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“Sounds good. Make it like you did last time.”
Wearing sunglasses and a Kenworth cap that had come with the truck, Sunday got down out of the cab, went into the truck stop, and got two coffees that he took time to prepare according to a very precise formula. He paid with a ten-dollar bill and returned to the truck.
Cochran was already up in the cab, and he reached out for his coffee through the open window. Sunday handed it to him, then went around and got in the other side. Cochran had already taken a big swig of the coffee. There was foam on his upper lip.
“Damn it, Marcus,” Cochran said. “What’s in that? It’s so damned good.”
“I know, right?” Sunday said, pleased. “I added a little something, though. Do you taste it?”
Cochran took another drink, and said, “Cinnamon?”
“Close.”
“Nutmeg?”
“You’re good,” Sunday said.
“No, this is good,” Cochran said and drank more.
“Hey, do me a favor?” Sunday said. “Pull over there in the back of the lot. I have to look up something and I don’t want to be bouncing all over.”
“Sure, Marcus,” Cochran said. “But watch the time. If we get it back past noon, they dun you for the full-day charge. Says so in that sheet with the copy of the lading docs.”
“Thank you for thinking of my pocketbook,” Sunday said. “And this shouldn’t take long at all.”
Sunday was right. It didn’t take long at all after they’d parked at the back of the lot by several other rigs idling while their drivers slept. He made a show of opening the laptop and typing as Cochran lifted his cup for another sip.
But something stopped him before he
drank, something that seemed to bewilder him. His fingers loosened and began to drop the coffee cup. Sunday snagged it before it fell.
Cochran slumped over to his left against the window, taking slow, shallow breaths. Sunday looked out the side-view mirrors, saw the closest movement seventy yards away, and dug in his pocket for a pair of latex gloves.
When he had them on, he twisted around in his seat, grabbed Cochran, and pulled him over onto his back. Cochran looked up at him blankly. But Sunday knew better. Though paralyzed, the man was fully in control of his mind.
“Some surplus pancuronium,” Sunday told him matter-of-factly. “If I gave it enough time, you’d suffocate. But the truth is, you’ve been very useful, Mitch Cochran. I owe you a little mercy.”
Despite Cochran’s paralysis, Sunday saw hope flicker in his eyes.
Then Sunday reached up and over him, got a pillow from the sleeping berth, and smothered the man to death.
CHAPTER
58
I STARTLED AWAKE IN the front seat of the unmarked cruiser and looked around blearily, seeing farmland and tractors along the interstate, and then Tess Aaliyah hunched over the wheel, looking wired.
“Where are we?”
“North of New York City,” she replied.
“I can drive.”
“You had a head injury recently.”
“Haven’t had a headache or symptom in two days. Honestly.”
She glanced at me, saw my sincerity, and then nodded. “I’ll get off at the next stop. We need gas anyway.”
