Read Online Thirst No. 5 by Christopher Pike - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Pike
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didn’t expect a vehicle of Jim’s size to come by, since the road we’re on is narrow and isolated. From talking to Jim, I know the only reason he’s not on the interstate is because he swung off the road to visit an old friend.
We pull up to the roadblock alone. The sheriff moves toward Jim’s door, the deputy toward mine. I give Jim a quick glance, let a note of fear enter my voice.
“Don’t tell them about my friends in the back,” I say softly.
Jim hesitates. “You folks in trouble?”
I bite my lower lip. “We messed up some but we didn’t hurt anyone.”
Jim nods. “Don’t worry about a thing, honey.”
The sheriff peers up at Jim before squinting in my direction. He has a half dozen faxed sheets in his left hand. His right hand stays near his gun.
“License and registration,” he says briskly. The sheriff isnear sixty, obese but strong-looking. He is a tough SOB, obviously someone who’s used to barking orders and having people jump. Jim hands over his documents without an argument and the sheriff studies them closely.
“Mr. James Jackson,” he says. “Who’s that traveling with you?”
“My niece,” he says.
The sheriff hands back Jim’s license and registration. “I need to see her ID.”
“I’ve got my driver’s license,” I say, handing over the Lara Wine ID Brutran gave me in Las Vegas. I didn’t jump out of the sky with nothing in my pack or pockets. I have a fully loaded .40-caliber four-inch short-barrel Glock in my bag, which I drop between my legs and smother out of sight while I dig out my license. Even though Jim sits by my side, I move too fast for him to see the weapon. The cops, of course, even the nerdy deputy staring up at me on my right, don’t notice a thing.
I hand my license to Jim, who gives it to the sheriff.
“Lara Wine,” the sheriff says as he studies my ID. “How come you two don’t have the same last name?” The man’s not dumb, he’s trying to trick us with the question. But Jim answers smoothly.
“Lara’s my niece on my sister’s side,” Jim says.
“She don’t look anything like you.”
“My sister thanks the Lord for that every day.”
“Ain’t you on the job? Why she’s traveling with you?”
“She’s got a boyfriend in Florida she’s missing. I’m heading that way so I offered to give her a ride.”
“Do her parents know she’s with you?”
“Excuse me, Sheriff,” I interrupt. “You’re holding my license. You can see I’m twenty-two, legally an adult anywhere in this country. I don’t need my parents’ approval to travel.”
“Is that a fact?” the sheriff asks before looking down at his faxed papers. He rifles through them and I catch a glimpse of several blurred photos. One looks like me, another like Matt, but the quality is extremely poor. It’s possible the sheriff doesn’t recognize me. Still, he’s suspicious and I’m forced to contemplate another round of violence. It doesn’t matter how I try to live my life, I think, blood follows me like an extra shadow.
“May I have my license back?” I ask.
The sheriff ignores me, glances toward the rear of the truck. “What you carrying?” he asks Jim.
“Levi blue jeans, the originals, five hundred cartons.” Jim pauses. “You want to see my paperwork?”
The sheriff takes a step back and waves his hand. “I want to see what you’ve got in the back. Open her up.”
“No, sir. Not until you give me a legitimate reason why I should.”
The sheriff shakes the papers in his hand. “I have a fax here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation that containsa photograph matching the young woman seated beside you. She’s said to be in this area, and I want to know if her partners are traveling with her, in the back of your truck. Does that give you a good enough reason to do what I say? Because if it doesn’t, we’re going to have a problem.”
Jim turns to me and his eyes are worried. “Lara?”
I shake my head and pat his arm. “It’s
We pull up to the roadblock alone. The sheriff moves toward Jim’s door, the deputy toward mine. I give Jim a quick glance, let a note of fear enter my voice.
“Don’t tell them about my friends in the back,” I say softly.
Jim hesitates. “You folks in trouble?”
I bite my lower lip. “We messed up some but we didn’t hurt anyone.”
Jim nods. “Don’t worry about a thing, honey.”
The sheriff peers up at Jim before squinting in my direction. He has a half dozen faxed sheets in his left hand. His right hand stays near his gun.
“License and registration,” he says briskly. The sheriff isnear sixty, obese but strong-looking. He is a tough SOB, obviously someone who’s used to barking orders and having people jump. Jim hands over his documents without an argument and the sheriff studies them closely.
“Mr. James Jackson,” he says. “Who’s that traveling with you?”
“My niece,” he says.
The sheriff hands back Jim’s license and registration. “I need to see her ID.”
“I’ve got my driver’s license,” I say, handing over the Lara Wine ID Brutran gave me in Las Vegas. I didn’t jump out of the sky with nothing in my pack or pockets. I have a fully loaded .40-caliber four-inch short-barrel Glock in my bag, which I drop between my legs and smother out of sight while I dig out my license. Even though Jim sits by my side, I move too fast for him to see the weapon. The cops, of course, even the nerdy deputy staring up at me on my right, don’t notice a thing.
I hand my license to Jim, who gives it to the sheriff.
“Lara Wine,” the sheriff says as he studies my ID. “How come you two don’t have the same last name?” The man’s not dumb, he’s trying to trick us with the question. But Jim answers smoothly.
“Lara’s my niece on my sister’s side,” Jim says.
“She don’t look anything like you.”
“My sister thanks the Lord for that every day.”
“Ain’t you on the job? Why she’s traveling with you?”
“She’s got a boyfriend in Florida she’s missing. I’m heading that way so I offered to give her a ride.”
“Do her parents know she’s with you?”
“Excuse me, Sheriff,” I interrupt. “You’re holding my license. You can see I’m twenty-two, legally an adult anywhere in this country. I don’t need my parents’ approval to travel.”
“Is that a fact?” the sheriff asks before looking down at his faxed papers. He rifles through them and I catch a glimpse of several blurred photos. One looks like me, another like Matt, but the quality is extremely poor. It’s possible the sheriff doesn’t recognize me. Still, he’s suspicious and I’m forced to contemplate another round of violence. It doesn’t matter how I try to live my life, I think, blood follows me like an extra shadow.
“May I have my license back?” I ask.
The sheriff ignores me, glances toward the rear of the truck. “What you carrying?” he asks Jim.
“Levi blue jeans, the originals, five hundred cartons.” Jim pauses. “You want to see my paperwork?”
The sheriff takes a step back and waves his hand. “I want to see what you’ve got in the back. Open her up.”
“No, sir. Not until you give me a legitimate reason why I should.”
The sheriff shakes the papers in his hand. “I have a fax here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation that containsa photograph matching the young woman seated beside you. She’s said to be in this area, and I want to know if her partners are traveling with her, in the back of your truck. Does that give you a good enough reason to do what I say? Because if it doesn’t, we’re going to have a problem.”
Jim turns to me and his eyes are worried. “Lara?”
I shake my head and pat his arm. “It’s
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