I looked up at the pale line of the bridge, where Meffert, Sheriff Grainger, and Deputy Aikins were silhouetted against the pewter sky. “Okay,” I called. “Take up the slack. Easy does it.” I stepped away from the litter as the lines twitched and grew taut and the litter slowly ascended. Ascended, but not into heaven.
Tyler struggled up the rope first, and I followed. We met the sheriff and Meffert on the bridge, where the litter now lay, and we each took a corner and carried it to the truck in silence. For reasons I couldn’t have explained—because I didn’t fully understand them—the procession had a solemn, almost sacred feel to it, as if we were pallbearers at a funeral. Which, in a way, we were, because this was almost certain to be the most attention and dignity that would attend this woman’s death.
THE FUEL WARNING LIGHT blinked on just as Tyler and I turned off Stinking Creek Road onto the ramp for I-75 South. “Crap,” I muttered. “We need gas.”
“I think there’s a Pilot station—maybe a truck stop?—at the next exit. Just before we start down the mountain.”
“Yup,” I said. “You want to grab some food there?”
“Not really. Last time we ate at a place like that, I got really sick. Remember those chili dogs in Ooltewah? Woof. They tasted bad going down, and worse coming up. I’ve had bait shyness about truck-stop food ever since.”
“I didn’t realize your digestive system was so delicate,” I said. “You sure you’ve picked the right career path?”
“Hey, I don’t mind the bodies and the bugs. It’s just the snakes and the gut-bombs I hate.”
“Duly noted. I think there’s a Cracker Barrel just down the mountain, at LaFollette. Think you can handle that?”
“Cracker Barrel? Are you kidding?” He made exaggerated smacking sounds. “I could eat there every day. The merchandise is tacky, and the biscuits aren’t what they ought to be, but the food’s great.”
The Pilot truck stop, with its giant glowing sign of yellow, red, and black, loomed out of the darkness two minutes later. The fuel-pump islands were surrounded by a sea of asphalt, much of it occupied by tractor-trailer rigs that seemed settled in for the night. Many of the cabs were curtained off, but the trucks’ running lights remained on, and the air thrummed with a chorus of diesel engines and auxiliary generators, running to keep refrigerated trailers cool and sleeper cabs warm.
As we threaded our way through the rows of parked rigs, I glimpsed a pair of legs—pale, bare, female legs—clambering down from one of the cabs. When she emerged from the narrow gap between two trucks, I was stunned to see that she was naked from the waist down, except for a pair of high-heeled shoes. As she crossed the asphalt to the opposite row of trucks, she tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it down enough to cover—or nearly cover—her rear end.
“Jesus,” said Tyler. “Looks like you can get more than chili dogs and indigestion here.”
“Sure does,” I agreed, wondering what sort of desperation would induce a woman to have sex with multiple strangers every night in a truck-stop parking lot. “Looks like you could definitely get diseased here, too.” I thought of the remains in the back of the truck. “Or maybe dead.”
The woman rapped on the cab of a truck that was practically outlined in amber running lights. The door opened, and she climbed up. As she did, the hem of her garment crept up her flanks, as if the very fabric had somehow been programmed by some efficiency expert to shave every possible second and excise every scrap of humanity from the transaction about to be executed.
THE BIG SCOREBOARD-STYLE CLOCK on the Knoxville News Sentinel building read 9:57 P.M.—three minutes shy of my usual bedtime—by the time Tyler and I reached the city and took the exit for Neyland Drive. It was past Tyler’s bedtime already, if his slumped posture and rumbling snores were any indication. I slowed down, savoring the view on the final mile of the drive. The riverfront stretch of Neyland Drive was pretty by daylight, but it was beautiful by night. The lights of the Gay Street and Henley Street Bridges pooled and smeared in the water, like an Impressionist painting of Paris streets after an evening rain.
Neyland Stadium loomed dark and hulking as I threaded the truck down the narrow service lane around its perimeter. Weaving between concrete columns and steel girders to the base of the mammoth oval, I tucked the truck into the narrow dead end of asphalt beside the osteology lab. “Tyler, we’re here,” I said. He didn’t answer, so I shook his elbow, causing him to bolt upright and look around, wild-eyed and disoriented. “We’re here,” I repeated.
“Okay,” he mumbled. “Be right there.” He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Wow,” he said, sounding slightly more cogent. “I was really out.” He massaged his neck and rolled his head from side to side to work out the kinks. “You want me to start processing the remains now?”