The Lonely Mile

Business was brisk at the retail home of Specialty Farmers Market, LLC. Cars filled the customer parking lot nearly to overflowing, and people entered and exited the front doors in a more or less continuous flow. Bill wondered what in the world the place could be selling that was so popular. It was too early in the season for most fresh veggies, but he supposed since the store was open year-round, they must offer some other enticing homemade food products, as well.

He hurried across the lot under slate-grey skies that had been threatening rain all day but had not yet followed through. The moisture in the air was so heavy and thick it felt almost as though the skies had already opened up, even though the rain had yet to begin falling. One massive storm was on the way and would be arriving later this afternoon; that much was clear.

Parked at the rear of the lot was a white box truck, with “Specialty Farmers Market” emblazoned on the side of the cargo area in green, block letters. The truck was similar in size and style to the repainted one he had watched the I-90 Killer escape in last week at the rest stop, only newer and less worn down. He glanced at it, confirming what he already knew, before continuing through the front entrance.

Bill walked into the store and approached the lone cash register, operated by a girl roughly Carli’s age. She was maybe fifteen pounds overweight, sporting jet-black hair with a maroon stripe dyed into the bangs, and wore a look of intense concentration as she dealt with the line of shoppers waiting to pay for their purchases.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping up to the counter. “Could you please tell me where I might find the manager?” The customer currently standing in front of the register, waiting while her purchases were being rung up, glared at him like he was planning on cutting the line. He ignored her. He doubted her daughter was being held captive by a homicidal maniac.

The cashier looked up at him defensively, as if he had just caught her with her hand in the till. Bill figured she must assume he wanted to talk to the manager because he had a complaint, maybe about her. “Straight ahead, all the way to the back of the store on the left,” she said testily before returning to her work.

Bill nodded his thanks, a waste of effort since she was no longer paying any attention to him. He weaved his way through the shoppers to the back of the building. A cold case filled with milk, a few different brands of juice and soda, and maybe the best selection of beer this side of the average college student’s dorm formed most of a back wall. To the left of the case, though, was an open doorway giving on to a short corridor. Halfway down the length of the corridor on the right was a unisex bathroom, and on the left, the manager’s office.

The office door was propped open, and inside, a grey-haired man worked on a computer that took up most of the space on his desk. Whatever he was doing involved a lot of typing, and Bill was impressed by the speed he was able to manage, particularly given the fact he was typing with just one finger on each hand.

He knocked on the open door and the man waved him in, glancing up for about a half-second before returning his attention to his project. “Be right with ya,” he said. “Take a seat, if you like.” He gestured vaguely with his left hand at a single chair placed in front of the desk and continued typing with his right.

Bill sat, tapping his foot impatiently. The man pounded the keyboard for perhaps another three minutes, finishing with a grunt of satisfaction, before lifting a pair of eyeglasses to his face from a chain around his neck and peering at Bill. “How can I help you?”

“You the manager?”

“You could say that,” the man answered with a wry smile. “This is my business. I own it. Ray Blanchard,” he said, leaning across the desk and offering his hand.

Bill shook it and said, “Nice to meet you, Ray. Bill Ferguson. I can see you’re occupied, so I’ll get right to the point. I wanted to ask you about your trucks.”

“About what?”

“Your delivery trucks. How many do you have?”

“Just the one. Listen, Mr. Ferguson, as you said yourself, I’m quite busy here. Are you an auto salesman or something? If so, you should know, I’m not in the market for a new truck and don’t expect to be for quite some time.”

“No, sir, it’s nothing like that. And I’m not trying to waste your time, but this is very important. Is it possible I may have seen one of your old trucks on the road recently?”

“I suppose so,” Blanchard answered. “When I bought my current delivery vehicle about four years ago, I sold the old one. It was still running well at the time, so, if it’s been properly maintained, it is entirely possible that truck’s still on the road. What is this all about?”

“Did you go through a middleman, like a dealer, or did you sell the truck on your own?”

“I sold it on my own; I thought I could strike a better deal that way, and I did. Y’know, I’m just about out of patience here, so I’ll ask one last time: What is this all about?”

“Well, Mr. Blanchard, I need to know the name of the person you sold your old delivery vehicle to.”

The market owner lifted his glasses off his face and chewed on the end of one of the earpieces. It was clearly a subconscious act; Bill could see that the plastic had been destroyed by countless similar moments. Finally, Ray Blanchard shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. For all I know, you’re some sort of serial killer. Why would you possibly need that information, anyway?”

Bill hesitated, then decided to level with him. The clock was ticking, and it was imperative he make the man understand the urgency of the situation. “I assume you’re familiar with the I-90 Killer the authorities have been chasing for years?”

Ray Blanchard nodded. “Of course. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dead to live in these parts and not be familiar with that sick piece of garbage.”

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