Faces in the Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

still make Chicago day after tomorrow, and he’d have to stop in the next two hours anyway.
    Yeah, some time in the sleeper berth. That’s what he needed.
    59.
    Something woke him.
    Static.
    He sat up in his sleeper, pausing and listening. A few moments later, a brief burst of static filled the cabin again, followed by the forlorn voice he’d heard earlier.
    â€œGive her a ride, Kurt.”
    Then the image of the catfish appeared in his mind, oddly comforting after the terror inspired by the voice speaking his name.
    Kurt sat still, waiting, listening. It had to be late, really late, right now. He fumbled, hit the illumination dial on his watch, which displayed 3:23 in soft blue.
    He pushed himself out of bed, crawled out of the sleeper, worked his way into the cab of his truck. Outside, the sky above glowed with a million pinpricks of light from distant stars. Out here, in the deep forests of the Pacific Northwest, far from the lights of cities, the stars multiplied in the dark fabric of the sky.
    He opened the door of his cab quietly, listening. No footsteps or scuffling outside; only the chirr of a few crickets and the overbearing stillness of the forest canopy above. This rest area near the eastern edge of the Idaho panhandle was one of his favorite stops. Very little traffic, and a thick cove of trees surrounding it, making it seem like a hidden fortress.
    He peered into the parking area around him. He was all alone at this time of morning. Most truckers preferred the big stops and plazas scattered along I-90, and at least two of them were within thirty miles of where he now sat. Other motorists who stopped at rest areas invariably passed this one by, as if afraid of the deep woods. Held-over fears from bedtime stories of Hansel and Gretel, perhaps.
    He stared around the cab of his truck, now illuminated by the interior lights. Nothing out of the ordinary. He shut the door, enveloping himself in darkness once again.
    60.
    Early that morning, Kurt settled in for a long haul.
    He decided not to wear the dead man’s shoes as he’d done the day before.
    They stayed in the sleeper.
    The voice, speaking his name, had been too close a connection. A connection he needed to break. That door between his world and the world of the ghosts inside the clothing needed to stay comfortably closed.
    He could get close to Fargo before he had to pull over and log another break tonight. From there, he’d be within an eleven-hour drive of Chicago. Yeah, he could still make it in three days, even though he’d had a slow start out of Seattle yesterday.
    He shifted and relaxed, finally reaching an easier stretch of road that ribboned out from the base of the Rocky Mountains in western Montana. The miles began to fly by, and Kurt retreated to that empty place inside, a place filled with nothingness.
    A favorite place.
    When things were just right, he could move his mind to this place, a neutral, blank landscape devoid of any thoughts at all. Nothing to do but stare at that long strip of white line, streaming down the road for miles. Part of why he still said yes whenever he was offered a quick OTR route.
    Yes, he was there, so there.
    Until the static broke the silence inside the cab.
    And then, after a few moments of static, the familiar voice returned. “Give her a ride, Kurt.”
    Then the catfish, swimming in orange, penetrating his mind. Even from behind him, the dead man’s shoes continued to pump out their message.
    He decided he didn’t want to hear that message anymore. It was time for the shoes to go.
    He slowed his rig, pulling it to the side of the road with a hiss of the air brakes. He threw on the flashers, sat staring at the road for a moment.
    Then he scrambled into the sleeper cab, digging under his bunk to find the shoes. When he touched them, he felt energy radiating from them. The catfish swam inside his mind, even as he fought to push it away.
    Yes, the shoes had to go. The catfish,