The Lethal Bones Read online

  The Lethal Bones

  A Harvey Bennett Prequel

  Jim Heskett

  Nick Thacker

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  AFTERWORD

  A NOTE TO READERS

  SIX ASSASSINS

  About Jim

  About Nick

  1

  Harvey Bennett poked a fork at his eggs, separating them on the plate from the hash browns. They had somehow melded together, and he didn’t know if that spoke to the hardness of the eggs or the limpness of the hash browns. Either way, he was disappointed. It wasn’t the worst diner meal he’d ever had, but it was in the top five. He’d spent quite a bit of time at diners over the past two years, so he liked to think of himself as somewhat of an expert.

  The best diners not only served vast piles of food — they were also dirt cheap. The worst ones served dirt and were vastly expensive. Most, he'd found, fell somewhere in the middle.

  This one was one of those that fell in the middle. The diner was attached to the truck stop, a sprawling complex comprising a gas station, diner, deli, lounges, shower area, and a little fenced-in dog park. Like a resort, if he defined "resort" as a place for smelly truck drivers hunting a shower to stay for a night or two. He would have preferred beach-goers sipping drinks with bright little umbrellas, but there was a severe lack of beaches in this area, and the diner didn't seem like the type that would have colorful little umbrellas on offer.

  A stream of “resort truckers” had filtered in and out since before lunch. Ben knew because he’d been here since then — he hadn’t moved from his spot over the last twelve hours. Lunch, then coffee, then dinner, then coffee, and now a late-night breakfast, and he was toying with the possibility of another dinner afterward. Same barstool, same coffee, same television, same view.

  He wished it was because he was waiting for something important. Something he just had to be here for. A meeting, or a rendezvous, or a top-secret “drop” like the kinds he’d seen in spy movies.

  But the truth was that he had nowhere better to go.

  The server, mopping her hands off on her pink dress and brown apron, stopped in front of his barstool that sat facing into the bar area, directly opposite the kitchen. He'd watched the system playing out — she'd clip an order to the long string using a clothespin, then a burly sweaty guy would prep the order and grunt something unintelligible back to her about five minutes later. They'd performed this ritual approximately a hundred times since he'd been there. His waitress, however, had made sure to stop by at least once an hour since yesterday morning, which he appreciated.

  “More coffee, hun?” she asked.

  He looked up, studying her. She wore a frown almost as wide as her face. She was probably twenty-five or thirty years older than him — maybe just about to hit fifty, but he was a terrible judge of age. A nest of white peeked out from under her hairnet. She had worn the same expression of concern since lunch, but she had made no comments about Ben overstaying his welcome. Maybe she assumed he was driving a rig and had nowhere to go on his day off.

  He nodded. “Working a double?”

  “You know it. What’s your name, hun?”

  “Ben.”

  She hooked a thumb at a glass display case featuring pies of all the colors of the rainbow. “Well, Ben, how would you like a slice of pie?”

  He hesitated a moment before responding, because he realized this woman was the first person he had actually spoken with in almost a week. Maybe two weeks. At the motels and gas stations Ben had visited in his aimless tour of the Midwest, he had usually communicated in nods and grunts to people. He worried the language center of his brain might start to erode if it went on like this for another week. His voice, certainly, would go. He cleared his throat, moving away the dust and detritus his mouth had built up, just to be sure.

  He glanced at her name tag before he spoke, even though he’d known her name for hours. “Sure thing, uh, Doris. I think you could talk me into a slice of pie. I’m not picky. Whatever’s freshest.”

  “I got a key lime back in the kitchen with your name on it.”

  “Sounds good.” Before she could turn away, he held up a hand. “Wait. Where are we right now?”

  Her frown deepened. “Hun, are you asking me about a map location, or, did you mean in some grander, meaning-of-the-universe way?”

  He smiled. "No, ma'am. I meant in a literal way. The town."

  “You’re in Hays, Kansas. The one and only gateway to the west, as I like to call it. Is that where you’re supposed to be?”

  Definitely lacking for beaches, he thought. He shrugged. "I'm not supposed to be anywhere, really. But thank you, Doris. I'll have that key lime now if you got a minute."

  He felt better when she turned back around because he didn't have to look at her pitying stare any longer. Maybe Harvey "Ben" Bennett hadn't showered or dragged a comb through his hair in a couple days, perhaps he was in the same jeans and red flannel he'd been wearing for more days than that, but he didn't want anyone's pity. He wanted fluffy eggs and crispy hash browns, and to be left alone. He knew by now that he'd only be able to get one of those things here — fluffy eggs and crispy hash browns were a luxury Kansas couldn't afford, apparently — so he was determined to be left alone.

  But for the last twenty minutes, a crew of three truckers at a table behind him had made it difficult for him to have the solitude he craved. They’d been talking nonstop over their empty plates of food. First, they’d talked about some trucker friend of theirs they didn’t like, then the conversation had turned to some trucker enemy of theirs they didn’t like, and now, they were discussing their wives. They didn’t seem to like them much, either.

  Ben had been trying to tune them out, with mixed success. This late at night, they seemed to feel free to hoot and holler and generally not give a shit about what anyone else thought of their conversation. Actually, now that he thought about it, they seemed like the sort of guys who didn’t give a shit about what anyone else thought of their conversation no matter what time it was.

  A television bolted to the wall behind the counter gave Ben a bit of respite, but the volume was too low. Local news. He focused, narrowing his eyes at the screen. Behind the newscaster’s head, the corner graphic changed to show the twin towers in New York. The scrawl below read:

  Mayor to choose speaker for upcoming 9/11 anniversary service

  “Hey, Doris?” Ben called, and a moment later, she emerged from the back. She had the coffee in one hand, but no plate full of pie.

  “That pie’s coming right up, hun. G
ive me just a second.”

  “Sure, but it’s not about that. Would you mind turning up the TV? I’d like to hear this part.”

  She grabbed a remote control from on top of the cash register and squinted at the buttons for a few seconds. She tried a few, her scowl at the confusing technology in her hand deepening by the second.

  Before she could find the volume button, Ben heard a chair scrape against the floor behind him. He turned to spy out of his peripheral vision. One of the three truckers had stood up and was looking in his direction. White guy, about six feet tall, with a bulbous belly pushing against the limits of his dirty red t-shirt. Other than his beer gut, he was thin. He had a patchy beard that seemed intended to cover up a scar from his left ear to his nose. The beard wasn't doing its job.

  "Hey," the trucker said in a guttural, southern accent. "If you're gonna change the channel, put it on SportsCenter.”

  Ben had watched these three in the reflection on the display case for several minutes, and not once had they glanced at the television. He had a notion of why this guy was suddenly interested. It wasn’t about SportsCenter.

  Doris was still pecking at the buttons, looking back and forth between the TV and the remote. “Uh, I’m trying, here. But, this young man asked me to leave it on this channel. I think he’s got dibs.”

  “Is that right?” the redneck said, and Ben turned a little more to find the guy now only a couple paces behind him. The redneck kept his eyes on Ben, but he spoke to Doris. “Well, I don’t give two shits about the news. I ain't never seen this guy before, and I come in here all the time. So, I want SportsCenter.”

  Ben turned on his barstool and set his hands on the legs of his jeans. He took out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the counter since he had a feeling of where this was headed. No reason to leave Doris in the lurch.

  For a few seconds, Ben and the guy stared at each other. Like a game of visual chicken, and Ben had no problem keeping his eyes steady. He couldn’t see any reason to back down.

  With the redneck glaring down at him, Ben cleared his throat. “You can watch SportsCenter in a minute. I want to hear about the 9/11 service.”

  The redneck balled his fists but kept them at his sides. “Is that right? And what makes you think he get to decide for everyone in here what we all get to watch?”

  “Now, Carl,” Doris said, “why don’t you go sit back down at your table. I’m cutting up some key lime in the back. I’ll bring y’all a slice.”

  Ben looked past Carl to the table. His two friends were still seated, but they were watching with interest. Ben checked for bulges around their waists that might mean handguns, but he couldn’t spot anything with any certainty. Still, that didn’t mean they weren’t armed. But would they really pull a gun or knife on me?

  “You’re not going to sit down, are you?” Ben asked him.

  Carl grinned as he shook his head. “No sir, I ain’t. And we’re going to watch SportsCenter. If you don’t like it, then I’m not sure what to tell you.”

  Ben knew what was coming — he’d been around guys like these for months. They were usually so uptight after sitting in the cabs of their trucks for days on end that they were almost begging for some action. He could either let it happen or get out in front of it.

  He chose to get out in front of it.

  Ben leaped off the barstool and dove for Carl. He managed to wrap his hands around the redneck's waist, but when he tried to drag him down, Ben found the guy surprisingly strong. Two fistfuls of the shirt were not enough leverage to make a difference. He stumbled sideways, his grip on the man's shirt tightening, but the man himself hardly moved.

  The redneck brought the back of his fist down into Ben's face, smacking into the spot between his nose and right eye. He tasted blood in his mouth within a half-second. His eyes clouded from the punch.

  But he knew he couldn’t stand still and wait for Carl to strike again. He tried to remember his football coach’s words. Head to numbers, Bennett. He ducked his head and focused on a spot on Carl’s chest, then he lunged forward. He impacted with the man, and Ben shoved him against a nearby table, putting his back into it as hard as possible. It skidded across the floor, a screech that drowned out all other sounds.

  Doris scrambled to the top of the counter. “You boys quit it right this instant! I’m calling the police.”

  Carl yelped from the contact with the table, but it didn't make him stop. He gave Ben a solid shove, throwing their bodies apart. Ben staggered back a step, and now he and Carl squared off. Both of them already panting, shoulders heaving, eyes full of fire. Ben didn't know what to do with his hands. Does it look ridiculous to hold them up and make slow circles with my fists, like a boxer?

  He did it anyway.

  Carl raised his fists. "Bring it, you little piece of shit." The words slurred out of the man's mouth and Ben suddenly realized that the man may have been drinking something other than coffee. Does that make things better or worse? Could be the guy’s reaction time was slowed, or it could mean that his body wasn’t really feeling pain at the moment.

  By now, Carl’s two buddies had stood and were circling up behind him. Ben could hear them to his left. The exit to the parking lot and Ben’s truck were also to his left, which meant he would have to find a way past Carl’s backup gang. The counter was to Ben’s right, and he figured there had to be a back door out of the diner.

  True to her word, Doris was now standing in the corner, phone up to her ear. She was already talking, but with his adrenaline pumping, Ben couldn't hear what she was saying.

  While Ben was still deciding, Carl took the advantage. He jumped forward and landed a punch on Ben’s chin, causing Ben to think his jaw was broken for a split second. He saw stars, but he was able to fight them back. Ben countered with a punch to Carl’s gut, and he was disappointed to discover that Carl’s doughy middle held up surprisingly well. Ben could feel it in his knuckles. He’d forgotten that rule about beer guts: they were always rock-hard somehow.

  But the blow made the redneck back up a couple of steps. Carl’s two friends moved from Ben’s peripheral to stand right behind Carl. He grinned as he took a step back, now forming a line with them.

  “What you gonna do now?” Carl asked.

  Ben spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, missing Carl’s boots by inches. Bummer. He took a breath. Balled his fists. When his eyes flicked to the front door, Carl pivoted his body half a step in that direction. Perfect, Ben thought.

  He’d thrown them off with his little bluff, and Ben took the opportunity. He ran right at the counter, placing one hand on it to hop over to the back.

  Doris screamed and dropped the phone as Ben neared her. But it didn’t matter. He could already hear sirens out in the front. How had they gotten here so fast? They must’ve already been in the lot. Hanging out, hoping to arrest a few lot lizards.

  Ben pushed through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. Shiny stainless steel everywhere. Thick rubber mats on the floors, and booming accordion music coming from overhead speakers. The thick, sweaty guy in a white cook’s outfit stood by the dishwasher, holding a spatula in one hand. He stared at Ben as he raced over the rubber mats. Exit sign ahead.

  Ben burst through the rear door and into the dark night of the pasture behind the truck stop.

  2

  Ben ran out into the night, the sides of his flannel shirt flapping as his feet pounded the grass. His hands knifed the cool air, his shoulders up, deep breaths pushing him forward. The adrenaline carrying him masked the punches to his face for the moment. But as he knew from experience, he would need to ice his face in the morning.

  He turned to see the red and blue lights bouncing off either side of the truck stop. His hypothesis was confirmed: the cops had gotten there within seconds, which meant they’d been sitting in the lot.

  How stupid was he to start a fight with a random redneck, without even knowing there were cops outside the whole time? Of course, cops in Hays, Kansas, w
ouldn't have anything better to do than to hang out at a truck stop and wait for something exciting to happen. He had just happened to land at the wrong truck stop. And he'd happened to piss off the wrong trucker.

  That thought sent rage through him. No, he thought. I didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, even Doris had been on his side. All for changing the channel?

  Ben shook off the anger and tried to focus. Anger wouldn’t help him — anger blinded him, made him do stupid things. He had a habit of doing that sort of thing, too; acting without thinking, or taking action on his anger. He knew it, and it had been a problem for as long as he could remember.

  Ben ran to put distance between him and the cops. Sticker bushes attacked the legs of his jeans. He leaped over a barbed wire fence to the wider open space beyond.

  This open field behind the truck stop bled into a hill with a steep slope, leading down to a creek. Trees blanketed both sides of the water. Ben slowed as he descended the hill until he could only see the top of the truck stop.

  He put his hands on his knees and coughed as he tried to catch his breath. Probably fine to stop here. He didn't think the Hays PD or Highway Patrol would bother to send out dogs for a man in a fistfight in a truck stop diner.

  The sirens chirped a couple more times, then turned off, and the lights stopped dancing between the shadows. Maybe they’re already leaving. Whether they were or not, Ben had no intention of going back to the truck stop. He hadn’t been there for any particular reason, anyway, and aside from getting his truck he wanted nothing to do with that place.