Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Sounds like a plan.”
9
I’ve got a body in a dumpster on the back of my truck, and a mothman tucked up into the bed space of my cab. Everything I need for a wild fucking roadtrip.
“You ready to go?” I ask the question over my shoulder.
“Sure,” Justice says.
“I am sorry,” I repeat. “I know this is fucked up. He was…”
“An asshole who tried to kill you. Don’t worry,” Justice says. “My feelings are not as intense as you might imagine. We were taught better than this. He knew what he was doing, and he had to have known what the end might be. Let’s go home.”
Home. He says it as though it is where we all belong. Wouldn’t that be nice.
It’s about a nine-hour drive from New York to West Virginia. Not that long of a trip, really, except when you’re doing it in a truck. The plan is to start early, around four in the morning while Justice is still awake enough to get in the cab, drive through the early morning, and get in around noon. He’ll still be asleep then, but I’ll park up at the address he gave me and wait for him to wake up. When night falls, he’ll show me to what I guess counts as his home. I’m not sure what will happen then.
It’s about midday in some buttfuck state that’s not New York when a prick with a highway cruiser puts his lights on and decides to ruin my plans.
“You got a tail light out,” the highway patrolman says when he’s done slow-sauntering all the way from his car to my window. He’s tall and skinny and has one of those long faces.
“I’m sorry, officer,” I say. I hand over my badge with my license and registration, expecting that to be the end of things. It’s not the end of things. He glances over my documents and hands them back to me, then casts his eye back over the truck in a manner that suggests he’s going to waste my fucking time.
“New York City Deeeetective,” he says, drawing out the word detective almost like it’s a bad thing. “Think you’re pretty special, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Uh huh.” He sucks his teeth and jerks his head back. “What have you got in the dumpster?”
For fuck’s sake. I have Justice hiding in the bed area, and Rage’s body doing what bodies do in the dumpster. I have no intention of submitting to an inspection right now.
“Garbage, mostly.”
His eyes light up, like he’s caught me in some kind of lie. “Why are you driving garbage from New York to West Virginia?”
“Police business.”
“Uh huh. You got any paperwork? It’s not exactly legal to dump garbage across state lines, and I don’t have any reason to believe…”
“How about you talk to my boss,” I say, dialing my cell phone. I hand it to the cop before the chief answers.
“Yep. Hi. Got one of your so-called detectives out here playing garbage lady. Any paperwork for that, or…”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. I can hear the chief tearing strips off him from all the way up here in the cab.
“Alright. I think he wants to talk to you,” the highway patrolman says, handing the phone back up to me and making a quick exit. Thank god. I was counting on the chief’s temper to get the guy off my back, but I know he’s not going to be happy with me either.
“Sir, I can explain,” I begin to babble.
“Listen. Holmes. There’s been a lot of shit going on lately, and I know you’ve been doing it hard. When you come in on Monday, I don’t want to fucking know why you were driving a dumpster to Virginia. We clear?” Chief growls down the line.
“Crystal, sir.”
He disconnects the call.
“I am so lucky to work for that man,” I say to myself before raising my voice a little. “You alright back there?”
A light snore answers me. Justice fast asleep, trusting me completely. That’s quite sweet in a way, considering the full context of this visit, and the fact we were very nearly just busted.
10
“Welcome to the vault,” Justice says as the brakes of the truck squeal to a halt in deep forest a long way off what feels like a main road. Night has fallen and our plan has gone off without any more hitches.
I glance around at the signage that meets us. Affixed to a large metal gate are rust-marked warnings from long ago, lit by floodlights. Insects swarm the lights and dance about madly as we come to a halt at the gated perimeter.
There’s nothing terribly welcoming to be seen here, though the signs have a great deal more artistic merit to them than modern signage tends to have. The fonts are cheerful and thick, and the military badging is bold and bright, with teal and red accents.