Joe Bob Daniels flipped down the visor and checked himself in the mirror attached to the back while he waited for the light to change. At quarter till five in the morning, he could have run the light, but he wanted to check his appearance before pulling into the brightly lit lot where Tracy might see him. It was okay for girls to look at themselves in the mirror before getting out of a car, but it wasn't a manly thing for a guy to do.
He smoothed down his cowlick, wiped some gunk out of the corner of his left eye, and flipped the visor back up. The light turned green. A half block ahead, he saw two cycles pull out of the Quick-Mart's side lot and accelerate rapidly in his direction. As they passed him, he saw the riders wore helmets and were bundled in denim and leather, but Joe Bob still shivered when he looked at them. Winter hadn't let go yet, and it was downright cold this morning. He wondered if Tracy thought the guys were manly or just plain stupid. Maybe he'd comment on them and see how she reacted.
The only car besides Tracy's in the lot was a maroon Crown Vic—a ten-year old model, if he wasn't mistaken. It was parked close to the building, partially in shadow. As Joe Bob pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces on the street in front of the building, he hoped the owner of the car would buy whatever he'd come for and leave quickly. He wanted a chance to spend some time with Tracy before he had to leave for his shift at Eden Steel.
For the last couple of months, he'd been trying to work up enough nerve to ask Tracy out, and he thought today just might be the day. She'd been separated from her husband for three months, so he didn't think it would be too tacky to ask her out now. With tough guys who rode cycles on cold March mornings hanging around, he didn't want to wait too long and have somebody else beat him to it.
She'd flirted with him since the first day he'd stopped in the store after she took over the night shift, but it had been an impersonal kind of flirt, the sort of thing a waitress might do with a customer to get a good tip. But in the past three weeks, ever since she'd learned he was the one who had found the body of the murdered girl in Daniel Boone National Forest—while training to walk the Sheltowee Trace no less—she'd lit up every time he walked in. She made him feel like he was interesting, not boring like Kim had said before she told him she wanted a divorce. He didn't like talking about the body and changed the subject as soon as he could, but that just seemed to pique Tracy’s interest even more.
As he stepped through one side of the double glass door, the alert system attached to the door announced his arrival by playing a merry little tune. Joe Bob looked toward the counter, a big grin already in place for Tracy, but she wasn't there.
"Morning, Tracy," he called out and waited, expecting to hear her breathy voice telling him good morning back. She had the sexiest voice he'd ever heard, kind of like the way Marilyn Monroe's sounded when she sang happy birthday to JFK. But there was only silence.
"Trace?" he called out again, the grin fading when there was no reply.
Occasionally Tracy was in the back stocking the floor to ceiling cooler that held the milk, beer, and pop, but she always stepped out within seconds of hearing the door chime. Can't leave the place unwatched for a minute, she'd told him once, people will steal you blind. Maybe she hadn't heard the chime, he thought, or maybe she was indisposed in the bathroom. But where was the customer? That Crown Vic hadn't driven to the store on its own.
He walked to the back of the store, glancing down each aisle as he did so, but saw no one. The customer had parked out of the lights. Was that because the driver was up to something and didn't want his car identified?
Suddenly he remembered the cycles leaving the lot in a big hurry.
"Tracy!" he bellowed her name now, no longer worried about looking cool. Only silence answered his shout. Something was very, very wrong.
He hesitated for only a second before striding to the break halfway down the counter and pushing through the gate displaying the sign that read Employees Only. Two packs of cigarettes lay on the floor below the cancer stick rack, and it was only then he noticed that the rack itself was nearly empty. His eyes lifted to the register and widened when he saw the drawer standing open and empty.
"Tracy!"
He was nearly screaming now, his voice filled with fear, but he hardly noticed. The guys on the cycles, his mind chattered at him, the guys on the cycles. He turned to the swinging doors leading into the part of the store that was reserved for employees only. No Admittance, the sign said, and for a second, he thought about obeying it. He could just step back outside and use his cell phone to call 9-1-1. It would be the smart thing to do. Besides, you weren't supposed to contaminate a crime scene, right? He could call it in and wait for the police in his truck.
But Tracy had to be somewhere in the store, maybe tied up and gagged, unable to call out for help. He couldn't just leave her like that. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and stood tall. He'd help her—rescue her—and then he'd call the police. He pushed open the swinging doors and took two steps inside the back room before his brain registered what his eyes were seeing and his nose was smelling.
As he stumbled backwards, his back striking the register drawer, he heard a whimpering sound. It took a few seconds before he realized he was making the noise. He backtracked through the gate and to the front door, knocking over a rack of chips and pretzels in his flight, and made it to the front of his truck before the coffee and toast he'd consumed before leaving the house came up. His arms outstretched, his hands resting on the grill of the truck, tears flowing from his eyes, he tried to spit the taste from his mouth and the image of what he'd seen from his mind.
Maybe he wasn't looking very manly, but Tracy was beyond noticing.
He smoothed down his cowlick, wiped some gunk out of the corner of his left eye, and flipped the visor back up. The light turned green. A half block ahead, he saw two cycles pull out of the Quick-Mart's side lot and accelerate rapidly in his direction. As they passed him, he saw the riders wore helmets and were bundled in denim and leather, but Joe Bob still shivered when he looked at them. Winter hadn't let go yet, and it was downright cold this morning. He wondered if Tracy thought the guys were manly or just plain stupid. Maybe he'd comment on them and see how she reacted.
The only car besides Tracy's in the lot was a maroon Crown Vic—a ten-year old model, if he wasn't mistaken. It was parked close to the building, partially in shadow. As Joe Bob pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces on the street in front of the building, he hoped the owner of the car would buy whatever he'd come for and leave quickly. He wanted a chance to spend some time with Tracy before he had to leave for his shift at Eden Steel.
For the last couple of months, he'd been trying to work up enough nerve to ask Tracy out, and he thought today just might be the day. She'd been separated from her husband for three months, so he didn't think it would be too tacky to ask her out now. With tough guys who rode cycles on cold March mornings hanging around, he didn't want to wait too long and have somebody else beat him to it.
She'd flirted with him since the first day he'd stopped in the store after she took over the night shift, but it had been an impersonal kind of flirt, the sort of thing a waitress might do with a customer to get a good tip. But in the past three weeks, ever since she'd learned he was the one who had found the body of the murdered girl in Daniel Boone National Forest—while training to walk the Sheltowee Trace no less—she'd lit up every time he walked in. She made him feel like he was interesting, not boring like Kim had said before she told him she wanted a divorce. He didn't like talking about the body and changed the subject as soon as he could, but that just seemed to pique Tracy’s interest even more.
As he stepped through one side of the double glass door, the alert system attached to the door announced his arrival by playing a merry little tune. Joe Bob looked toward the counter, a big grin already in place for Tracy, but she wasn't there.
"Morning, Tracy," he called out and waited, expecting to hear her breathy voice telling him good morning back. She had the sexiest voice he'd ever heard, kind of like the way Marilyn Monroe's sounded when she sang happy birthday to JFK. But there was only silence.
"Trace?" he called out again, the grin fading when there was no reply.
Occasionally Tracy was in the back stocking the floor to ceiling cooler that held the milk, beer, and pop, but she always stepped out within seconds of hearing the door chime. Can't leave the place unwatched for a minute, she'd told him once, people will steal you blind. Maybe she hadn't heard the chime, he thought, or maybe she was indisposed in the bathroom. But where was the customer? That Crown Vic hadn't driven to the store on its own.
He walked to the back of the store, glancing down each aisle as he did so, but saw no one. The customer had parked out of the lights. Was that because the driver was up to something and didn't want his car identified?
Suddenly he remembered the cycles leaving the lot in a big hurry.
"Tracy!" he bellowed her name now, no longer worried about looking cool. Only silence answered his shout. Something was very, very wrong.
He hesitated for only a second before striding to the break halfway down the counter and pushing through the gate displaying the sign that read Employees Only. Two packs of cigarettes lay on the floor below the cancer stick rack, and it was only then he noticed that the rack itself was nearly empty. His eyes lifted to the register and widened when he saw the drawer standing open and empty.
"Tracy!"
He was nearly screaming now, his voice filled with fear, but he hardly noticed. The guys on the cycles, his mind chattered at him, the guys on the cycles. He turned to the swinging doors leading into the part of the store that was reserved for employees only. No Admittance, the sign said, and for a second, he thought about obeying it. He could just step back outside and use his cell phone to call 9-1-1. It would be the smart thing to do. Besides, you weren't supposed to contaminate a crime scene, right? He could call it in and wait for the police in his truck.
But Tracy had to be somewhere in the store, maybe tied up and gagged, unable to call out for help. He couldn't just leave her like that. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and stood tall. He'd help her—rescue her—and then he'd call the police. He pushed open the swinging doors and took two steps inside the back room before his brain registered what his eyes were seeing and his nose was smelling.
As he stumbled backwards, his back striking the register drawer, he heard a whimpering sound. It took a few seconds before he realized he was making the noise. He backtracked through the gate and to the front door, knocking over a rack of chips and pretzels in his flight, and made it to the front of his truck before the coffee and toast he'd consumed before leaving the house came up. His arms outstretched, his hands resting on the grill of the truck, tears flowing from his eyes, he tried to spit the taste from his mouth and the image of what he'd seen from his mind.
Maybe he wasn't looking very manly, but Tracy was beyond noticing.
