Found You (A Rylie Wolf FBI Suspense Thriller—Book One)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Calvin McCrea hated vacations.

While most of the world counted off the days until their escape to paradise, Calvin looked forward to their annual drive to their getaway on the Gulf Coast with a mix of dread and apprehension.

All because of her.

His loving wife of thirty-four years, Darla, was a wonderful woman in all respects, but when it came time for them to use their Naples timeshare, she morphed into a different woman. She planned every outing to the second, marking off different points of interest they could visit along the way that would be both new and educational. She started packing months before. She even insisted on having boatloads of sunscreen for the week, as if the state of Florida didn’t sell sunscreen. It was like this, every year. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong!” she’d say, all the while, mapping out what route they needed to take, to the mile.

And she was only getting worse. She played the what-if game constantly in her head, so that now, their annual vacation was officially more trouble than it was worth.

Two days’ worth of travel. Forty-three hours, to be exact, not counting stops. Not for the first time, Calvin stretched his sore back, adjusted his numb backside on the seat, and wondered why they’d gone and fallen in love with the Gulf Coast. It was just too damn far away.

“That pile-up back there in Missoula cost us over two hours!” Darla moaned from the front passenger seat of their Buick. “This is awful.”

“Now, now, dearest. It would only be awful if we were in it,” he reminded her, trying to be jovial. Once they got there, once he started fishing with a beer in his hand, things would be better. He hoped. Fishing off his old boat was one of the few joys he had left in life. “You got to see that Elmer’s Fountain, right? Knock that one off the ol’ bucket list.”

She nodded. “I know. It was interesting, wasn’t it? I’d always wanted to stop. It’s just—that dust-up with that trucker back there at the Dairy Freeze Service Center really scared me. I told you, you shouldn’t go talking to anyone you don’t know at these roadside places.”

He gritted his teeth. Not his finest hour. The trucker—a guy from Idaho, from his license plate—had gotten all in Cal’s face. He’d just wanted to tell him he admired his cab. It was a nice one—all tricked out with a real nice custom paint-job. Cal, an automotive guy himself, appreciated such things. But the guy had jumped down his throat. For a second, he’d been afraid the man was going to pull a g*n. After that, they’d backed off and jetted out of there, fast. “Well. We got gas. We should be good for a while.”

“But we’re not going to get to the hotel outside of Ranchester on time,” Darla complained, staring at the GPS on her phone.

“What? Do you think they’ll close? We have a reservation.”

She gnawed on a fingernail. “Yes, but it’s three hours away. And I’m still bitter that we missed that Garden of One Thousand Buddhas.”

“Ah, there’ll be other times, love.”

“I know.” She said it like she didn’t believe it. “But it’s so late.”

He took her hand and held it. “I’m fine to drive.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, studying him.

Truthfully, he was feeling a little ragged around the edges. It was after nine, and at home, by this time, he’d be in his recliner, dozing off. Add to that the harrowing six-hour drive from where they’d stopped last, off Route 86 in Superior, and his nerves were just about shot.

But they had to make it to the Holiday Inn Express on the Montana-Wyoming line. That was where Darla had booked them. And she’d spent hours, pouring over reviews to find a place that was clean, bed-bug free, comfortable, and had a suitable complimentary breakfast that wouldn’t upset his dairy allergy.

As much as he tried to stifle it, just then, a long yawn came out. “Really. No. I’m good.”

She reached into the back seat and pulled out her Thermos. “I packed coffee for this, just in case.”

“Ah, you think of everything,” he said, as she poured him a mug. He brought it to his lips and tasted it, then frowned. “That’s pretty awful. It tastes like dish detergent.”

“Does it?” She tasted it and made a face. “Ew.”

He laughed.

Darla didn’t seem to find it very funny. “Oh, no. I was so busy packing, I probably didn’t wash the Thermos out well enough.” She spilled the coffee back into the Thermos and tightened the lid. “Oh, nuts. That’s a disappointment.”

“It’s all right. I’ll manage.”

A moment later, while they were listening to a particularly slow song on the radio, he realized he was drifting off the road when he heard the bump-bump-bump of the uneven pavement. That wasn’t good. Maybe he couldn’t manage. He blinked, then cracked a window, letting the cool air hit his face.

And now, he realized, he had to relieve himself.

This really wasn’t good. The problem was, this stretch of highway, through the Indian Reservations, had very few exits, all of which had questionable facilities, if they had any at all. Darla rated truck stops and exits for how clean the facilities were. And Calvin specifically remembered her saying there weren’t very many in this stretch of Montana, passing straight through the Crow Indian reservation.

He checked the time. They had at least three and a half hours to the state line. No way was he going to make it. He had to stop.

Just then, he spied a sign that said, ST. XAVIER REST AREA- EASY ON! EASY OFF! OPEN 24HRS! RESTROOMS- VENDING MACHINES! NO GAS! CLEAN!

He thought he had found the answer to his prayers, so he navigated to the ramp. It led out into nothing but darkness, like a road to nowhere. In fact, all around them, there was nothing but trees. It seemed as though there was nothing else around for miles, which meant it was a good thing they’d come upon it when he had. His bladder strained almost to its breaking point, begging for relief.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Darla asked, gripping the door handle in alarm.

“I have to use the restroom. I had two waters at lunch, remember? And this is as good a spot as any.”

She shook her head and paged through her phone. “I don’t know about that. This place isn’t even on my Travel-wise app.”

He chuckled. “Maybe because it’s new. I don’t remember seeing it last time we were here.”

She wrinkled her nose as her eyes volleyed around the place, drinking it in with horror. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. You know what they say about this highway.”

He laughed. “That’s all superstition. It’s not real.”

“I don’t know about that. Besides, you don’t remember the rest stops you don’t need to stop at, Cal. And we’ve never had to stop at someplace like this. It’d got to be some big emergency for me to want to stop here.”

He waved her away. “It is an emergency, hon. It’s fine. I’ll be in and out. You have any change? I’ll get myself a Mountain Dew. That’ll keep me up.”

“You’re pre-diabetic. Besides, you want to pee again?”

“I’ll get a diet. And I need somethin’,” he said as they pulled into the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a long line of parking spots, but not a single other vehicle in sight. The lot wasn’t very well lit; in fact, there was only a single bulb shining in the entire complex, on the porch between two small stone buildings. One had a MEN sign on the door, the other, a WOMEN sign, though someone—an ardent feminist, likely— had scratched out the E there and put a Y. He spied a few vending machines in the alley between them.

But it seemed clean, and harmless.

He held out a hand to her. “Change?”

She looked down at it. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to do it, dearest. Or I’ll wet my pants,” he said with a smile.

She dug into her purse and pulled out a dollar bill and a few quarters, pressing them into his palm. “All right.”

“You want anything? I can see if they got some of those Little Debbie Honey Buns you like?”

She shook her head. “I’ve lost my appetite. Just hurry back, okay?”

“You got it. And I hope you have an appetite tonight. I’m taking you out for a late steak dinner.” He opened the door and stepped out. Then he turned back to her and tilted his head. “You should at least get out and stretch your legs. You know what the doctor said. All that sitting ain’t good for your back. Stretch, baby.”

She shook her head stiffly and clutched her purse on her laps with both hands, trembling a little. “I’ll just wait here. Go fast, Cal.”

He skipped into a jog and hurried to the door to the men’s room. When he got there, he waved at his wife. She was sitting there, white-knuckling her purse on her lap, her face pale as the moon. He smiled, but she didn’t smile back.

He pushed open the door to the bathroom, thinking about how much farther they’d have to drive. Three and a half hours meant they wouldn’t have to stop for gas the next morning until they reached the Black Hills, and maybe they’d make it all the way to the South Dakota state line. Then, they could get gas after breakfast in Rapid City. Darla would be okay with that.

It was dark inside. At first. He swept his hand across the tile wall to find a switch, and finding nothing, muttered a curse. He’d just begun to push the door open and scan the other walls with the scant light from the dim bulb outside, when a light came on.

Motion activated, he thought. Makes sense. Saves money. I bet this place is empty, most of the time.

And it was now, he realized, as he walked down the aisle of open doors, his every footstep echoing on the tile.

When his eyes caught on something that shouldn’t have been there, the lights went out.

He held his breath, and for a moment, he almost peed himself.

No. My eyes are just seeing things. That was nothing.

He squeezed his prostate and clenched his hands into fists, helpless, listening for some sound. The only thing he heard was the rhythmic dripping of the nearby faucets.

The light went back on just as suddenly as it had gone off. Then, it flickered wildly.

Damn motion-sensing’s out of whack. I’ve got to keep moving, he thought, waving his hands about.

Then he strained to see what he thought he’d seen before, hoping it would prove to be an errant garbage can, or something else.

But no. It was just what he’d thought it was.

A pair of shoes, in the last stall, with too-long gray pants attached. The toes of the black work boots were pointing toward him, as if they belonged to someone who was peering through the c***k between the stall doors.

Watching him.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice cracking, but the figure did not respond. It didn’t even move.

The lights flickered again. Moving his hands about, they came on. He looked over at the stall, gauging how long it would take to relieve himself. If he did, he’d have to turn his back to this person, and who knew what the person would do?

Taking a deep breath, he walked, slowly, toward the man. “Hello?” he called again, getting back some of his voice.

When he was near the door, he braced himself, and pushed it open.

“Arugh!” the man inside screamed, jumping, making Calvin jump just as high.

The man was wearing a headset, playing some kind of lively Mariachi music. Contrary to what it had looked like, he’d been leaning against the back of the stall, holding his mop in his hand and lazily leaning up on it. Now, Cal could see it with clarity—the rolling bucket, the dark uniform. A janitor.

Calvin clutched at his chest as the man, clearly annoyed, spouted off at him in Spanish. He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Lo siento,” he said, quickly reversing direction when he thought of poor Darla. He’d left her out there, far too long.

He did his business in the stall closest to the door, then washed his hands quickly and went outside, picking the change out of his palm. He fed it into the vending machine, noticing his only choices were Fanta and regular Coca Cola. No diet anything. He’d catch hell from Darla, but in the end, she’d understand—it was better than falling asleep at the wheel.

The bottle falling to the bottom of the machine was the loudest sound for miles as he reached into the door and pulled it out. Grabbing it, he untwisted the cap, took a satisfying swig and jogged back to the lot.

The moment he rounded the corner and saw his pick-up, though, he knew something was wrong.

Darla’s face had been so pale with worry, before, that it shone like a beacon. Now, though, he couldn’t see it.

He kept moving nearer, thinking that maybe she’d lowered her head to look at her phone, or that she was going through their luggage to make sure they’d packed some other thing that they couldn’t possibly get in the state of Florida. But as he neared, he realized the seat was empty.

Standing in front of the car, he looked around. She must’ve gotten out to stretch her legs, after all.

He scanned the area around the rest stop, and finding nothing, opened the door to the car and looked inside. Her phone was resting in the cup holder, and her purse was open, on the front seat, its contents spilled. An Excedrin bottle rattled noisily on the foot mat.

A tendril of fear crept up Calvin’s spine. She wouldn’t leave her phone or her purse, no matter where she went, even if it was a short walk to stretch her legs.

“Darla!” he called, but the only answer was the crickets and other evening wildlife.

He reached over the seat and began to pile her items back into her purse. Wallet, keys, a sleeve of gum, his back pills, more tissues than she knew what to do with. When he picked up the last pile, he noticed it.

Dark red droplets, seeping into the camel-colored upholstery of the seat.

He reached over and touched them. Still wet. He brought his fingertips under the overhead light and inspected the tacky substance. Blood.

Fear rising inside, he jumped out of the truck and rushed to the other side, falling to his knees on the asphalt.

His stomach dropped when he noticed more drops of blood, like a trail, leading out into the unknown. He followed them a short distance, to the middle of the road, where they abruptly disappeared.

He let the soda fall to the ground, reached for his phone, and dialed 9-1-1, hoping against hope that he’d have good enough reception along this desolate stretch of interstate.