Road Rules Online

Bishop Gallgher enjoyed Saturday Vigil more than any other Mass.  For whatever reason, it seemed the most relaxing, both to him and to his congregations.  No matter where he went in his long career as a priest, it never changed.  Before he’d taken on more responsibilities within the Church, he had even gone out to dinner or to parties with parishioners.

That was impossible for a bishop to do.  The higher he climbed in the Church hierarchy, the more separated he became from his flock.  Gallagher lamented the rift.  His devotion to duty took him away from the very reasons he became a priest.

“Your Eminence, there’s a phone call for you from someone named Miguel.  He says it’s urgent.”

As Gallagher pulled the vestments on, he turned to see Gladys, his secretary for well over two decades, waiting in the door to the priory.  Grey haired and with thick glasses, she’d have been someone’s grandmother if she hadn’t devoted her life to Father Gallagher so long ago.  He looked at his watch.  Ten minutes to go before Vigil began.  “Tell him I’ll be right there.  Then call Father Petrelli.  Ask him to come see me after Mass.” (continue reading…)

Wendt poked his head into Estevez’s office.  “Hey, Loot.  There’s some guy named Aston on line 3, asking about that idiot from the insurance company.”

Estevez looked up from his paperwork.  “You mean Mason?  What about him?”

“This Aston guy wants to know where he is.”

Estevez waved his finger in a circle.  Wendt disappeared.  Moments later, Estevez’s phone rang.

“Estevez, Major Crimes.”

“Lieutenant,” said a familiar voice.  The upper crust accent would have been Ivy League if the phone didn’t bring out the broad Rust Belt twang underneath it.  “This is Charles Aston III, Vice President of Reinsurance …”

“Yeah, yeah, Walden Insurance,” said Estevez.  “We met yesterday.  Remember?  What can I do for you, Mr. Aston?”

“You can tell me,” he said through clenched teeth, “where my claims manager is.” (continue reading…)

Stan had dropped off Cinnamon and Mike at the rental area when they reached Charlotte Douglas International Airport.  While they went in to rent something suitably boring, Stan made his way to a long-term lot they’d picked out ahead of time.

They had stopped at a car wash along Charlotte’s outer loop and picked up three chamois cloths.  Once Stan parked the car, he killed the motor, popped the trunk, and began to wipe down the interior.  By the time he finished with the inside of the car, Cinnamon pulled up in a green Toyota Camry, the trunk lid rising as she stopped.  Mike jumped out and grabbed the bags from the Lexus.  Stan helped him load the crate with the Chest into the Toyota.  He then slammed the Lexus’ trunk shut, wiped down the exterior, and jumped into the Camry. (continue reading…)

Chapter 15

Mason learned the big guy’s name was Luis.  He didn’t know the short guy’s name, not yet anyway.  The short guy guided the Cadillac off the highway after taking the loop around Charlotte.  They drove for about twenty miles out some secondary road, the wheel wobbling the entire time, making Mason sick.  Or maybe fear made him sick.  He couldn’t tell.

Two or three times while still on I-77, he’d leaned over to vomit on the floor of the backseat.  Neither Luis nor his partner made any effort to clean him up, offer him a napkin, or anything.  In fact, Luis never said a word in English the entire time.

The short guy, however, spoke in both languages.

“You cooperate,” he said, “and it’ll go well for you.  Understand?”

The first time the short guy asked that, Mason nodded, then leaned over to puke onto the floor.  After the last time, Luis cracked his window open.  From then on, Mason could only dry heave.  He wasn’t so sure that was an improvement.

With the car moving more slowly on the secondary road, the wobbling from the damaged wheel became tolerable.  Mason’s stomach started to settle.

They drove past franchise food joints and strip malls, farm equipment dealers and two-star motels.  Before long, the landscape became hillier.  The Caddie passed through a small town with some quaint little name Mason immediately forgot.  A few miles beyond that, the short one turned onto a dirt road.

They bounced around over the pitted roadbed until they reached an abandoned tobacco farm.  Tobacco still grew here, but wild and among tall weeds.  The Caddie rocked back and forth as it approached an old wooden storage shed.

When they stopped, Luis hauled Mason out of the car.  The short one marched him at gunpoint into the shed where Mason had to sit in an uncomfortable wooden chair.  Luis bound his hands and feet to it before leaving Mason alone in the shed with the short one.

“Would you please tell me what’s going on here?” Mason finally asked.

The short one holstered his gun.  “Actually, that’s what you’re going to tell us, starting with your name.”

Mason thought about saying something smart then realized he was probably a dead man already.  “My name is Tim Mason.  I work for Walden Insurance of Walden, Ohio.”

“Well, tell me, Mr. Mason of Walden, Ohio, why are you…?”

“Miguel!”  Luis’ shout interrupted him.  Miguel began shouting something back in Spanish.

“Excuse me,” Miguel said and ran outside.

Moments later, he came back.  “What did you do with the Chest?”