The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
CHAPTER 04: TALL IN THE SADDLE --- ISSUE 03: CROSSHAIRS OF UNCERTAINTY
Welcome to Issue #13 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. If you missed it, you can read last week’s Chapter 4: Tall in the Saddle, Issue 02: Escape or Drown.
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And now, please enjoy Chapter 4 Issue 3 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.
There’s a fine line between staying in a motel and living in a motel. Where that cross over exists for an individual might have a little bit to do with where they came from, or a lot to do with what they now call home. A springy queen with new sheets every week was quite the upgrade from growing up on Pine Ridge Reservation, and for Moses the word “home” hasn’t held any meaning for some time.
A government-issued Sedan is the lone car in the dimly lit dirt lot along Route 10. Smoke wafts from the idling engine’s exhaust in the brisk air. The trunk pops open and the car shifts from side to side as Moses kills the engine, opens his door, and gets out of the driver’s seat.
Moses stays crouched behind the door. His pistol is cocked and ready in his right hand, aimed at his motel room door. The door’s open about six inches, and that’s not how he left it. He backs towards the open trunk. Inside, he pulls out a shotgun and holsters his side arm.
He aims the shotgun at the motel room door and advances. Moses closes ground between the car and building quickly, landing at the wall next to his door for cover. He lifts the barrel up and charges the room with a guttural roar.
He sweeps the barrel from left to right, scanning for movement. It’s empty. He kicks the door closed behind him, making the door casing shake as it slams shut.
The room is a mess, bedsheets mostly on the floor, clothes flung into the corner, and an excessive number of empty beer cans overflowing from the small trash can. It’s exactly how he left it.
Moses thumbs the lock on the door, continuing his sweep through the room. Under the queen bed, other side of the bed, hall closet, bathroom nook, toilet, and shower are all empty. He’s alone in his room, but the message that was left is clear.
Taped to the mirror over the bathroom sink is a note written in his own hand. It’s the crumpled page from his breast pocket notebook he left on the bathroom floor of an ancient truck stop. It’s a warning. It’s part of the hunt, and Moses is the prey. Well, this ain’t the first time. He reaches up and pulls the note free. There’s a high-pitched whine coming in the distance.
He shoves the note in his pocket and runs to the window. Less than a half mile out is a police caravan heading his direction. Their red and blue lights paint the clouds that hang heavy over the plains.
Moses leans the shotgun against the door casing, still in reach from the door if he needs it. He pulls his tie free from around his neck, unbuttons his shirt, and unclips his shoulder holster, tossing them all on the bed. Both socks and shoes go as well leaving him in nothing but a pair of slacks.
Moses slides the pistol into the space between his waistband and the small of his back as he opens the motel room door. He ruffles his hair and practices a nice big fake yawn, rubbing at his eyes and face to bring the blood back to the surface.
Sam’s cruiser slides to a stop in the lot, sirens still blowing, lights bathing the roadside motel and a tired looking Moses. She woke him. Good.
It would be courteous to kill both the siren and the lights, but Sam wasn’t in the giving of favors mood this evening. However, she wanted to give him a good scolding, so she kills the siren. Three black vans with Bandy’s cruiser as a tail pull into the lot behind her. She walks over to Moses and flings a clipboard at his chest.
Moses is quick, but the clipboard still nicks him between the ribs. He grinds his teeth, holding back an audible groan.
“Delivering your manifest,” Sam says, daring him to make something of it. Moses, however, doesn’t have time for a pissing match, nor any time to deal with this caravan of explosives. He flips through the first couple of pages.
A long whistle comes through his pursed lips before he says, “Hell of a haul. Could be a real career maker for whoever brings it in.”
“That some sort of bribe to get me to take care of your problem here?” Sam says as she rests her hands on her radio and revolver, settling in for an argument. Moses knew that pose. He had one himself, but maybe he could try a lighter touch.
“Look, I’m real sorry. I know I asked a lot of you to get all this picked up and moving,” Moses starts with as much charm as he can muster, “but it’d be a real favor if you could take it into the city. I gotta case here that’s really crawling up my ass.”
“Your case have anything to do with the bodies stacking up between Fort Smith and Texola?” Sam begins to wonder if there might be an angle here for her as well.
“No, sorry. Drugs. Meth, specifically. I was following a mule from OKC to what I suspected was a drop. I’ve lost the thread on the product,” Moses says as he extends the clipboard back to Sam. She takes a moment to think before taking it back, looking Moses in the eye as she searches for truth.
She’s always been observant. That’s what got Samantha interested in police work in the first place. She loved all the cop shows on television, and how they seemed to have this super power of observation. It seemed like a thing that always came naturally to her, a quick scan with the eye and she had a catalogue of the scene in her mind.
“What about the mule?” Sam asks as she takes the clipboard back from Moses. He looks at her questioningly. “Seems like if you lost the product, they’d be the first person to question, or did you lose them too?”
Moses now puts his hands on his hips. He was pleased he appeared to have removed the burden of all this evidence, but he wasn’t paying for it by being put his place by some local sheriff.
“No. I got the mule, sheriff. They said they made the drop, but the product was not retrieved. I figure the bag had enough meth in it to kill a couple trailer parks worth of folks, a real nuclear bomb out here in the heartland if you will. So, I’m just looking for a little help. Appreciate you taking the load off.”
Sam can see there’s a lie, but she’s just not sure what it is or why she can’t figure it out. He wasn’t even really trying that hard. Her catalogue of items had too many inconsistencies. Moses appeared to have been woken by her arrival, but the car’s engine was still pinging as the warm engine cools in the night breeze. If that wasn’t obvious, she can clearly see the wood stock of a shotgun leaning inside the motel room door. He was very much awake when she got here, and he’s armed like he’s expecting company.
“What about the dealer?” She asks.
“Look, I appreciate the assist on the ammo find here, but I need to catch some time in the sheets before daybreak,” Moses waves, a gesture that says thank you as much as fuck off.
“I’d check out the Ol’ 64 Truck Stop,” Sam offers as she walks back to her cruiser. “It’s the biggest hub of drivers for about a hundred and fifty miles in every direction. Never know, might get lucky.”
“Oh, and don’t forget to shut your trunk,” Sam ends the conversation with the closing of her cruiser’s door. Moses glances over at his car with the trunk wide open and the black duffle bag filled with shotgun shells inside. He never was one for subtlety.
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