But that wasn’t enough. He had to be sure.
He decided that the tall, gawky man wearing a canvas farmer coat and black plastic glasses who had circumnavigated the trucker-side parking lot four times, looking more and more vexed, must be Floyd T. Eckstrom.
He punched in the number for Eckstrom in a prepaid cell phone he’d picked up in Utah that morning. He watched as the man in the farmer coat suddenly stopped near the side of the building and dug into his pocket for his phone.
“This’s Floyd.” He sounded, and looked, nervous.
“Hello, Floyd. It’s me.”
“I’ve been looking for you. When will you get here?”
“Oh, I’m here. I’m watching you right now.”
Eckstrom slowly looked up from where he stood to the line of thirty-five truck grilles out in the parking lot. Scores of other trucks were lined up behind them, and more behind them.
The Lizard King knew he couldn’t be identified through the smoked glass of his windshield.
“Which rig are you in?”
“Nope. How do I know you’re not a cop?”
“Shit—do I look like a cop?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll prove to you I’m not a cop.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll show you my CDL, maybe. I’ll show you my ID. I’m who I say I am.”
“Those documents are easily made. Especially for an undercover cop.”
“Man…” He was fidgeting now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. What he wasn’t doing, the Lizard King observed, was trying to catch the eye of anyone on the public side or within the building who might be doing surveillance. He had all the appearances of being alone. But that wasn’t enough, either.
“You need to prove you’re not a cop or I hang up and I’ll never be in contact with you again.”
“How in the hell do I prove that?” Eckstrom asked, holding his free hand out as if pleading.
“Do you have a knife on you?”
“A what?”
“A knife.”
“Well, yeah, I got a Buck knife in my pocket.”
“Take it out. I want to see it.”
Eckstrom hesitated a moment, then drew a large folding knife out of his jeans.
“Open it.”
“Open it?”
“Open it.”
A sigh. “Just a second…”
It took two hands. Eckstrom clamped his phone between his neck and shoulder while he pulled out the blade. It locked into place.
“Okay,” he said.
The Lizard King sat back and scanned the facility until he saw what he was looking for.
“There’s a red Subaru wagon that just pulled into the gas pumps. It has California plates. Walk to the end of the building and you’ll see it.”
Eckstrom did. He stopped at the corner and peered around it to the rows of gasoline pumps and dozens of cars that had briefly exited the interstate.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“The husband just filled up the car and went inside. I want you to walk over to the car and open the passenger door. There’s a woman inside and you need to cut her throat.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do you think I’m kidding?”
“Right here in broad daylight? With all these other cars around?”
“Do it fast and run. That way, I’ll know you aren’t a cop.”
Eckstrom hesitated. He looked nervously around and for a moment it appeared he would retreat to the vehicle he’d arrived in. Then he took a deep breath and strode with purpose toward the red Subaru.
The Lizard King felt the hairs on the back of his arms rise. His eyes widened as Eckstrom got within three feet of the car.
He was going to do it.
For a brief moment, the Lizard King thought of calling it off. Not to show mercy but because there was no doubt in his mind Eckstrom would do anything he asked.
But what if Eckstrom really was law enforcement and was just going through the motions until the last possible second?
Either way, Eckstrom had apparently dropped the live phone into his pocket and there was no way the Lizard King could call him in if he tried.
The Lizard King watched as Eckstrom reached out his his free hand and grasped the Subaru door handle and threw it open. Quickly, he lunged inside. A spray of blood flecked the interior of the windshield glass.
Then Eckstrom backed out and slammed the door shut and walked stiffly away. No one else at the pumps had looked up while it happened. And after it did, no one shouted, honked, or tried to chase him down.
When Eckstrom bolted around the corner of the building and was out of sight from the gas pumps, he pulled the phone from his jacket and held it to his face.
“Did you see that?” he said. His voice was exuberant.
“I tried to stop you.”
“Never mind that—did you see it? Do you believe me now that I’m serious?”
“I do,” the Lizard King said. “Right now you need to get out of here.”
“I thought we had a deal,” Eckstrom hollered into the phone. I thought you were going to teach me.”
“Here’s your first lesson: Drive away calmly and no more than two miles over the speed limit. Don’t put your head on a swivel. Don’t give the cops a reason to pull you over. Text me your address—I’ll be in touch.”
He put his truck into gear and pulled away from the line of trucks toward the exit. In his rearview mirrors he could see Eckstrom shouting into a dead phone and running toward his vehicle with a bloody knife in his hand.
On the public side, the driver of the Subaru pushed his way out through the double doors with soft drinks and snacks in his hand to deliver to his wife.
*
HE’D HAD NO IDEA the fuel tanks would ignite that quickly or that the burner cell phone he’d embedded in the C-4 under the seat of the driver would work so well. It was a bigger and messier scene than he could have hoped to create. He’d not been sure whether to use five pounds of the stuff or ten pounds, so he’d gone with ten.
Good call, he thought. Death of a wannabe. Death of a relentless bitch of a cop.
Eckstrom wasn’t completely without a legacy, though. The man known as the Lizard King was now sitting on his property near Sanish with Eckstrom’s ID, trailer, weapons, and Ford pickup.
Plus, the Lizard King thought, he had six hundred thousand dollars of hard-earned cash and a couple of women wearing explosive electric dog collars to serve him.
*
HIS STOMACH GROWLED when he smelled meat broiling. It had been over a day since he’d eaten. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d sat at a kitchen table in an actual home—not a truck stop—and eaten a good meal. Probably, he thought with a frown, it had been in his mother’s home before she burned up in the fire. And it probably hadn’t been very good. Not memorable, anyway.
As he stood his knees and back crackled from stiffness and age.
When he heard a shout he froze and looked around. There were no close neighbors with lights on and no sounds of vehicles on the dirt entrance road. He doubted anyone inside the trailer had the temerity to call out even though he reached for the transmitter on the lanyard around his neck.