Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📖

but otherwise his tractor-trailer was just fine. Then he saw the Silverado lying on its side in the field. He didn’t really want to get involved, but his conscience wouldn’t let him leave without checking on the man in the wrecked pickup.

He ran toward the truck, thinking it might catch on fire at any moment. He hoped he would make it in time to pull the driver to safety, without getting himself killed. Apparently, the people in the convertible didn’t care if the man died a horrible burning death. They were too busy to save somebody’s life.

The Silverado was lying on the driver’s side. Willie could smell the steam from the punctured radiator. And the gasoline odor was strong. He jumped onto the upside of the truck, and opened the passenger door, which was already ajar. He kicked the door back, beyond its designed stopping point, causing it to slam down on the front fender. Then he looked into the cab, and saw that the driver was not moving. “Hey, Man?”

John X opened his eyes, as if awaking from a dream, and looked up at Willie.

“Come on. We better get you out of here fast. She could blow at any second.”

After struggling to release his seatbelt, John X reached up for Willie’s hand. The strong arm of the trucker pulled him to his feet. He started to get out—but then hesitated.

Willie had already jumped down to the ground. “Come on, man. Hurry!”

John X opened the glove box and retrieved his PDA, and put it in his pocket. Then he reached into the back seat of the extended cab and pulled out his suitcase, and threw it to Willie. He climbed up onto the edge of the doorway, pulled his legs out, and jumped to the ground.

They moved away from the hot metal and gasoline as quickly as they could. Once they had reached the road, they turned around, expecting the Silverado to go up like a bottle rocket. But it turned out to be a dud.

Willie said, “Need an ambulance?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Willie wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t have time to argue. “You want a ride? I could drop you off down the road.”

“How about at a restaurant? I need some food.”

“Sure. Come on.” They began to walk toward Willie’s truck. “You’re in luck, buddy. ‘Cause it just so happens I was headed to one of the best little barbecue spots in Texas. It’s just a few miles down the road, in Wills Point. Man, have they got some tasty ribs.”

“Sounds good.”

They got into the cab of the 18-wheeler, and headed down FM-47. John X wanted to go north. But he could catch up with Greg and Cynthia a little later—as long as his PDA was still working. He turned it on, opened the browser, and entered the IP address of the tracking device he had put on Greg’s car. Yes—the cat could still see his mice. They would not escape his claws.

“I don’t believe I got your name,” said Willie.

“John.”

First names only, I guess, thought Willie. “I’m Willie. Good to meet you, John. Glad you didn’t get hurt too bad.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Just shut up, you country bumpkin. Can’t you see that I’m trying to think?

“What the heck happened back there? It looked like you were trying to push that Pontiac into my lane?”

John X didn’t want to have to kill this dumb trucker. Not that he ever minded killing. But it would have interfered with his current objective—to kill Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman—and get paid for it. And now it was personal—since they had almost killed him.

“I don’t know. Something weird happened with my steering. I was trying to pass the car on the right side—which was stupid of me, I know. I just got impatient. But then, my pickup started pulling to the left. I tried to turn it the other way, but it felt like my steering was locked up. And by the time I was finally able to turn the wheel to the right—there you were. You nearly creamed me.”

“Sorry, man. But you can’t stop one of these puppies on a dime.”

“Well, I’m just glad everybody survived.” Except Greg and Cynthia. They should have been dead. He didn’t care anymore about the extra $10,000 for their accidental death. Now he wanted them to suffer—to know they were about to die. What kind of cruel torture could he devise?

John X flinched when his cell phone rang. It was an unknown number. Possibly Buford. “Yeah?”

“Is it done?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not? What’s taking you so long?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.”

“But that’s just the point—I do worry. These loose ends must be snipped—now. When I pay this kind of money, I expect a professional job!”

“You are getting a professional job, Sir!”

Buford didn’t appreciate his tone. “Just get it done—now!” Buford hung up.

Willie looked concerned for his new friend. “Problem?”

“No. My boss is just a real pain in the butt.”

“Yeah—mine too.

It took only fifteen minutes to get Wills Point. Cowboy’s Bar-B-Q was a little cubbyhole of a restaurant.

John X wasn’t impressed. “This is it?”

Willie laughed. “Yeah, it ain’t much bigger than a phone booth. But, oh those ribs.”

“Mind if I leave my suitcase in the truck until after we eat?”

“You’ll pretty much have to. Ain’t no place to set it down in there.” He chuckled.

Willie fit right in with the lunch crowd. John X stuck out like a big-city accountant—who just got mugged.

To John X, everybody in the restaurant looked like a trucker. One of them apparently knew Willie.

“How’s it hangin’, Willie?”

“You oughta know, Fred.”

Willie ordered ribs and a coke. John X asked for the same.

Willie was right, thought John. The ribs were some of the best he’d ever eaten.

After a quick trip to the men’s room, they were on their way to the truck. John X got his suitcase out of the cab, and said thanks and goodbye to Willie, and told him someone was coming to pick him up.

A few miles down the road, Willie realized he had never heard John call anybody to ask for a ride. Seemed odd. But he had freight to deliver.

John X stood outside the strip mall, scouting out his next vehicle. After about ten minutes, a very large, fifty-ish looking man parked his silver Mustang, and then waddled into Cowboy’s. Way too many ribs, John thought.

He carried his suitcase to the Mustang, and before anyone could notice, had popped the lock and was starting the engine. Man, was he good. He would be miles away before the local police were even called. And there would be plenty of time to kill Greg and Cynthia, and then abandon the car on the side of the road before the night was over.

In the meantime, he would plan their demise. He didn’t want to drive behind them, and shoot them through the back window of their car. They might not even see it coming. He wanted to be sure that they did see it coming—and have plenty of time to worry about it.

He could take them off into the woods and prepare a couple of nooses. Yes. He could hang them, facing each other. Stand them on a log or a chair. Then he would kick the support out from under them.

Greg would try to save Cynthia by holding her up, which would kill him even faster. They would watch each other die right before their eyes, yet be helpless to stop it. And the last sound they would hear as they took their final breaths would be John X laughing his butt off.

Or maybe he would finally use his .44 Magnum. He had waited so long for an opportunity. He could tie them up, back to back. Then he could hold the revolver close to Cynthia’s chest and tease her for a while. He would describe to them in sickening detail what was about to happen: the shot would tear a big hole in Cynthia’s chest, exit her back, and then rip through Greg’s body and come out the other side.

Two lovers’ hearts joined together—and blown all over the room by a huge bullet. What a way to go!