Free Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One by Perry P. Perkins Page B

time it was Cassie’s turn to pause
before replying.
    “ Good,” she said
finally.
    “ Why don’t you try to get
some shut-eye,” Jack advised. “I was going to find a place to sleep
in Phoenix, but I think we’d better put a few miles and a couple of
turns between us and Mr. Wexler--"
    "Who?"
    "Mark Wexler," Jack replied,
slipping the driver's license, the one he had taken from the wallet
before throwing it away, from his pocket and handing it to her, "of
Phoenix, Arizona. He must have just gotten back from a run, that
would explain why his truck was empty," Jack smirked. "I took the
liberty of mugging your assailant while we were waiting for you to
bring the keys around.” Jack smiled grimly, "I wanted him to know
that we know
who he is."
    Cassie glanced at the license, and there was
that narrow, pinched face, sneering into the camera. "Ugh!" she
said, and handed the card back to Jack.
    "I’m going to try to get us onto I-8" he
said, "and then find a rest stop. I’ve been driving for better than
twelve hours today, and I’d rather not nod off at the wheel.”
    Okay,” Cassie replied.
    “ I’ve got a tent in the
back, and an extra sleeping bag. I’ll pitch that for me and you can
sleep here in the van with the doors locked. We’ll try to get a few
hours of sleep and then hit the road again at first
light.”
    “ Thanks Jack,” Cassie
replied, leaning her head against the dusty window, suddenly
exhausted, “for everything.”
    “ Goodnight kid.”
    Jack drove in silence for
another two hours, cruising south through the featureless desert,
Cassie sleeping in the seat next to him, drifting away comfortably
to the endless hum of rubber and asphalt. Like two glowing eyes,
the van’s dusty headlights cut a bright path through the darkness,
far down Interstate 10 until they reached the exit for Yuma and San
Diego, then onto AZ-85, and finally to Interstate 8. When the high
beams lit a sign reading Sentinel Rest
Stop, Next Right , Jack pulled into the
near lane and took the long curving off-ramp into the parking
lot.
    A dozen empty parking spaces sat in front of a squat brick
building housing a men’s rest room to the left and women’s to the
right. Two glowing soda machines stood, in heavy iron cages, next
to a lit billboard covered with maps. Jack drove past the building,
down to the last space on the lot and parked. His headlights came
to rest on a wide circle of emerald lawn, backed by a thick, low
hedge. As he turned off the engine, Cassie stirred in her
seat.
    Okay,” he said, gently shaking her, “we’re
home.” Cassie yawned and stretched, blinking her eyes.
    “ Wow,” she said, sleepily,
“am I ever thirsty!”
    “ I’ll grab us a couple of
sodas on the way back. The tent’s wrapped in that green tarp in the
back,” he reached beneath the driver’s seat, “here’s a hammer, do
you know how to set up a tent?”
    “ Are you kidding,” she
yawned, “I was in Girl Scouts for six years. I can pitch a tent
with my eyes closed.”
    “ Good enough,” Jack said,
“what do you want to drink?”
    “ Something diet.”
    Jack rolled his eyes, muttering. “Never knew
a woman who wasn’t on a diet!”
    “ What was that?” Cassie
asked sweetly, hefting the hammer.
    “ Ah…nothing,” said Jack,
making his retreat.
    “ Wait up,” she called,
suddenly, “I’ll go with you. I need to…um…talk to a man about a
horse, too.”
    Jack laughed as they crossed the lawn.
Inside the low, block building, Cassie rinsed her face in cold
water, running her fingers through her hair. She grimaced at her
reflection in the scarred, graffitied, square of polished sheet
metal bolted to the wall above the sink.
    Digging in her pocket she pulled out a
handful of coins and, walking back to the vending machines, popped
in a couple of quarters for a diet cola. Jack met her by the
machines and requested a root beer. Together they walked back to
the van.
    Jack pulled the tent and tarp from the back,
thanking