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Chapter One
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LYNCHVILLE POP. 5150:
James- A salesman sent to a small town to salvage one of his company's most important accounts . . .
Brooke- A young runaway carrying a bag full of stolen money and fleeing a past she'd rather forget . . .
Greg- A violent sociopath who will stop at nothing to catch Brooke . . .
At a gas station just off the interstate, James accidentally rescues Brooke, but Greg isn't far behind. When he catches them there will be hell to pay . . .
That is, if any of them survive Lynchville.
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CHAPTER ONE
The hot wind was as unwelcome as the humid air that had followed James everywhere he had gone. He stood beside his 1986 Toyota Corolla, watching the numbers on the gas pump casually turn. It was the slowest pump he had ever had the misfortune of using and the wind wasn’t making his fill-up any more pleasant as its heated breath whipped the gas’ fumes into James’ face relentlessly.
And it doesn’t get much better when I get into my car. What a time for the air conditioner to break. This is just my lousy luck.
James turned his gaze from the pump toward the store, his eyes on a mission to spot the lone bright spot in the otherwise too hot, too muggy day. The brunette he had seen earlier was no longer using the phone. In fact, she was nowhere in sight.
Oh well.
Maybe she was inside the store. He had looked for a car she might be driving, but there was none in the parking lot, except the one James assumed belonged to the guy working behind the station’s counter. At any rate, it didn’t really matter where she was, she wasn’t going to give James a second glance. Not that he was bad looking, James thought he was okay. The years had certainly been kind to him anyway, as his recent high school ten-year reunion had shown. At first, he had been reluctant to go, after all, he was quite convinced he was a failure in life. A lack of self-confidence and the resulting low ambition had led him to a modest job as a sales rep in a relatively new, family-owned company. Not much job security, though the pay was good. Then again, the extremely long hours more than offset his pay.
Still, his high school reunion had shown him that he at least looked good. It was pleasant seeing some of the jocks who used to make fun of him sporting large guts and the cheerleaders who had ignored him now holding little of the appeal they had once had. Those who remembered James were surprised at how well he looked, how alive and vibrant he seemed, which made James wonder what he might have been if he hadn’t been so downtrodden during his high school years. If endless jeers and jokes had not squashed his self-confidence, what might he have become?
I wonder what they would have thought if I had taken Robin with me?
His fiancé, Robin, would have easily been the most gorgeous woman at the reunion. In fact, no one would have believed that she was even with James, really. But she hadn’t attended. Still, seeing all those other high school superstars with their plain wives had boosted James’ ego, after all, he could not get a date in high school with a mongrel, yet he was soon marrying a woman that would’ve made every ex-jock green with envy.
That was a month earlier, though. Before Robin had left him for some rich banker.
James shook his head and wished he hadn’t even thought of the reunion.
Turning back to the pump, James saw a car pull into the parking lot. It was a red Mustang with dark, tinted windows rolled up. He had air conditioning.
Lucky guy.
The Mustang pulled to the other side of the service island. The driver revved the engine several times as if signaling his arrival before finally cutting off the engine.
Show-off.
Pretending not to pay attention, James glanced back toward the front of the store to see if he could spot the brunette inside. He could only see the tall, skinny clerk who worked there. The clerk seemed to be slapping something against the cigarette racks above the counter.
The door of the Mustang slammed shut. James turned around and saw the guy staring at him. James offered a smile. Mr. Mustang frowned.
"Got a problem?" he asked with a sneer.
James said nothing, instead looking back at the pump.
God, I’m spineless.
With his peripheral vision, James saw Mr. Mustang hurry toward the store, his quick step looking assured and masculine. The guy had to be at least five years younger than James, yet he looked confident, drove a great car, and obviously had done better in life despite the head start James had.
"Got a problem?" James asked himself in a mocking tone.
Yeah, I got a real problem. Me. Wanna make something of it?
Then the gas tank regurgitated some of its contents all over James’ hand and also the side of his car when the nozzle failed to shut-off automatically.
"Shoot!" he exclaimed, instinctively jumping back. All he needed was the stench of gasoline on his hands to go with the strong odor of wood stain that already permeated his vehicle’s interior because of the cargo he carried in his trunk.
He pulled the nozzle from the car and slipped it into its place on the pump.
"Damned primitive station," James muttered.
He grabbed a couple of towels and wiped his hands and the outside of his car with them. James rounded his car and walked to the rear of the gas station so he could wash his hands. He told himself the spill was no big deal since he would have washed his hands anyway, but he didn’t buy it. Things had been slowly getting worse for him ever since Robin left and he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was coming to a head. He was an easy-going, casual kind of guy, but lately things were getting to him. He half-expected to get slammed by a rig on his way out of the parking lot.
Maybe the heat is getting to me. Wearing down my patience.
Pushing open the bathroom door, James found that, unlike the small store in the front of the building, there was no cool air piped into the bathrooms. The heat magnified the stench of feces and urine and made it unbearably noxious. For some reason, the thought of cleaning his hands in this unsanitary "washroom" became a paradox.
The door swung shut behind him. Flies attempted to land on him. Swatting them away, he stepped to the sink, which was uncomfortably close to the toilet in the cramped room. The flies continued to swarm and James had to keep moving to prevent them from landing on him.
Glancing to his left, he saw that someone with dysentery had last used the toilet. Instead of sitting, the previous user had hovered above the toilet. In so doing, he sprayed the seat and the lid with droplets of fecal matter. The jerk hadn’t even bothered flushing. The toilet’s interior contained a thick, brown liquid. Flies crawled all over the solid parts.
I think I’m in hell.
A fly landed on James’ cheek.
"Ugghh!" James grumbled, swatting the fly away. His hand brushed the polluted insect.
There were brown droplets on the side of the sink.
A fly landed on James’ forehead. Cringing, he swatted it away.
James shook his head and retreated from the sink. It turned his stomach to touch the doorknob, but it was a small sacrifice to get out of the blighted room. The thought of complaining crossed his mind, but he couldn’t condemn someone for not wanting to enter the bathroom, much less clean it.
Outside, James drew in the humid, but clean air and relished every last ounce. He wasted no time going to the women’s bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and the light inside was not on, but James knocked anyway. After a few seconds of waiting, he pushed the door open. When he turned on the light, he saw the bathroom wasn’t half as butchered as the men’s had been.
After washing his hands, James left the bathroom. He rounded the corner to head to the front of the building and nearly ran into Mr. Mustang.
"Watch it!" Mr. Mustang exclaimed, reaching into his half-unbuttoned shirt. He was younger than James, perhaps in his early twenties with huge, muscular arms. Mr. Mustang probably had a perfect life, too. Beautiful girlfriend, big house, nice non-stressful job, and maybe even another girl on the side.
James let him pass and looked over his shoulder afterwards. The guy disappeared around the corner.
"Watch it yourself," James mumbled, knowing Mr. Mustang was too far away to overhear. The thought that the guy might have heard him, made a pang of apprehension squeeze his stomach. What if he had heard? All James needed was to get his ass beaten to a pulp by some punk at a gas station.
Of course, Mr. Mustang hadn’t heard James, since James was far too much of a coward to speak up for himself. The only thing James could take comfort in was knowing what the guy was going to find once he reached the bathroom. The guy probably wasn’t smart enough to attempt to use the women’s room as an alternative option, or maybe he was too masculine to consider such a thing.
Yeah, right. He’s smart enough to have a car like that and confident enough to go wherever the hell he feels like.
Remembering he had some change coming from the fifteen dollars he had paid for the fill-up, James headed into the station. The tall, skinny guy behind the counter stared at James as menacingly as the first time James had entered the store. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, a large yellow flyswatter jutting from his right hand.
There was change on the counter. James guessed it was his.
"My change?" James asked.
The lanky guy gave a slight nod as he watched a fly buzz around the cigarette bins above the counter. He stood unmoving, his eyes flitting about as he stalked the fly’s dizzying flight.
"You should do something about that bathroom," James suggested.
"I got enough shit to deal with," Lanky uttered in his droll, thickly southern, monotone voice. "Like that prick who was in here lookin’ fer that girl. And these flies." The attendant suddenly swatted a fly that had landed on a box of Marlboros. It dropped to the counter in front of James. With the swatter, the guy sent the fly toward James, who moved aside and let the fly hit the floor. There were five or six other dead flies scattered about the floor. "Never seen this many fuckin’ flies in all my life."
"He was looking for the girl?" James slid his change from the counter with his left hand. It dropped into his right. He wondered if the guy with dysentery had touched the counter. James cringed at the thought of all the dead flies that had been there as well.
"Yeah. Shoulda slapped his smartass mouth with this swatter. Be worth getting fired for, that’s fer sure." Lanky smirked. "Not that Steve’d fire me."
Mr. Mustang would have beaten the lanky guy behind the counter to a pulp, James was sure of that.
"You tell him where she was?" James asked, opening his wallet and sliding his bills into it.
"Yeah, I told him she went ‘round back."
"I didn’t see her back there," James said. He put the wallet back into his right pocket and dropped the change into his left pocket. He pulled out his keys.
"That’s ‘cause she ain’t back there no more."
James casually walked toward the door, trying to act uninterested.
"Oh? Where is she now?"
"She’s in your car."
James stopped at the door and turned to see if the guy was smiling. After all, he was surely joking. Lanky’s emotionless face showed no hint of jest. James let a smile slip anyway to show he had gotten the joke.
"You still headed to Lynchville?" Lanky asked.
James had given away his destination when he was paying for his gas earlier. Now he wished he hadn’t. If Mr. Mustang really was looking for the girl and she really was in James’ car, then James might be in the middle of something bad. Lanky wouldn’t hesitate to rat James out.
James turned and looked at his car sitting at the service island. The red Mustang beyond it. No sign of anyone. There was a movement in James peripheral vision. He turned his head to the left and saw Mr. Mustang returning from his bathroom excursion. James swallowed and pushed open the door. He went outside and started walking briskly toward his Corolla. There was no way the Corolla could outrun the Mustang. No way at all. Not even if the Corolla had just rolled off the assembly line and the Mustang’s tank was full of sand.
"Hey!" Mr. Mustang yelled.
James stopped where he was and turned to see that Mr. Mustang was looking at him. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, but it wasn’t the "I work out five times a day" pecs and abs that caught James’ attention, rather it was the gun tucked in the front of his jeans. James pretended not to see it.
"You seen a dark-haired bitch around here? Long legs and short-shorts?"
James nodded. "She’s in the gas station, I think she went into the stock room."
"That skinny little fuck," the driver mumbled. He grabbed the door to the station and pulled it open.
Heart pounding and a chilly sweat on his back, despite the intense heat, James hurried toward his car, careful not to run. When he reached the rear of the vehicle, he got the key ready and jogged the last few steps to his door. There was nothing out of the ordinary in James’ back seat, but he didn’t feel like sticking around to see if Lanky told Mr. Mustang the story about the girl being in the Corolla.
What if Lanky was lying and she is in the back of the store?
What if I just told that guy where she was?
In a few minutes, it might not matter. He’d be gone and it wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
James hopped into the Corolla, trying not to look at the gas station for fear of finding Mr. Mustang wielding his gun and making a run for James. Absently, James flipped the radio on. The Duran Duran tape he had been listening to earlier instantly started with a deafening roar. He didn’t turn it down, however.
After he started the car, James ventured a look at the front of the store. Mr. Mustang was charging out the door. James had never been so sick with anxiety in his life, not even when Robin was dumping him. He did the only thing he could and pretended not to see the guy. Letting off the clutch, James sent the Toyota forward as fast as its age would allow.
Mr. Mustang was running toward the car with the gun in hand, but he didn’t aim it. It was held up so James would see it and fear it, which James did, but his confrontation-avoidance nature kept his right foot firmly planted on the gas. Pausing, as if shocked that James would keep going, Mr. Mustang smiled and went toward his own car.
James looked left and made sure no cars were coming and then shot onto the road. The interstate loomed in front of him. Even if he made it, the Mustang would overtake the antique Corolla in no time. He was screwed and the irony was, he had minded his own business.
"All I did was get gas! Gas for crying out loud!"
James looked back toward the gas station and saw Mr. Mustang opening his trunk. What the hell was the guy doing? Getting a bigger gun? James glanced back at the road ahead to make sure he wasn’t about to run into a ditch. He swerved to get back between the lines and then peered over his shoulder again. The guy was leaning into his trunk.
Breathing a sigh of relief, James realized the guy hadn’t even been after him in the first place. It had only been his imagination. And cowardice. There had been a logical explanation for everything. Because of his fear, he had only seen one scenario playing out--the scenario in which he had himself on the receiving end of more pain and misery.
Moving up the ramp, James looked over his shoulder and saw that the guy was still at the rear of his vehicle. James laughed at his gullibility. Nothing was going on. He had fallen for his mind’s usual illogical leaps.
No wonder I was always on the receiving end of practical jokes in high school, I’m a natural target.
James turned the sound down just a little. He could hear a strange whistling sound above that of the wind rushing through the open windows. James looked in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see bullet holes in his rear window. There were none. He looked over his right shoulder and saw the rear door was ajar. It was the door that usually stuck unless you slammed it.
Yet, he had not opened it.
"Holy shit," he mumbled to himself, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Was the brunette really in his car?
His heart quickened.
No, if it were true, the guy would have come after him. James glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing behind him except a minivan and a blue car. Farther back was a tractor-trailer.
No red Mustang.
How did that door get loose?
Trying to keep the wheel straight, James turned around and looked at his back seat. The two seats folded up so he could load extra luggage into the rear of the car. If she had gotten into his car, it would have been no trouble for her to pull one of them forward and slip into the trunk of the vehicle. Could she fit? The rear of the car was loaded with various sized cans of wood stain and varnishing products. A five-gallon bucket would make it a tight fit for a child, much less allow enough room for a woman.
Now that James thought about the stain again, he could smell it, despite the fresh air rushing into his vehicle. It smelled much stronger than it should. Only one container was leaking, and it was a quart with a very large hole in the lid. The hole had been taped shut, though. The tape could have come loose if the can had fallen over.
Could the girl have knocked it over? Or was it his overzealous driving when he’d been rushing to get away from Mr. Mustang?
There was an exit just ahead.
I’ve got to look. I’ll torture myself for the next few miles if I don’t.
Even if no one was back there, the stain problem had to be corrected. He had to clean the leak or he would get high from the fumes by the time he got to Lynchville. At the very least, he’d have a splitting headache and would be in no mood for negotiations.
After exiting the interstate, James slowed at the bottom of the ramp. If Mr. Mustang were going to go by, it would not be good for James if he were spotted on this nowhere road. James took a left at the stop sign and proceeded to the side of the road just underneath the overpass. He stopped the car and pulled his keys out of the ignition. Under the front-left edge of his seat was a release switch to open the hatchback, but like most everything else in his car, it had long since broken. The only way to open the hatchback now was to do it the old-fashioned way--with a key.
Just what am I going to find when I open it? Nothing?
Of course he would find nothing. Yet his heart slammed in his chest as if the beautiful, leggy brunette was going to hop out of the hatchback and into his arms. Unfortunately, things like that never happened to James. In this case, maybe that was for the best, after all, Mr. Mustang had a gun and would want to reclaim his woman. As far as James was concerned, no one was worth a bullet.
James could hear the sounds of passing traffic on the interstate above as he walked to the rear of the Corolla. As he passed alongside, he looked down at the dark-blue trunk cover that protected the contents of the hatchback from the brutal sunlight. Its secondary purpose was to keep those contents hidden.
Taking a deep breath, James slid his key into the slot. He twisted and then lifted the hatchback. The smell of wood stain wafted out and when the hatchback was open enough to reveal the trunk, James saw the brunette staring up at him. Her face had a look that reminded James of a puppy about to be scolded by its master.
Oh my God, I am in deep trouble.
He remembered Mr. Mustang. And the gun. And knew he was in trouble.
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Click on the link below to find out how to get your copy of Lynchville Pop. 5150.
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