CHAPTER 2: The Key Under The Register
The driver's door of the cruiser drifted wide on its hinges, groaning against the autumn wind that blew dust across the gravel lot.
A tall man stepped out into the glare of his own headlamps. He didn't wear a uniform jacket. Instead, he had on a brown corduroy coat with frayed cuffs and an unbuttoned tan deputy vest beneath it. In his left hand he held an unlit cigar, chewing the tip down to tobacco shreds as he planted his heavy steel-toed boots in the loose stone. It wasn't Sheriff Wayne Miller. It was Kevin.
"Stay right there," Thomas murmured. His voice had dropped to an almost imperceptible rasp, but he didn't pull back from the glass. "If you run for the kitchen, he writes up an evasion slip on your address by midnight. If you stay on your feet, you're just a diner customer who took a bad step on the concrete ramp."
I didn't move. My palm was still cold against the laminate telephone receiver. I set it back into the cradle with a hollow, mechanical click that felt loud enough to rattle the salt shakers. "Kevin has no reason to come after me. I've known him since he dropped out of the county vocational shop."
"He doesn't care about you, miss," Thomas said. His uninjured eye locked onto mine, dead serious. "He cares about the manifest."
With a quick, deliberate motion, Thomas slid the yellow paper and the stamped aluminum tag off the tabletop. He didn't shove them under his coat. He leaned across the red vinyl booth and dropped them behind the counter, right into the open plastic bin where I kept extra receipt rolls and clean dish towels beneath the cash register.
"If he finds them on me, he throws them down the storm drain by the culvert," Thomas said. "If he finds them on you, he'll ask why you're holding stolen county transit logs. Leave them where they lie."
The front door chimed as Kevin pushed it inward, the draft cutting across the warm smell of fried onions and stale coffee. He stood in the entrance for a long moment, tapping his heavy service flashlight against the seam of his trousers. The light picked up the ring of keys hanging from his belt—three thick brass fobs and a long master ring stamped with the green public works insignia.
"Evenin', Clara," Kevin said, his gaze rolling past me and landing hard on Thomas. "Cold wind coming off the ridge."
"Diner's about to lock up, Kevin," I said, leaning both forearms against the laminate counter to keep my hands from shaking. "Griddle is already cold. Coffee is lukewarm at best."
"Ain't here for coffee," Kevin replied, stepping further into the light. He walked with an easy, deliberate swagger that he thought made him look like his uncle. He stopped two feet from Table Four, his flashlight resting on his hip like a club. He tilted his head, taking in the bloody napkins and the split skin above Thomas's eye. "Looks like you had yourself a hard tumble, Tom."
Thomas didn't flinch. He picked up his water glass, took a measured sip, and set it down. "Gravel on the north approach is washed out. Truck hit the shoulder and took a slide."
"Is that right?" Kevin smiled without showing any warmth in his eyes. He leaned down, placing both palms flat on the formica table. The leather of his holster creaked under the weight of his belt. "Funny thing about that north approach. Wayne just drove the county cruiser out to the culvert. He didn't see no pickup truck lying in the brush. All he saw was skid marks cutting right through the barrier chain at Gate Four. Broke the state seal clean off the gatehouse."
"Gate was open when I took the turn," Thomas said flatly.
"Gate Four don't open on Friday nights," Kevin countered. His tone hardened, dropping the false neighborly veneer. "Gate Four is chained until the state inspector signs the environmental runoff log on Monday morning. You know that. Wayne knows that. Which means someone went back into the yard after the five o'clock bell and backed a three-ton hauler up to the lime pits."
Kevin reached out suddenly, his thick fingers catching Thomas by the torn collar of his canvas jacket. He pulled him up two inches off the vinyl bench, his knuckle pressing into the fresh purple bruise near the collarbone.
"Where is the trip manifest, Tom?" Kevin asked, his face inches from Thomas's swollen brow. "Wayne wants it on his desk before the state troopers clock in at six tomorrow."