Welcome to Issue #4 of The Devil’s Road, a serial novel following the exploits of Samantha Hart, a Sequoyah County Sheriff, full of vengeance and fury using her badge to hunt down her sister's killer as she uncovers a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland.
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And now, please enjoy the fourth issue and the beginning of chapter 2 of … The Devil’s Road.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
When she was little, Samantha Hart’s grandmother would have told her that the uneasy feeling in her gut was due to someone walking over her grave. If that’s so, they’ve been tap dancing there for some time now. Sam, her preferred name, leans against the trunk of her cruiser, looking out over the tall grass of the Oklahoma prairie as it dances in the early morning sun. Her cellphone rings.
She pulls a bulky Nokia brick from her pocket and glances down at the green screen. If it were official, it would have come to her pager first. The screen shows the caller as “Sequoyah County Morgue.” She thumbs the answer button and hears a male voice on the other side immediately begin, “Samantha, please—” She hangs up. Not an official call.
She clicks through a couple of screens and finds her recorded voicemail. Imagine that, carrying around an answering machine in your pocket. She scrolls to the bottom to find the oldest recording from a few months prior: “Mary Hart 12/28/98.”
“Sammie, Sammie, double whammy! Was hoping you might watch the girls.” There’s shuffling in the background. “Aaaand, I’m emptying the diaper genie you got me for Christmas before you come. I know you’ll be super disappointed to miss out on the diaper rope. ‘Your request is not unlike your lower intestine: stinky and loaded with danger!’” Sam lets a smile break the hard mold of her face. She’s always had a soft spot for Ace Ventura.
“Jesus, these two can fill this thing up fast,” Mary’s sister continues. There’s a long silence on the recording, then: “I know you’re going to give me a lecture when I get home tonight. Maybe this time you can—”
The recording cuts short as the phone rings again, same number as before. She denies the call and slides the phone back into the pocket of her khakis. The pressure is building in the back of her throat. She can feel it creep forward and rest behind her eyes, no matter how hard she tries to suppress it. She swallows a couple of large gulps of air, trying to hold her composure, but one tear sneaks through.
The phone rings again.
Sam tosses the phone into the front seat of her Sequoyah County Sheriff’s cruiser. She takes a pair of binoculars and a notepad off the dash. It’s time to get to work.
The cruiser sits off the road a piece, looking down on Highway 64, which runs east and west from the Four Corners to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It also runs the full length of Oklahoma and is a prime shipping lane for long-haul truckers and those looking for a reprise from Interstate 40.
Across the highway from Sam’s vantage point sits the Old 64 Truck Stop. It’s an ancient building that’s been expanded upon so many times it’s hard to tell where the old ends and the new begins. It’s not the kind of place you pull over for a cold drink or to use the bathroom. No, this is a trucker’s lot with sleeping bays, showers, diesel fuel, and a fair share of prostitutes, even this early in the morning.
Sam has her glass trained on the trailer park in the field behind the station. A dozen units in various states of decay sit in the overgrown prairie grass. Ruts in the tall grass lead from each door to a central gathering spot—a rusted-out grill and a couple of K-rails serve as a “picnic” area.
She hones in on one trailer as the front screen door swings open. Heather Jean gently steps out of the trailer, down the cement staircase, and onto the gravel in her bare feet. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off blue jeans and a baggy Green Day t-shirt. She rummages through her pockets, tossing a wrapper and lint into the wind until she finds what she’s looking for.
She sits down on the steps and opens up a pack of Marlboro Reds with a look of pure joy on her face. It quickly sours when she realizes the pack is empty. She crumples and tosses it into the wind. Sam’s not certain, but she’s pretty sure a couple of m’fers flew from Heather’s mouth as she tossed the empty pack into the trash-filled tall grass.
Sam looks at the watch on her wrist and notes the time on her pad. The time log is long; she’s been at this awhile.
When she picks the binoculars back up to her face, Heather is halfway to the truck stop. She turns the glass back to the trailer, where the screen door swings open in the breeze. A blue two-door coupe sits in the drive, but Sam can’t make out the plates from here. That’s new. She makes a note.
Static erupts on the radio hanging from the dash of her cruiser. Through the static, one of Sam’s fellow officers’ shaky voices breaks through, “Uh … got a ten fifty-four out here on Okie sixty-four, over.” Samantha opens the door and climbs into her office. She rolls the dial between her fingers, turning up the volume.
“Anybody got that? That’s a possible dead body on Okie sixty-four near the forty-four ninety.” Samantha picks up the handset. “Bandy? Lieutenant Hart here. Can you confirm your location, over?”
Bandy’s voice deepens a bit. “Is this Officer Hart, over?”
Sam rolls her eyes at the attempt. “Yes, Bandy. Location, over?”
“Okie six-four near four-four-nine-oh, over.”
“Copy, Bandy. On my way, out.” She quickly hangs the handset back in the cradle and grabs her binoculars and pad from the hood. She steals one last look through the glass back toward the truck stop. Heather’s disappeared behind a host of parked semi-trucks. She looks back to the trailer and the screen door is closed. She missed whoever was spending the night.
Sam tosses the binoculars and pad into the passenger seat, slams the door, and turns the key in the ignition. She’s just about to drop the transmission into drive when she feels something hard under her butt. She leans back and fishes out her cell phone from underneath. She butt-dialed the number that was calling earlier and they answered.
The voice on the other end is sobbing. She lifts the phone to listen. “Please, Samantha. Please, you mustn’t tell a soul. It will end me.” The sobbing continues. Her finger hovers over the red button to end the call, but she changes her mind.
Sam speaks into the receiver, “Bite me, you insufferable prick,” and hangs up the phone.
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