[To Die For 01] - A View to Die For (2012) Read Free Page B

the phone rang.
    “Hi, Mom,” I said.
    “How did you know it was me, Jacob?”
    “ESP, Mom,” I answered without going into the marvels of caller ID.
    “Do you always have to be such a smartass?” she asked. Then in a much softer voice she said, “Where are you now?”
    “Sorry, Mom,” I said for the hundredth time in the last day. I was on I-435, and I missed the exit to Sedalia. “Looks like I’m headed to St. Louis. Don’t worry. I’ll check my GPS and should be in Truman in a couple hours.”
    “Then, I take it, you didn’t get a lawyer,” she questioned.
    “Yes, Mother. I got a lawyer. He is supposed to call once he arranged bail. How’s Dad by the way? Can I talk to him?”
    “He’s sleeping now. I’m going to stay in your father’s hospital room tonight, so you need to check on Kevin when you get to the house. Make sure he has something to eat when you get there.”
    “Mom, I didn’t drive seven hundred miles to babysit my nephew. I’m sure Kevin can order fast food as well as I can, or has that new tongue piercing stopped him from talking?”
    “Don’t start in with me about Kevin. You know it’s just a stage he’s going through. There’s a motel next to the hospital. I’ll get a room there for a couple of days until your father is well enough to go home. Please take care of your nephew.”
    After checking a map, since my GPS couldn’t tell me where I was, I saw I had missed the turnoff for US 71 and was going east on I-435. I had an impulse to continue on to I-70 towards Columbia and check in on my father, but then my mother would be furious. I got off at the next exit and went back in search of the wagon path my GPS couldn’t find.
    It was dark by the time I finally found US 71 and headed toward Harrisonville. From there, I would take Highway Seven on into Clinton and then to Truman. Ironically, it was the route the con artist had suggested back at the rest area.
    It was after ten when we got to Clinton; both Fred and I needed to relieve ourselves. Luck was with us when I turned east toward Truman and spotted the golden arches. It was too late to go inside, and there wasn’t any grass in the parking lot. I would have to go through the drive-up and find somewhere else to let Fred out. I ordered a couple burgers and a coffee then headed out of town in search of a place to pull over. I found a cemetery a couple blocks down the road. Superstitious people would have been reluctant to stop at a cemetery this late at night, but it looked like the only place to stop before the highway narrowed to shoulder-less two lanes.
    “Hungry, Boy,” I asked, tossing him one of the burgers. He ate his sandwich before I could even get mine out of the wrapper. “Okay, you can have this one too.”
    Fred finished the second burger then decided to wash it down, spilling more water than he actually drank. I let him take his potty break at a nearby tree. I suppose I could have done the same had it been anywhere but a cemetery. My break would have to wait. I put Fred in the van and rechecked the map. “Just another thirty miles, Freddie boy. Then another fifteen or so to Megan’s, and we can both get some sleep.”
    Soon after leaving Clinton, Highway Seven turned from a pleasant drive on a four-lane divided-highway to a stomach-wrenching two-lane roller coaster. I now knew why there was a cemetery at the edge of town; this road was a killer. Headlights tried to blind me at almost every rise in the road, and more than once, an oncoming car or truck almost side swiped me. However, the road was nothing compared to the shoulder – there wasn’t any. In place of shoulders, the road builders had opted for deep ditches to drain away the water. They thought, I presumed, any driver who was stupid enough to try and pull off the road deserved to be washed away. How Fred managed to sleep through it all is anybody’s guess.
    I knew enough about Missouri back roads to watch for deer after the sun goes down.