig shrugged at the suggestion and smiled. “I mean, what’s strange, right? Maybe he loves his van.” His gaze darted toward his laptop screen. The guy folded his arms over his chest as his face grew serious. “What was strange was the cut on his head. He kept dabbing at it with an oil-stained rag.”
“Which pump were they at?”
“They?” The clerk looked confused.
“Him.”
“Three.”
Pennington looked back at Cervantes and nodded. Cervantes tugged on my sleeve and we exited the store.
“What are we doing out here?” I said.
“Trash digging.” The man headed right for the trash barrel next to the pump. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You know that ain’t gonna happen today.”
“A man can hope, can’t he?”
Cervantes rifled through the trash without even donning a pair of gloves. It was enough to make someone with a lesser stomach sick on the spot.
“You look like a natural at that,” I said.
“Eat me.” After a couple of minutes, he stopped, looked up at me and shook his head.
“Not a damn thing,” I said.
He nodded, wiped his hands on his pants.
The door flung open and Pennington ran over to us.
“What’s up?” Cervantes said. “You got something?”
Pennington smiled as he hid something behind his back.