The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 26

Les lets out a "what the?" as he spots the plum-sized red lump. It's on the ground a few feet in front of us.

"What the hell is that?" Sam says. As if it needs to be said.

I push Les closer. The tip of his cane pokes it.

"Looks like something the coyotes dragged in," Les says. "What do you think?"

I lean in for a look. Seen stuff like this back home. Coyote is a good guess.

"Maybe it's part of a deer?" I say.

"This is why a proper trash service is important. There's so much garbage just laying around," Les says. Cracks his knuckles against the cane. "Brings in the coyotes, raccoons and other trash critters."

"Yeah, just like Ugly and Fugly," Sam says. Cracks herself up.

"That'd be Abe and Tor. Two of my best guys. Watch your mouth," Les says.

He scans the scene. Eyes fall on the shipping container. The doors are locked. I spot him slipping a key from his pocket.

"You two wait here," Les says.

I let go. The wheelchair creaks to the container doors. Les unlatches the lock. Rolls into the darkness inside.

Sam motions toward the truck. She's had enough of Les. So have I. Don't have to ask me twice. This guy's proving to be more trouble than it's worth. Let's get the hell out of here.

I sprint to the driver side door. Get in. Sam's right behind.

The truck looks more familiar from the inside. There's tape along the seams of the seat, though. As if it's been cut open and repaired.

I run my hands along the edges of the seat. No knife underneath. No shotgun behind. Damn.

"Keys. You see keys?" I say. We dig through the cab. No hiding spot misses our fingers.

"Check the ignition," Sam says.

Great idea. There they hang. Dangling like honey drops in the setting sun.

Figures. The best way to hide something is to put it right in front of the person looking for it.

I glance at Sam. Relief spreads across my face. It's mirrored in hers. I almost smile. Almost.

I fire up the truck. Stick it into reverse. The nose of the truck is too close to the container to whip around and leave.

Sam glances to the container. Checks for Les. I hear the rusty cough of the container door opening. He's coming out.

My foot responds by pressing hard on the gas. The truck churns turf from beneath it. We careen backward.

I think we're in the clear. But then Sam shouts, "Watch out." I check my side mirrors. Can't spot what she sees.

Then I realize why. There's another truck inches behind us. I'm a quarter-second too late to do anything about it.

The truck stops with a violent shake. Our getaway didn't last 12 feet. We're trapped. Like flies in a jar.

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