asked, and when Dr. John nodded, he asked, “Mind if I tag along?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The stretch of Interstate 70 running between Indianapolis and Terre Haute was straight, flat, and unremarkable. Clint drove a little over the speed limit, but not too much. To his mind, they had already stayed in Indiana past their comfort zone. Most of their contracts were in-and-out jobs—never an overnighter. He wasn’t nervous, but mistakes could happen. He was in this for the money, pure and simple. He wasn’t so sure about Book anymore.
Clint grew up on a farm in Wisconsin, so he knew all about slaughtering—if you don’t kill, you don’t eat. Then in the Army they’d taught him another kind of slaughtering. He killed for his country at first, but then it became easy, like a regular nine-to-five job. He was aware that was a sick comparison, but it helped justify his actions. By the time he had been discharged from the Army and went into business with Book, it was too late to stop. Killing was the only thing he knew, or felt comfortable with. He wasn’t that Wisconsin farm boy anymore. That guy was dead as well.
But for Book it was different. When they were in Iraq together, Book told him of growing up in infamous Cabrini-Green on Chicago’s north side and being raised by an uncle. Book said that when he was eight years old, his father had been robbed and killed while driving a cab. His mother deserted him a short time later. She just left him sleeping in the hallway of an apartment building one morning with no money, no food, and no options. He was twelve the first time he was arrested.
Book knew firsthand what violence had done to his own family, so why was he so eager to visit this on others? It was a puzzle to Clint. He didn’t look forward to the contracts, but Book lived for the next kill. No, Book was in it for other reasons. Maybe he hated all women because of the betrayal of his own mother. Maybe that was the reason Book didn’t have sex unless it was violent and depraved.
Clint drove west for over an hour and was almost to Terre Haute when Book sat forward and said, “Take the ramp.”
Clint had seen the sign for Hulman International Airport two exits back. He had intended to pull off anyway, but Book liked to be in charge, so Clint said nothing and slowed for the off ramp.
They exited the interstate and cruised the parking lot of the airport until Clint found a Chevy panel van with dark tinted windows that would serve their purposes.
“Let’s leave the Taurus here in the long-term lot,” Clint suggested.
Book gave him a questioning look. “Don’t you think we need the car? What if we need to ditch the van real quick-like? We take them both.”
Clint didn’t feel like arguing, and two hours after stealing the van he was following Book down Highway 41 to the Flying J truck stop, just across Interstate 64 from Evansville. They left the Taurus in the lot of the Flying J, where cars and trucks were parked, sometimes for days, by over-the-road truckers.
Book got in the van with Clint. “Turn right.” He directed Clint westward on a narrow road that ran parallel to the interstate.
“Where we going?” Clint asked.
“Just keep going.”
“Turn here,” Book said, and Clint obediently turned down a farm road where, nailed to a tree, was a hand-lettered sign that warned, “No Hunting.”
Clint continued on across a dry ditch and stopped at the edge of the woods.
“We’re here,” Book announced, and they both went around to the back and opened the cargo doors.
Both men were sweating and covered in welts from large black mosquitoes by the time they had unlatched the bench seats in the cargo area and tossed them into the woods. The back of the van was windowless. It would make the perfect killing ground.
“When are you going to tell me the plan?” Clint asked.
“Sorry I been so quiet,” Book said, and reached his hand out for the keys to the van.
Book started it up, hands gripping the steering wheel. “The job tonight will be easier with the van. When we’re done, we go back to the Flying J, trade vehicles, and head back to Indy. From there we go home.” Book held out a big fist.
Clint felt his stomach rumble and realized he was starving. He bumped knuckles with Book and said, “Let’s eat first.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eric