Full Dark, No Stars

“The mistake was yours.” Tess pul ed the oven glove over the pistol, which was in her right hand. “It was not having your son castrated as soon as you found out what he was.” She put the oven glove

against Ramona Norvil e’s temple, turned her head slightly to one side, and pul ed the trigger. There was a low, emphatic pluh sound, like a big man clearing his throat.

That was al .

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She hadn’t googled Al Strehlke’s home address; she had been expecting to get that from Norvil e. But, as she had already reminded herself, things like this never went according to plan. What she

had to do now was keep her wits about her and carry the job through to the end.

Norvil e’s home office was upstairs, in what had probably been meant as a spare bedroom. There were more Care Bears and Hummels here. There were also half a dozen framed pictures, but none

of her sons, her main squeeze, or the late great Roscoe Strehlke; these were autographed photos of writers who had spoken to the Brown Baggers. The room reminded Tess of the Stagger Inn’s foyer,

with its band photos.

She didn’t ask for an autograph on my photo, Tess thought. Of course not, why would she want to be reminded of a shitty writer like me? I was basically just a talking head to fill a hole in her schedule. Not to mention meat for her son’s meatgrinder. How lucky for them that I came along at the right time.

On Norvil e’s desk, below a bul etin board buried in circulars and library correspondence, was a desktop Mac very much like Tess’s. The screen was dark, but the glowing light on the CPU told her it

was only sleeping. She pushed one of the keys with a gloved fingertip. The screen refreshed and she was looking at Norvil e’s electronic desktop. No need for those pesky passwords, how nice.

Tess clicked the address book icon, scrol ed down to the R’s, and found Red Hawk Trucking. The address was 7 Transport Plaza, Township Road, Colewich. She scrol ed further, to the S’s, and

found both her overgrown acquaintance from Friday night and her acquaintance’s brother, Lester. Big Driver and Little Driver. They both lived on Township Road, near the company they must have inherited from their father: Alvin at number 23, Lester at number 101.

If there was a third brother, she thought, they’d be The Three Little Truckers. One in a house of straw, one in a house of sticks, one in a house of bricks. Alas, there are only two.

Downstairs again, she plucked her earrings from the glass dish and put them in her coat pocket. She looked at the dead woman sitting against the wal as she did it. There was no pity in the glance,

only the sort of parting acknowledgment anyone may give to a piece of hard work that has now been finished. There was no need to worry about trace evidence; Tess was confident she had left none, not

so much as a single strand of hair. The oven-glove—now with a hole blown in it—was back in her pocket. The knife was a common item sold in department stores al over America. For al she knew (or

cared), it matched Ramona’s own set. So far she was clean, but the hard part might stil be ahead. She left the house, got in her car, and drove away. Fifteen minutes later she pul ed into the lot of a deserted strip mal long enough to program 23 Township Road, Colewich, into her GPS.

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With Tom’s guidance, Tess found herself near her destination not long after nine o’clock. The three-quarter moon was stil low in the sky. The wind was blowing harder than ever.

Township Road branched off US 47, but at least seven miles from The Stagger Inn and even farther from Colewich’s downtown. Transport Plaza was at the intersection of the two roads. According to

the signage, three trucking firms and a moving company were based here. The buildings that housed them had an ugly prefab look. The smal est belonged to Red Hawk Trucking. Al were dark on this

Sunday night. Beyond them were acres of parking lot surrounded by Cyclone fence and lit with high-intensity arc lights. The depot lot was ful of parked cabs and freight haulers. At least one of the cab-overs had RED HAWK TRUCKING on the side, but Tess didn’t think it was the one pictured on the website, the one with the Proud Papa behind the wheel.

There was a truck stop adjacent to the depot area. The pumps—over a dozen—were lit by the same high-intensity arcs. Bright white fluorescents spil ed out from the right side of the main building; the