Snowbound - Blake Crouch [33]
“Jesus.” Will looked at the clock: 10:54.
He opened the door, stepped outside.
“Good luck,” Kalyn said. He nodded, felt like he was going to be sick. “I know you can do this,” she said. “So quit doubting yourself.”
But he didn’t. He doubted himself as he shoved the Glock into his waistband, as he looked back across the interstate toward the motel where he’d left Devlin, as he shoved his hands into his leather jacket and started across the parking lot.
Will stepped into the convenience store that adjoined the café.
Big Al’s was bustling for almost eleven, and, no surprise, 80 percent of the customers had the look of truck drivers—bearded, bulging guts, bloodshot eyes bleary with loneliness.
He walked past the drink machines, saw a black man filling what must have been a gallon-size cup from every soda dispenser—shot of Sierra Mist, Coca-Cola, orange Fanta, lemonade, Dr Pepper—a potpourri of colored, carbonated sugar water.
He headed for the rest rooms, found an empty stall, and sat for a moment on the toilet, making himself breathe, holding the Glock, turning it over, trying to settle into the weight of it. As he washed his hands, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He studied his eyes, wondered if the man named Jonathan would see the cold, callous burning that he did not.
He walked back through the convenience store, heading toward the restaurant’s entrance.
A clock above the cash register read 11:02.
The hostess looked up, said, “Just one tonight, honey?”
“No, I’m meeting someone.” He strode past her, made a quick scan of the tables and booths, the stools at the counter. Soft drink signs and old license plates adorned the walls. A sign over the grill read KISS A TRUCKER. Breathe, Will. Breathe. The place was packed. Smell of fried things, onions, old coffee, bacon, body odor, eons of accumulated cigarette smoke. Long red hair, bushy beard, weighs over three hundred pounds. Aside from the long red hair, Javier’s description matches a third of the custom—There.
In the last booth, not far from the kitchen doors, an enormous man with braids of red hair and an unkempt beard occupied an entire bench seat. His back was to the wall, and he was staring at Will. You aren’t breathing. Will breathed, then moved carefully across the checkered floor to the booth, the man watching him with uncertainty.
The food on the table could have fed five, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all major fried-food groups represented.
Will slid into the booth.
“Jonathan?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Breathe. Will’s lower lip ached to tremble. He bit his tongue, glared at the man, summoning all the hate in his arsenal. He had a hand in taking Rachael.
“Once more. You Jonathan?” The man returned the onion ring he’d been holding to the basket and wiped the grease from his hands onto his size XXX T-shirt, which displayed three naked women engaged in some act that was indeterminate due to the stretched, faded quality of the cotton.
When he started to rise, Will pulled the Glock from his waistband, set it on the table, the barrel pointed at Jonathan, his finger on the trigger.
“You crazy?” The man’s eyes cut to every corner of the restaurant, but Will didn’t move. “Where’s Jav?” Jonathan whispered.
“Jav went to be with the Lord.” Will wiped his right hand on his pants under the table, sweat running down his sides. He tapped the Glock on the table. “Should I put this away or—”
“Yes. Nobody told me nothing about this. Who are you?”
It hadn’t occurred to Will that he might be asked to give his name, and he said the first thing that popped into his head: “Never mind what my name is. We discovered that Jav had this little operation going on the side. And you know what the upsetting thing was? He never shared.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I have the product.”
Jonathan picked up an enormous hamburger and bit into it, juice and catsup running down his chin. He wiped