Man of Wax Read Online Free PDF Page B

just as I’d thought.  
    Back out in the store, the woman with the sunglasses who’d been very adamant about something being wrong was at the counter. She was purchasing two bottles of water. The Bluetooth was still in her ear but she wasn’t shaking her head or waving her hand around as much as before, which meant she was probably talking to someone else. I walked up right behind her, waited the few seconds before she collected her change and grabbed the bottles. As she turned away she was saying, “Yeah, see, and that’s just what I told her.” Then she was gone, the electronic bell dinging twice, and it was just me and the clerk. He was giving me that look again, the one that said he’d never planned on ending up in this gas station, standing behind this counter, but shit happens and that’s life, and what can I do for you now?  
    I said, “The toilet’s clogged,” jerking my thumb back toward the bathrooms, as if I’d been talking about the toilet down aisle three instead.  
    The clerk—his name tag announced him as Frank—gave a long, heavy sigh. “All right,” he said, nodding his thanks to me, and started to turn away.  
    I was ready. I was set. Now was the time, and I could feel the blood pounding away in my ears, palpitating even louder than before. Once Frank headed back there, plunger in hand, I’d hurry over to the candy rack, grab a Snickers, and get the hell out. Screw the cameras. If they were going to hunt me down over a dollar-something snack, the world was a lot more fucked up than I cared to admit.  
    At my sides my hands flexed in and out of fists, anticipating, waiting for the right moment, the moment when—  
    “Elliot,” Frank shouted toward the backroom, staying where he was behind the counter, “check the men’s, will you?”  
    He turned back to me, that same tired look in his eyes, and forced a small smile just as a young Mexican man emerged from the back. He had a plunger in his hand and started down the aisle, muttering to himself in Spanish.  
    The electronic bell sounded again— ding, ding —and two middle-aged men, both dressed in slacks and shirts and ties, walked in. They were talking together, in the middle of a discussion that seemed to hinge on the importance of a particular golf course. They headed toward the wall of cold beverages.  
    I caught Frank watching me again. That look of tiredness had changed, had become almost quizzical, and he said, “It should just be another minute or two. If you need to, use the women’s.”  
    A moment’s thought, a simple nod, and then I was headed toward the back again. Shit, this really wasn’t turning out as I’d hoped. And now I was angry. Just what the fuck was this all about anyhow? My wife and daughter were God knows where, held by God knows what, and the person who called himself Simon said that if I didn’t follow through with his instructions to the letter then they would be killed. And after all that, after all that build up, he wanted me to lift a fucking candy bar?  
    There was no answer behind the women’s door when I knocked. I stepped inside, not because I needed to use the toilet but instead to keep up appearances. I stood there for a very long time, staring at myself in the mirror dotted with watermarks and trying to decide just what the hell I was going to do now.  
    Eventually I ran the water, wet my hands, cranked the towel dispenser. Came out of the women’s room just as Elliot came out of the men’s. He gave me a brief curious stare but then seemed to decide I wasn’t worth the bother and started back toward the counter. The plunger at his side kept a constant trail as it dripped, dripped, dripped on the linoleum floor.  
    “Fuck it,” I whispered.  
    I walked over to one of the long glass refrigerated doors. I grabbed two bottles of water, the same size and brand as the SUV woman, then turned around, grabbed a bag of pretzels. Next was the candy aisle, and I glanced toward the