Road Kill (A Tom Rollins Thriller Book 5) Read online

  Road Kill

  A Tom Rollins Thriller

  Paul Heatley

  Published by Inkubator Books

  www.inkubatorbooks.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Paul Heatley

  Paul Heatley has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-915275-35-6

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-915275-36-3

  ROAD KILL is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Inkubator Books

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Inkubator Newsletter

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  Prologue

  The girl has been on the run for three days now. She’s tried to stay on the road for the most part, thumbing rides. First vehicle she got on was a bus, using up all the money she was able to take with her, only to get four towns away from Belleville. All the cars that have stopped to pick her up have been driven by men. She’s been wary of them. Pressed herself up against the passenger door while they drove. None of them tried anything. None of them were able to take her very far, either.

  Her escape comes in frustrating increments. She’s not trying to get far, not really. It’s not like she’s trying to get to California. It’s just one state line she needs to cross, that’s all. North Washington down into north Oregon.

  She stays away from the roads at night. Travels through the trees. It’s spring. The nights are clear. They’re cool, but not so cool she’s going to freeze to death. She sleeps beneath Douglas firs, lying on beds of their fallen needles.

  By the third day she is exhausted and hungry and frustrated at how long this is all taking. She just needs someone who can take her all the way. Enough of this short-journey bullshit. She needs to find a trucker, someone doing a long haul, someone who can actually take her where she needs to be. She can’t stay in Washington. The longer she’s in Washington, the more likely it is that the Ogre will find her.

  He’s always found her before. This is the furthest she’s ever got. It’s not the first time she’s tried to run away. Sometimes, it’s like he knows where she’s going to go before she does. He gets there ahead of her. Toying with her. Smiling his horrible, Ogre smile. Then he takes her straight back to where she’s run from.

  She walks by the side of the road, looking back whenever she hears something loud enough to be what she’s waiting for. Sticks her thumb out. The trucks don’t stop. Nothing stops. She tries not to look into the cars, keeping her face turned away, lowered, her long, dark hair hanging into it to cover herself up. She’s a good-looking girl, a beautiful girl – she’s had enough men tell her so – and flashing her face would likely get her a ride. But she doesn’t want a ride from the kind of person who would stop for a pretty girl, especially regardless of the girl’s age. She walks with her hood up, though she doubts this meager disguise could do much to hide her from the Ogre. She lives in fear of seeing him. Of looking up and finding him looking straight back at her, smiling.

  The day is a bust. It’s getting dark, and no one has stopped. One truck blared its horn in acknowledgment of her raised thumb, but that was all. Her stomach is twisted and pained, crying out for food. She slips back into the woods, close to angry tears, and looks for somewhere to sleep.

  The ground is hard. It hasn’t rained for a few days. She can’t get comfortable. She twists and squirms, trying to settle. A persistent root stabs between her shoulder blades. She’s able to ignore it, eventually. Around the same time, the sky darkens fully. It’s a clear night. There are many stars. The girl stares up through the trees. The glow of the rising moon is off to the side. Soon she’ll be able to see it. Around her, in the trees and the bushes, are the sounds of small animals. Of birds calling intermittently. The scurrying of rodents through and up the trees.

  Then a branch snaps. It’s heavy. It’s loud. Too loud to be an animal.

  A pause follows. She pushes herself up on an elbow, head turned, listening. Looking to where she heard it come from, the darkness through the interlocking branches there. She holds her breath. She stares. There isn’t any further movement. No more branches snap.

  But she isn’t stupid. She knows what she heard.

  She pushes herself up, and she runs.

  The bushes burst behind her. Her instincts were right. Someone was there. He’s found her again. The Ogre. The Ogre always comes.

  She runs as fast as she can. Doesn’t look back, but she can hear her pursuer. Hears him gaining. Hears the pounding of his footsteps, feels his breath on the back of her neck, and then she’s caught. Tackled to the ground, weight on top of her. Crushed. She can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can barely turn her head to see the face of the Ogre leering back at her.

  Then she’s hauled off the ground, broken twigs and moss sticking to the front of her, to her face. She’s able to see now. Able to turn her head. Sees that the Ogre is not here. He hasn’t come, though she knows he has sent these men.

  This time, it’s a different kind of monster that has found her.

  1

  It has been a month since Tom Rollins left Alaska. It’s springtime now. The snow has faded from the sides of the road as he’s travelled. The skies cleared. The sun grew brighter as he made his way south through British Columbia. Staying in a motel a couple of days ago, he buzzed his hair and shaved his beard in preparation for the warmer weather. His stubble’s already coming in. He scratches an itch at the corner of his jaw and hears his fingernail scrape through it.

  He’s in the northwest of Washington State now. There is no destination in mind, but Tom is taking his time. Eyes open, lo
oking for potential work. Something in logging perhaps or construction. He has money saved, though it’s not all with him. Some is secured in various safe-deposit boxes in banks, mostly in the South. Money saved up from his past. But they are not bottomless coffers. Money runs out, even when living as frugally as Tom does.

  The gas is running low in his pickup. He’s kept his eyes out for a gas station for a few miles now. It’s a long road without much on it. Tall trees line either side, reaching high, the sun’s rays battling to get through the branches.

  There aren’t many other vehicles around, either. Tom has had the road to himself for the last ten minutes. He knows, soon, perhaps after he’s got gas, that he’ll need to get onto a main road if he’s hoping to find work. There won’t be much to find around here, except for maybe a greasy backwoods diner. Working a grill and pouring burnt coffee doesn’t appeal to him as much as the idea of working outdoors.

  He sees traffic up ahead: Finally, some signs of civilization. Sees the various vehicles pulling into and out of a forecourt. A gas station, at last. He pulls in, up to a pump. There’s a diner next to the gas station, and most of the vehicles Tom saw pull in ahead of him are going there. It’s getting toward midday, lunchtime, and Tom feels a familiar pang in his own stomach. Pumping gas, he looks toward the diner. There’s a Help Wanted sign in the window. He grins to himself, shakes his head a little. Notices, behind the building, there’s a sign for another diner a couple of miles down the road. It’s brazen enough to carry the slogan, ‘The best meal for miles around! Worth driving just a little further for!’ The sign looks old, but undamaged, and Tom is surprised the proprietors of the diner in front of him have not taken exception to its claims and attempted to tear it down.

  A sound off to his side, one of the other pumps, catches his attention, snaps him from his daydream of warring rival diners. He looks. There’s a black minivan. It’s pulled in after him. The sound he heard was a sharp intake of breath, like someone had been hurt. He doesn’t see anyone nursing a wound. He sees three men stretching their legs. One of them pumps the gas, watching the rolling meter as it fills the tank. He sees movement, though, at the back of the vehicle, walking away from it. A fourth man and a girl. Can only see the back of them, but from behind the girl can’t be much more than a teenager. They walk toward the station, down the side of it, to where the bathrooms are. The man has his hand on the girl’s shoulder, in the crook of her neck and trapezius. Tom sees the way her skin is crinkled. The way the man is holding her tighter than is necessary, like he’s guiding her and holding on to her at the same time.

  Tom watches the scene out of the corner of his eye while the tank fills. Watches the three men still remaining. They don’t see him looking. They wear jeans and sweaters – dark, old clothes. Dirty work clothes. One of them stands by the pump, watching it. He inspects his fingernails while it fills. He’s the biggest of the men, broad in the shoulders. His stomach sticks out, but it looks solid, like a keg. The other two are talking. They laugh about something, glancing toward the bathroom where the man and girl have just disappeared. The man went inside with her. Tom feels the skin prickle on the back of his neck. There’s a knot in his stomach. The situation feels off.

  Tom’s tank is full. He goes inside to pay, taking his time. Is careful not to look back over his shoulder, to alert them to his watching, but he listens as he goes by. They lower their voices as he nears, wary of strangers getting too close, overhearing. Inside, Tom hovers by the drinks. The girl and the other man haven’t returned yet. He picks up a bottle of water and joins the line. At the front, while he’s paying, the two reappear from around the side. Tom pays and steps back out.

  The girl has been roughed up. The flesh under her right eye is reddening, perhaps on its way to being blackened. She’s looking around, trying to catch people’s eyes. No one acknowledges her silent pleading. The man is holding her by the side of the neck again, dragging her back to the vehicle. The three men have finished filling up. They’ve paid at the pump. They’re inside the minivan, waiting.

  The girl’s eyes lock on Tom’s. They hold. Hers are wide. She tries to tilt her head back toward the man guiding her, but he tightens his grip, pushes her forward.

  “Hey,” Tom says, addressing the girl.

  The man turns, eyes narrowed, but Tom doesn’t look at him. He looks at the girl. The man has to loosen his grip enough for her to turn her head.

  “Everything all right here?” Tom says to her.

  “Everything’s fine,” the man says.

  Tom shoots him a glance. “I’m talking to her.”

  “Why d’you wanna talk to my daughter?” he says, pulling her back, stepping in front of her.

  “Because she looks upset,” Tom says. “And she looks hurt.”

  Tom notices the three men have gotten back out of the minivan. The biggest of them strides up, stands the closest, arms and legs spread, fists balled, in an effort to look more intimidating. The other two stand close by his heel. Tom doesn’t look at them straight on. He keeps his eyes on the man and the girl.

  “He’s not my dad,” the girl says, her voice hoarse.

  The man who’s not her dad clamps a hand over her mouth, pushes her back. His eyes dart around the forecourt, seeing who else might be around, might be looking. He leans toward Tom without getting too close, hisses his words. “Listen, buddy, just mind your fucking business, okay? You don’t need to worry yourself over a runaway. I’m just trying to get her home. You keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and you’re liable to lose it.”

  Tom taps the side of his nose and grins. “I’ll take my chances.” The grin fades. “Let go of the girl. Whatever your relationship to her is, I don’t like how you’re handling her. Now, let go of her and take a step back, so me and her can talk without you interrupting.”

  The man doesn’t do as Tom says. “You’ve got nothing to say to each other.” He looks at his three buddies. “Deal with this asshole,” he says, then pushes the girl on, bundles her into the back of their vehicle. He doesn’t follow her in. He slams the door shut, then turns back around. He doesn’t stride up to join the others, to enforce their ranks. He stays by the minivan, at a safe distance.

  “You heard what he said,” the big guy at the fore says.

  Tom looks at him, looks him over. The big man is used to intimidating people. Scaring them into giving up without a fight. Tom isn’t scared. This man, with his scarred knuckles and brow, strikes Tom as a street fighter. He’s not a professional. Tom doubts he has much skill or technique. He has power and reach, nothing more. Tom smiles at him, and it’s clear that this unnerves the big man. He’s unaccustomed to people not backing down.

  “And you heard what I said,” Tom says. “Now, who do you want to listen to? Choice is yours.”

  The big guy blinks. He hesitates, looks back over his shoulder to the two nearest him.

  “Shut him up, and let’s get out of here,” says the guy by the vehicle. “We’re done talking!”

  The big guy nods, resolved, then turns back. He grabs for the front of Tom’s shirt. Tom moves faster. Grabs his hand, twists his thumb. The big guy’s body contorts as Tom wrenches him to the side. Tom controls his arm with just one hand. The big guy takes a desperate swing, but Tom catches it under his left arm, holds it tight.

  The two behind the big guy make their move, one coming from either side. Tom swings the big guy to his right to block the one coming from that direction. The one on the left gets close, reaching, but Tom kicks out, his boot connecting with the side of his knee, blasting it out of joint. He goes down screaming. Tom head-butts the big guy next, his forehead crunching the bridge of his nose. The big guy stumbles back, but doesn’t go down. His nose is bleeding. He clasps at it. His eyes will be streaming now, blinding him. He has to wipe them clear. It gives Tom a chance to deal with the one the big guy’s bulk was blocking. A swift blow to the midsection doubles him over, then a shot to the temple puts him down.

  The
big guy is moving in again. Tom prepares for him. Plans out a few quick, hard, strategic blows to vulnerable areas to put him down and be done with him. Before he can strike, he notices out of the corner of his eye that the man standing by the vehicle is gone. Sees, then, how the big guy glances over Tom’s shoulder. Tom spins before the man behind him can move into place. Tom raises his elbow, catches him in the chest mid-lunge, drops him from the air.

  The man presses both hands to his chest and writhes on the ground, winded, gasping, looking like a landed fish. Tom turns back to the big guy. The big guy jabs. Tom ducks it, plants a left into his ribs. The big guy crumples, attempting to defend himself against a blow that has already landed. His arms drop to it. Tom throws a right into the big guy’s throat. It puts him down. He stays there, coughing, hands wrapped around his neck.

  The four men are down. They’re not getting up in a hurry.