Read Odd Interlude Part Two for Free Online Page B

family.
    “My mom and dad live with me, and my sister Berniece, she never married, and my nephew Timmy, he’s eleven, his folks died in a car wreck two years ago. You shoot me, I’m their sole support, it would be awful, please don’t do that to them.”
    I’m stealing the truck of a childless widower who’s devoted to his aging parents, supports a spinster sister, and takes in orphans.
    Standing at the open door, I inquire: “You have insurance?”
    “A good life policy. Now I see it’s not big enough.”
    “I meant truck insurance.”
    “Oh, sure, the rig is covered.”
    “You an owner-operator?”
    “Used to be. Now I’m a company driver for the benefits.”
    “That makes me feel better, sir. Unless they’ll fire you.”
    “They won’t. Company policy on hijack is let it go, don’t fight back, life comes first.”
    “Sounds like a good employer.”
    “They’re nice folks.”
    “You been hijacked before, sir?”
    “This is my first—and I hope last.”
    “I hope it’s my last, too.”
    A cluster of cars and trucks races by on the coast highway at the top of the slope, and their slipstreams spiral into vortexes that spin down the embankment, causing the tall pale-gold grass to flail like the hair of wildly dancing women. No vehicle appears at the top of the exit ramp.
    “Hijackers come in teams,” my victim says. “You being alone sort of disarmed me.”
    “I apologize for the deception, sir. Now walk north a couple miles. If you flag down any traffic, then I’ll kill you
and
them.”
    To my ear, I sound about as dangerous as Pooh, but he seems to take me seriously. “All right, whatever you say.”
    “I’m sorry about this, sir.”
    He shrugs. “Stuff happens, son. You must have your reasons.”
    “One more thing. What kind of load are you hauling?”
    “Turkeys.”
    “There aren’t any people in the trailer?”
    He frowns. “Why would there be people?”
    “I just need to ask.”
    “This rig is a reefer,” he says, pointing to the refrigeration unit on the front of the trailer. “Frozen turkeys.”
    “So any people in there would be frozen dead.”
    “That’s my point.”
    “Okay, start walking north.”
    “You won’t shoot me in the back?”
    “I’m not that type, sir.”
    “No offense, son.”
    “Get moving.”
    He walks away, looking forlorn, Santa stripped of his sleigh and reindeer. As he passes the end of the trailer, without glancing back, he says, “Won’t be easy to fence frozen turkeys, son.”
    “I know just what to do with them,” I assure him.
    When he’s about eighty feet past the rig, I climb into the tractor and pull the door shut.
    This is really bad. I’m embarrassed to have to write about this. I’ve killed people, sure, but they were vicious people who wanted to kill me. I never before stole anything from an innocent person—or from a wicked person, either, come to think of it, unless you count taking a gun away from a bad guy in order to shoot him with it, which I’d argue is more self-defense than theft or, at the worst, unapproved borrowing.
    Taped to the storage ledge above the windshield is a group photo of my victim with an elderly couple who might be his parents, a nice-looking woman of about fifty, who is probably his sister Berniece, and a boy who can be no one but the orphan Timmy. Clipped to the flap door of the storage space above the overhead CB radio is a photo of my victim with a cute golden retriever that he clearly adores, and beside that is clipped a reminder card that in fancy script says JESUS LOVES ME.
    I feel like crap. What I’ve done so far is bad, but I’m about to do even worse.

THIRTEEN
    Some guy with a cold smooth voice says, “Jolie Ann Harmony,” like he wants to spook me.
    So here I am in a dimly lighted room with six dead people in hazmat suits or space suits, or something, with their faces melted and collapsed and grinning like psycho clowns, their teeth kind of glowing green behind their faceplates.