Читать книгу Deeply Odd - Dean Koontz, Dean Koontz - Страница 10

NO TRUCK STOP WILL EVER BE MISTAKEN FOR A far-future spaceport, but this one—Star Truck—had such a science-fiction feel that I would not have been much surprised if Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock had beamed down from an orbiting Starfleet retirement home in their bunny slippers, jammies, and walkers. The canopies over the many gas-pump islands were sleek stainless-steel ovals trimmed with neon tubing that, at night, would lend them a flying-saucer feel, and the pumps looked like platoons of robots at parade rest. The facade of the huge building was clad in stainless steel—probably a convincing plastic imitation of stainless—with the lines and the details of a classic Art Deco diner, but that didn’t give it the appeal its architect most likely intended; because of its size, the place had an ominous military quality, as if it must be the headquarters of the extra-terrestrial overlord of an invading force from another planet.

The large property was fenced for security, an important feature for truckers in an increasingly lawless time that required many of them to pack guns, legally or not. Two extra-wide lanes led into the facility, two out, and they passed through the same gate, between barriers of chain-link, monitored by a pair of pole-mounted cameras. A banner above the entrance promised PARKING LOTS PATROLLED 24/7.

According to an enormous sign bordered by stars that most likely twinkled colorfully at night, Star Truck offered a smorgasbord of road-warrior services: ALL FUELS, 24-HOUR GARAGE SERVICE, RESTAURANT, SNACK BAR, MEN’S AND WOMEN’S SHOWERS, MOTEL ROOMS, LAUNDROMAT, BARBERSHOP, TV LOUNGE, GAME ARCADE, TRAVEL STORE, GIFT SHOP, CHAPEL.

In recent years, to save fuel, the tractors of most eighteen-wheelers had gotten more aerodynamic. If you could tune out the roar of the big engines, you might imagine that those sleek Peterbilts, Volvos, Freightliners, Macks, Fords, and Cats were gliding across the blacktop without effort, like antigravity craft in a Star Wars movie. Even the classic, boxy, battering-ram designs of Kenworth and Intercontinental had made some concessions to diminish wind resistance.

The flashy and sinister ProStar+ with the red-and-black tractor and the black trailer was parked among forty or fifty other rigs at the north end of the property. As I cruised slowly past, memorizing the license-plate number, I could see that no one was in the cab of the tractor, and I had no sense that the rhinestone cowboy might be with his vehicle.

Moments earlier, I had told Mrs. Fischer that the flamboyant trucker was planning three murders, but I hadn’t told her how I’d come across this information.

“That’s his rig,” I said, braking to a stop.

“Let’s set the cops on him.”

“No, see, I have some negative history with the police in Magic Beach, which isn’t that far from here. And the FBI might be looking for someone who fits my description. I haven’t been a bad boy, ma’am, but some exceedingly treacherous people got themselves shot to death and a whole lot of property got pretty much busted up. And I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the authorities how just a simple fry-cook uncovered a plot to nuke four cities, took down several terrorists, and got out of that town with all his skin.”

“You aren’t a simple fry-cook.”

“That’s my point, ma’am.”

She cocked her snow-capped head and gave me that cockatoo stare again. “You’re quite a riddle.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“So what you’re doing is like in those Agatha Christie novels—Miss Jane Marple, amateur detective?”

“I’m not much like Miss Jane Marple.”

“You’ve got a sweet face,” Mrs. Fischer said, and pinched my cheek. “I suspect your mind is as sharp as Miss Marple’s, although you haven’t given me much evidence of that yet.”

Edie Fischer didn’t look anything like my idea of Jane Marple, but if some network ever brought back The X-Files with Agents Mulder and Scully as eighty-somethings, she could pass for a geriatric Gillian Anderson, who had played Scully.

The rhinestone cowboy and his custom-painted eighteen-wheeler were as mysterious as Cigarette Smoking Man and everything else in that old and perpetually enigmatic TV show.

I said, “I’d give anything to know what he’s hauling.”

“Don’t say such a reckless thing, child. If I were the devil, I’d ask what you mean by ‘anything,’ and you’d probably convey the intensity of your curiosity by repeating ‘anything’ with emphasis, and just like that—zap!—you’d be inside that trailer, you’d see what it’s loaded with, but you’d have sold your immortal soul for next to nothing.”

“It can’t be that easy to sell your soul.”

“So now you’re a PhD in demonic negotiation? Where did you get your degree, sweetie, from an Internet university run by some fifty-year-old guy who lives in his parents’ basement and has nothing in his wardrobe but sweat suits?”

“It’s funny, ma’am, how sometimes you’re so sarcastic but it doesn’t sting.”

“Because of my dimples. Dimples are a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Anyway, you’re not the devil, Mrs. Fischer.”

“Call me Edie. Listen, child—if you’re at a party with a hundred people and one of them is the devil, he’ll be the last one you’d suspect.”

Piloting the limousine away from the trucks and past the pump islands, I said, “I’m not much for parties. Sometimes you have to wear a funny hat, sometimes they expect you to eat sushi, which is like eating bait. And there’s always some totally drunk girl who thinks you’re smitten by her, when what you’re wondering is if she’ll vomit on your shirt or instead on your shoes.”

“My point wasn’t parties, as you well know.”

At the south end of the sprawling complex, I parked the limo in a lot reserved for cars, pickups, and SUVs.

More or less thinking out loud, I said, “If he sees me before I see him, I’m probably toast.”

“Some amateur detectives are masters of disguise,” Mrs. Fischer said.

“Yeah, but Inspector Clouseau borrowed my master-of-disguise kit and never returned it.”

“Arm candy can be an effective disguise.”

“Arm candy?”

“An adorable grandmother clinging to your arm for support.”

“I’m not involving you in this, ma’am. You don’t know me, how dangerous it is to be around me. I’m grateful for the ride, but we part company here.”

From the glove box, she extracted a poofy black-and-green-plaid cap with a short bill and a plump upholstered button on top, the kind of thing sixty-year-old men wear when they buy a convertible sports car to impress women half their age.

“It belonged to Oscar. He had real style.”

“I hope his chauffeur’s uniform wasn’t a kilt. Ma’am, a hat isn’t much of a disguise.”

“Put it on. Put, put,” she insisted. From the glove compartment she withdrew a pair of sunglasses and handed them to me. “You can wear them, they aren’t prescription.”

Although the cap fit, I felt silly in it, as if I were trying to pass for a Scottish golfer circa 1910.

Zippering open a small leather case that she also took from the glove box, producing a two-ounce bottle containing a golden liquid, Mrs. Fischer said, “Let me paint some of this on your upper lip.”

“What’s that?”

“Spirit gum.” From the case, she plucked three or four little plastic bags. “Mustaches,” she said. “Different styles. A handlebar wouldn’t be right for your face. Something more modest. But not a pencil mustache, either. Too affected. Oh, I also have a chin beard!”

“Why would you carry a mustache-and-beard kit in your car?”

She seemed genuinely perplexed by my question. “Whyever wouldn’t I carry one?”

Gently but firmly I insisted, “I won’t wear a fake mustache.”

“Then a chin beard. You’ll be a whole new person.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense, Oddie. You’ll look impressively literary. With that cap and sunglasses and a chin beard, everyone will think you’re a famous poet.”

“What poet ever looked like that?”

“Virtually every beatnik poet, back in the day.”

“There are no beatniks anymore.”

“Because most of their poetry stank. You’ll write better,” she declared, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. “Stick out your chin.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. No. I respect my elders and all that, and you’ve been especially kind, but I won’t glue a beard on my chin. I don’t want to look like Maynard G. Krebs.”

“Who is Maynard G. Krebs?”

“He was Dobie Gillis’s friend on that old TV series maybe fifty years ago, they’re always rerunning it somewhere.”

“You don’t look like a lard-ass couch potato.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m not. It’s just that everything sticks with me, like even the name of Dobie Gillis’s friend.”

She beamed with obvious delight as she screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “You’re such a nice boy—and a genius, too.”

“Not a genius. Far from it. I just have a sticky mind.” I reached out to shake her hand. “Good-bye, good luck, God bless.”

Patting my hand instead of shaking it, Mrs. Fischer said, “Take your time. I’ve got a good book to read.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I know I’m not coming back to you.”

“Of course you are. You’re my chauffeur.”

“I don’t want to put your life at risk.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, child. You’re a good driver.”

“I mean, I have dangerous enemies.”

“Everyone does, dear. Now, go have fun playing Miss Marple, and I’ll be here when you’re finished.”