I swallowed hard, trying to get some saliva going. I blinked my eyes clear, trying to focus. The road ahead was dark and empty, a single lane weaving through the countryside. I knew I was heading west, which was as good a direction as any. I couldn’t go south because that way was Delaware, and the FBI.
I tried to process what just happened. Milo had known what I was going to tell George. He wanted to kill me before I got the chance. But I had busted him in front of Nerone. Unfortunately, Nerone had paid the price.
I flashed on the horrifying scene. Like with Hart, Nerone’s death gave me no comfort. I felt stunned and shaken, driving forward. I thought of the security guard at the composting plant calling 911. Milo had killed him, too. My sole consolation was that I was trying to bring it to an end. I knew what I had set in motion and I could only pray it would work. All hell had broken loose tonight, but the truth was inching to the surface.
I tried to think what Milo would do next, assuming he hadn’t been killed or arrested. Soon, Big George would be hearing that Nerone had been murdered at the composting plant and wouldn’t understand why. His first call would probably be to Milo, but I couldn’t imagine what kind of explanation Milo would come up with. It would take some grade-A bullshit and Milo had never been to law school.
I breathed slowly, and my brain began to function. At some point, police scanners would report a gunfight at the composting plant and a description of Milo’s SUV. Milo had to know that he couldn’t keep a lid on his secret much longer. Something told me he wouldn’t be going back to Big George. It would be too risky. Milo would have to go on the run, and I didn’t know if Milo would stay in contact with the FBI as an informant or break with them, too.
I realized that Milo would still be after me. I knew the truth about him and I wasn’t stopping until I told Big George. The FBI would still be looking for me, and Dom would know exactly what I was up to, after the police figured out that my car was on the scene, too. The composting plant would have cameras and there had been plenty of witnesses on the road. Sooner or later, Dom would figure out that the newly black car used to be white.
The sky began to brighten as I headed uphill, on a single lane road that cut through a field. After a terrifying night, dawn was coming. The sun had yet to show its face, but its wispy golden rays brushed the darkness away, imperceptibly, inevitably.
I felt my hopes lift, without knowing why. My lungs filled, and a peace came over me. I realized I was thinking about Lucinda.
I reached for the phone, but stopped myself. I wanted to talk to her, but it was too risky. I didn’t trust the FBI not to tap our phones or bug the house. I bet that even a text could locate me.
I returned my hand to the wheel.
I didn’t know what I would say to her anyway.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The sun climbed the sky as I drove west, taking the route through small towns to stay off anybody’s radar. I hadn’t eaten in ages, but I passed fast food restaurants that might have security cameras. Finally, I found one that catered to truckers, judging from the parking lot, and I pulled in.
I slipped on my sunglasses before I got out of the car. The diner was a long rectangle with a single door on the left, crudely recessed in a dingy white clapboard front. There was a row of small windows cluttered by advertisements for cigarettes, beer, and chewing tobacco.
I pulled open the door, greeted by the aroma of brewing coffee and frying bacon, and the place was abuzz with a nervous tension. Truckers in baseball caps and flannel tops filled the booths and counter, eating breakfast, checking their phones, and talking excitedly, as if they knew each other, which maybe they did.
I crossed to the counter and sat down on the end, next to a trucker with a thick red beard like a Viking. He had on a denim jacket and a light blue cap that read collins consolidated trucking, with capital CCs in the outline of a truck. He hunched over scrambled eggs and hash potatoes I couldn’t wait to order myself.
I caught a snippet of his conversation with the trucker next to him, who had an Iron Man neck tattoo.
“That dude picked the wrong trucker. Jaybird doesn’t take any shit.”
“I know that’s right. The only thing that man listens to is Carol.”
They burst into tense laughter.
I blinked, surprised. It sounded like they meant the gunfight with Milo. I asked the bearded trucker next to me, “What’s everybody talking about?”
“Oh, it’s bad news.” The trucker’s expression darkened. “Just happened last night. One of us almost got killed. Some asshole shot up a composting plant in Chester County like it was the Wild West.”
I realized it made sense. That would be all over the news. “Oh no. How’s your friend? Is he okay?”
“Yes, thank God, he only got hit in the shoulder. He’s in the hospital in stable condition. The dude also shot a young girl and her grandpa.”
The minivan. “How are they?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“In the hospital. They’re stable, too.” The bearded truck driver scooped a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “That asshole killed two guys.”
“It’s a damn crime spree,” interjected the trucker with the Iron Man tattoo.
“It burns me up.” The bearded trucker gulped some coffee. “Jaybird only got out of his rig to help the girl. A Good Samaritan. No good deed goes unpunished, right? He’d do anything for anybody. A gentle giant, Iraq vet, too. Last week he got out to move a turtle off the road.”
The tattooed trucker interjected, “Not just any road, the turnpike. Got out on the PA Turnpike to save a freaking box turtle.”
“So what happened to the shooter? Did they get him?”
“The cops? Nah. Jaybird thinks he hit him, but that coulda been an exaggeration.”
The tattooed trucker interjected again, “Ya think? Jaybird and his tall tales?”
“Linda?” The bearded trucker motioned to a waitress in her sixties, and she came over with a pot of coffee. She had a sweet smile, a round, lined face, and spiky short blond hair. She poured me a cup.
“Thanks.” I took a sip, and the coffee tasted terrific and hot.
“What can I bring you, sir?”
“The same thing, please.” I gestured at the bearded trucker’s plate.
“Sure.” The waitress took off, and the bearded trucker shook his head, hunched over his eggs.
“Jaybird drives for us. We’re with Collins Consolidated, outta Wilmington. We got one of the biggest private fleets in the mid-Atlantic, almost twenty-five thousand of us on the road. We’ll find that asshole who shot him.” The bearded trucker lifted an unruly red eyebrow. “We’re on the lookout, all of us.”
The tattooed trucker nodded. “You know that saying, he can run, but he can’t hide? Well, he can’t even run. He better hope the cops find him before we do. Dude’s gonna get his, that’s for sure. We even got a description of the car, black Lexus SUV, 2019.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, too,” I said, sipping my coffee. I made a mental note that Milo’s SUV was a Lexus. In truth, I wouldn’t mind if the truckers found Milo and meted out justice, though I’d never felt that way before.
The bearded trucker called to the waitress. “Linda, where’s that old TV? I want to hear if there’s any news!”