The bed was huge. It was also soft, and warm, and there was someone else in it.
Casey sat up.
“Did I wake you?” Death stopped playing the Native American flute.
“No…no, I…” Casey sank back down to the grass in the little grove of trees. “What I wouldn’t give for a mattress.”
“And miss the wonders of nature? The fresh air, the blue sky—”
“—the pain in my backside.”
Death looked hurt. “I certainly hope you are not referring to me.”
“Hey, you said it.” Casey crawled to the creek and splashed water on her face. “What time is it?”
Death squinted at the sun. “I would say…seven? Seven-thirty?”
Casey was meeting Wendy Halveston at nine. And she was starving. “I’ve still got a few dollars left. Suggestions on where I can go for food and not be noticed?”
“Honey, wherever you go, you’re going to get noticed. It’s like you haven’t taken a shower in several days.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, then, no wonder you look that way.”
Casey bit her tongue. Arguing wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Too bad women don’t still make pies and put them on the window sill to cool.”
Death looked thoughtful.
“What?”
“Terry’s parents own a bakery.”
“So?”
“Think they throw out the things that don’t sell, and that Terry doesn’t take to the shed?”
“Oh, great. Now you want me to go Dumpster diving for stale bread?”
“It’s not like it would ruin your clothes.”
“No, but it might ruin my stomach.”
Death played a quick tune on the flute. “You could go by the hospital again, grab some peanut butter and crackers.”
Casey ignored this and stood up to do some stretching, careful not to break open the finally-healing scab on her shoulder.
Death groaned. “You’re not going to exercise again, are you?”
“Don’t have time.” She stretched her arms to the sky, feeling the pull in her back. A mattress sure would be welcome. And she had no idea when she would ever sleep on one again.
“You should probably get a move on if you want to make your meeting on time,” Death said.
“Yeah.” She looked at the rock where the papers were hidden. “Think I should take that?”
“Be a little heavy.”
“Not the rock, you moron, the bag of papers.”
“Geez, I think you forgot your sense of humor back there in Ohio with the rest of your stuff.”
“I think I’ll leave the papers here. Wendy Halveston seems to want to talk. She doesn’t need encouragement. And just in case I run into those guys…” She straightened suddenly. “Yonkers!”
“Gesundheit.”
“No. The guys mentioned Yonkers last night.”
“So?”
“Evan was talking about somebody named Yonkers…Willie Yonkers…right before the crash.”
“And what did he say?”
She pushed on her eyes with the heels of her hands. “We were talking about kids, and families, and jobs…he said Willie Yonkers’ family can’t stand him, but that he has more money than he knows what to do with. Evan was jealous.”
“And you think this is the same man?”
“How many people named Yonkers can travel in the same circles? It’s got to be him.” She glanced up at the sun. “If I hurry, I can…no, I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Use the library’s computer. They won’t let you without an ID.”
“Bailey will probably have her laptop after school.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to wait that long.” She growled with frustration. Not having identification was more of a problem than she had ever realized.
“Well, you have to go anyway, or you’re going to be late.”
Death was right. Casey crept from her hiding place, leaving the bag, but taking her turned-off phone. Whenever she heard a vehicle she ducked into a field, if one was available, but each day there were fewer fields remaining unharvested. She just had to cross her fingers and hope the farmers on the tractors didn’t wonder too much who she was and what she was doing, traveling along their quiet road.
She arrived in town about fifteen minutes early and tried to walk as unobtrusively as possible, going down Main Street instead of the residential sections, where a stranger would stand out. There weren’t many people about, and when a car drove past she simply averted her head, looking toward shop fronts. The library parking lot, when she arrived, was mostly empty. Casey didn’t see Westing’s Explorer—not that she really thought it would be there, but it would be stupid not to look—and of course didn’t know what kind of vehicle Wendy Halveston drove.
Casey stood in the shade of a tree for several minutes, waiting until the clock on the bank’s sign across the street showed nine-o’clock. The library was a two-story building, the first floor actually a sort of basement, down the side of a hill, with the main entrance on the upper level, on Main Street. Casey avoided the front door and went inside on the lower floor, through a back door. The basement was cool and quiet, with dark conference rooms and a closed door declaring AV Equipment.
She came upon the open door of a staff room and would have snuck in for one of the bagels she saw on the counter if it hadn’t been for the woman dunking a tea bag into a cup of steaming water. Stomach rumbling, Casey walked quickly past.
She took the stairs slowly, listening for other people, but saw no one until she reached the upper floor. The door opened into the children’s section, and Casey moved quietly past a small play area, where a few mothers sat with toddlers, and found the reference section. Watching a few rows over from between stacks of books she could see only one person in the reference area. She hoped it was Wendy. She went over.
“Mrs. Halveston?”
The woman spun around.
“I’m Casey Jones.”
“Where did you come from? I was watching.” Wendy’s hand fluttered toward the front desk, and then down. Casey recognized the older woman from the picture in the diner. She didn’t look angry today, however. She looked worried.
“Shall we sit?” Casey indicated a table with chairs, which was surrounded by dictionaries, encyclopedias, and books on such varied topics as the greatest American plays and Civil War-era foods.
The woman sank into the closest chair and clasped her hands together on the table. Looking into her face, Casey thought the poor woman was getting even less sleep than she.
Mrs. Halveston looked furtively around the library, as if expecting someone else to come jumping out of the stacks. “Why did you call me?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Casey said. “Why did you call back?”
Her mouth twitched. “I’m just…it’s just…”
“I know about Class A Trucking.”
Mrs. Halveston’s eyes filled with tears. “Class A Trucking.” It sounded like she wanted to spit. “What is it you know?”
“What do you want me to know?”
Mrs. Halveston reached into her purse and pulled out a wadded tissue, which she used to angrily wipe away tears. “It depends who you are, doesn’t it? If you’re with them, or if you’re not.”
“Class A?”
Mrs. Halveston waited, chin up, tissue clenched in her fingers.
“I’m certainly not with them, “ Casey said. “In fact, I’m doing everything in my power to stay away from them. But…I would like to catch them at whatever they’re doing and stop them.”
Mrs. Halveston sniffled, and held the tissue against her eyes for a few moments. When she looked back up she said, “They drove him to it, you know.”
Casey blinked. “Who? Drove him to what?”
“Patty.” Mrs. Halveston closed her eyes. “Poor man. I never thought he’d do it.”
Patty. “Pat Parnell. He killed himself?”
“Killed hims—No. Heavens, no. He just ran away. Left it all. Called Mick, said he was getting out, that he wasn’t up for it anymore. Left his truck at the lot and took off. He’s…he’s completely broken.”
Casey could’ve told her that.
“I’m not going to let them do that to Mick.”
Mick. “Tell me what’s going on, Mrs. Halveston. Please. I don’t understand.”
The woman gazed out the large window beside the table, which overlooked the back parking lot and the tops of several homes, but Casey didn’t think she was seeing anything other than her own thoughts. Casey kept herself from pushing—the woman would tell her story in her own time.
“Mick had…an accident. With his truck.” She glanced at Casey, and Casey nodded to show she knew of the crash that killed an entire family. “After that he couldn’t get work anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be driving with his condition, but driving truck is…it’s what he does.” She turned pleading eyes on Casey, and Casey tried to remain expressionless. While she felt sorry for Mick, she felt ten times sorrier for the family he’d killed when he’d known he had a potentially fatal medical condition.
“He could only find odd jobs,” Mrs. Halveston said. “I was clerking at the grocery store, but that wasn’t enough to pay the bills. He felt responsible, and he tried to find something different, really he did, but nothing came up. Class A called him. Said they were a new company and were willing to use him as a driver, even with his…shortcomings.”
Shortcomings that killed people. “So he took the job?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Halveston’s voice was a whisper now. “I tried to get him to say no, but he wanted to drive. Needed to drive. So I did what I could—I quit my job and said I was traveling with him wherever he went to make sure he didn’t…to make sure he was okay.”
So Class A Trucking hired a man who legally shouldn’t drive. Why? “How did they get around the legalities?” She asked, but she already knew.
Mrs. Halveston hiccupped. “They gave him false identification. A new driver’s license. Made his alter ego younger, healthier. He was so much happier than he’d been in the years since the accident. He was driving again, and everything was going great.”
And everyone on the road was in danger of being crushed when he fainted and his semi crashed. “What was his name on his new license?”
“Simon. Simon Rale.”
A match to one of the names in Evan’s packet. Casey wondered which names fit the other drivers. What had Pat Parnell’s fake name been? Hank Nance’s? And what was keeping them legally off the road?
“So,” she asked, “what happened? Why are you even talking to me?”
Mrs. Halveston pierced her with her eyes. “Because things didn’t stay great. First it was just a gift we had to deliver to the boss’ nephew across state lines. It was wrapped up all pretty in a bow. We didn’t think twice about it—we were just happy to help out, since Class A had helped us. We took it, and that was that…” She paused, looking down at the table.
“Until the next time,” Casey said.
Mrs. Halveston wouldn’t look up.
“And each time it got a little worse,” Casey continued, “and soon you were transporting things you knew were wrong. What was it? Weapons? Drugs?”
“Oh, no!” She did look up at that. “We would never—”
“What were you hauling?”
“Nothing illegal. Just TVs, and frozen cauliflower, and…whatever they wanted.”
“So the present to the nephew was just a test?”
Mrs. Halveston’s lips pinched into a hard line. “I guess. To see if we’d do what they asked without question. We’re not supposed to transport things, you know, other than what’s listed on the manifest.”
Just like they weren’t supposed to drive with a false license.
“So…I don’t understand. Why did they need to test you to see if you’d drive legitimate loads?”
Mrs. Halveston sighed heavily. “Because half the time they’re not legitimate.” Her shoulders slumped. “They’re stolen goods.”
“What?”
“It’s a huge money-maker, apparently.”
Crime often was. “How does it work?”
“A couple of ways. One is to simply show up at the warehouse with what looks like a real order. They load the merchandise onto your truck, and you leave. They don’t even know they gave it to the wrong person.”
“Don’t they recognize drivers?”
“Oh, honey, do you realize how many drivers there are?”
Tom had told her. What had he said? One and a half million trucks on the road at any given time? Which meant there were many more drivers than that.
“Some suppliers might use only the same drivers from the same trucking companies, but these guys would know that. They go for the places that see different faces every day. Besides, the drivers are driving for Class A Trucking, too, so if they seem familiar…” She shrugged. “It makes sense.”
“So Class A isn’t doing the stealing?”
“Not technically. When we drive a legitimate load it’s through Class A. When it’s stolen…we’re on our own as an independent driver.”
So for Class A’s real orders they would put the logo on their trucks. When they drove a bad shipment, they took it off. “What’s the other way to steal loads, other than just showing up and taking it?”
“Paperwork.”
“How so?”
Mrs. Halveston leaned her elbows on the table, her head sinking down. “It’s all so complicated. But if I sell you a load of soup and I don’t have soup, I’m going to have to get it from somewhere. I buy the soup from another place, get it, and then sell it to my customer at a mark-up.”
“Not exactly stealing.”
She gave a little laugh. “Not exactly. But my customer has no idea where I’m getting the soup, and the people selling me the soup don’t know I’m selling it again for a profit. They could be selling directly to my customer, but I’m getting in the way.”
“Sounds like regular business.”
“It could be if it were up front, I guess. But the way it’s done here, it’s harming both the original seller and the customer through a dishonest business practice. I told you it was hard to explain.”
But Casey did understand the term stealing. And she thought she knew what was going on with the drivers. “Class A hires drivers who can’t drive elsewhere, then blackmails them into hauling stolen goods.”
Mrs. Halveston’s head sank even further.
“What did they have on Pat Parnell?”
“Oh, that poor man. He had a family, you know. A wife and children—I don’t remember how many—and then had that unfortunate affair out in California. Every time he would drive out that way he would meet up with his lover, and…” She shrugged.
So Pat Parnell had lost his family over another woman. That was awful, surely, but Casey couldn’t see how that could be used as blackmail anymore, since his wife obviously knew and had left him.
“The affair,” Mrs. Halveston said quietly, “was with a man.”
Oh. Casey remembered the notes in Evan’s journal. Carl Billings, SF. The name of the other party, and, most likely, San Francisco, if he’d been heading out west, to California.
Mrs. Halveston continued. “His wife divorced him and took the children, and the company he’d been driving with—a conservative Christian outfit out of Bingham, said they couldn’t have people like him driving for them, and fired him.”
“But other companies wouldn’t be that way. Why couldn’t he go somewhere else?”
Mrs. Halveston shook her head sadly. “He and his wife had just built that house. When she divorced him, she left him with the house and all of the debt. He couldn’t contest it—plus felt he didn’t have a right to. Jobs would come in, but free-lancing full-time wasn’t enough to satisfy all the lenders. Until Class A called him. I guess they knew him from somewhere. Told him they’d give him a better-paying job if he kept it quiet. The way he acted it was like they were his saviors. Now look where it got him.”
Casey could picture it. A man sinking deeper and deeper, and suddenly a lifeline. He grabbed it, and it only got worse.
“It was all too much for him,” Mrs. Halveston said. “What with losing his family, and his job, and then the bank called and said they would be foreclosing. He went to them to ask for help, but they turned him away.”
“The bank?”
“No. Class A. He couldn’t go drive for anyone else, because the guys had him over a barrel. If he left to drive for another company, they’d turn him in for something—believe me, they had plenty with all the jobs he did for them—and he’d lose everything for sure. Besides that, they hold his money. They say they’re short on cash and they’ll pay after his next job, or after the supplier pays the trucking bill. Half the time we don’t see a paycheck for three or four months. But what are we to do? It’s the same for the others. We all have something to lose.”
“Hank Nance?”
Wendy nodded. “Turn him in for crossing state lines, and he’d owe all those months of child support.”
Probably the months listed in Evan’s notes. “And John Simones?”
“Paying his son’s dues. Got charged with date rape at college, and John had to cough up the money for the legal fees. He took the job with Class A because it paid better, but now they have him on the wrong side of the law, since he’s been driving stolen goods.”
“But if Westing and Dixon turned any of these men in, wouldn’t it just lead back to them?”
She snorted. “To whom? You can bet your life they don’t have their real names on those false papers. Not like they have the drivers’ names. Whether they’re the drivers’ fake names or the real ones, they have the truckers in their pockets.”
Casey knew Wendy was right—she couldn’t remember seeing any names on the manifests other than the truckers’. Dixon and Westing were listed as Class A’s owners, but if that company was supposedly doing the legitimate work, they wouldn’t be connected to the other. Besides, it would be their word against truckers who were breaking the law just by getting behind a wheel.
Westing and Dixon were taking a huge chance, though, with their names on the business. Their boss’ name wasn’t anywhere. “Mrs. Halveston, do you know the name Yonkers?”
“Like in New York?”
“No, like in a person. Is the name Willie Yonkers familiar?”
She shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
Exactly what Casey thought. If Willie Yonkers was involved he kept it a secret from just about everyone.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Halveston’s eyes were bright with tears and fear. “If they know I met with you they’ll quit having Mick drive, and that would just kill him.”
“I’m not going to tell them.”
Mrs. Halveston scraped her chair back and stood. “I need to go.”
“May I call you again?”
She licked her lips. “We’re leaving this afternoon.”
“On a job?”
“To Montana.”
Great. All of those people in danger on the road. “Drive safely.”
“Oh, we will.”
Not seeming to hear the irony in the exchange, Mrs. Halveston peeked around the book stacks and scurried out of the library.