Free All the Dead Fathers by David J. Walker Page A

nothing.
    She pulled her raincoat close around her. Idiot asshole punk? Possibly. But the muscles tightening around her heart questioned that, said maybe it was someone who knew her. Maybe someone who had promised her HERE I COME . Someone who had called her and said nothing, then painted a blood-red target on her door.
    *   *   *
    She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there when a couple of sheriff’s officers pulled up in a squad car. Kirsten managed to stop them in their dash for coffee long enough for them to tell her about an all-night truck stop out near I-90. Not that she couldn’t change her own damn tire, but it was drizzling now and she wasn’t about to. She went inside and called.
    By the time a tow truck finally arrived the rain was pouring down. She finished her coffee and a second glazed doughnut—God only knew how many grams of fat—and watched out the window as a black man, in a yellow hat and slicker, changed her tire. He came inside, smiled, and said she could either pay him on the spot and go on her way, or follow him to the truck stop and buy a new tire.
    â€œI’ll buy a new one.”
    His smile widened. “That’s the smart thing. You don’t wanna be driving around without a spare. And you can’t fix the bad one, either. You run over a nail and I’ll put in a plug that’ll outlast the rest of the tire. But a hole in the sidewall? No way.”
    She figured anyone who could change a tire in five minutes in a hard cold rain and not lose his smile knew what he was talking about. She followed him, bought a new tire, and had them check the spare. She took the punctured one with her, too. This time, overreaction or not, she would go to Renfroe Laboratories … with the tire and the postcard both.
    By the time she filled her tank with gas and paid for everything, it was midnight and still raining, although now it was back to a drizzle again. She was dog-tired and emotionally drained, and hyped up on coffee. She was also ninety miles from home. She sat in the car and used the cell phone to call Dugan. It rang about five times and he finally picked up.
    â€œIs that you?” he said.
    â€œYour favorite wife,” she chirped. She could tell she’d woken him up, and she didn’t want him to lose more sleep than he had to. “Just called to say I’m way out in Rockford and I don’t feel like driving home in the rain, so I’m gonna find a motel and crash, and drive back in the morning. Everything’s fine. No problem. Don’t worry. See you tomor—”
    â€œKirsten.”
    â€œWhat?” She didn’t like his tone.
    â€œYou’re not telling me the truth.”
    â€œNo, really. I’m in Rockford.” Chirping again. “I had a flat tire and it’s late and—”
    â€œNot about that. I mean about ‘everything’s fine’ and ‘no problem’ and the rest of that bubbly bullshit. What happened?”
    â€œJesus,” she said, “aren’t I entitled to have a secret? Maybe I’ve taken a lover.”
    â€œUh-huh,” he said. “I hope he hasn’t forgotten his Viagra. Now tell me, what’s going on?”
    â€œOkay, I give,” she said. “I had a scare, but it may have been all in my mind. Anyway, it’s over and no one’s hurt or anything. I’ll tell you about it, but tomorrow, all right? Honest. Right now I’m beat, and I’m gonna crash.”
    â€œGood. I believe you.”
    â€œAnd you’re not gonna worry, right? Because—”
    â€œG’night, Kirsten. See you tomorrow.”
    â€œLove you, too.” But he’d already hung up.
    *   *   *
    Kirsten meant what she’d said about calling it a day. She left the truck stop and drove around until she was certain there was no one following her and then went to a Holiday Inn. But when she got there