Follow That Truck

The box truck lumbered onto the I-95 on-ramp, its white metal flanks gleaming under the sodium streetlights. Marcus merged the van into traffic, keeping a two-car buffer. He didn't need to be told to stay back; the Governor’s men were professionals, and professionals noticed a tail.

"They're heading for the Jersey distribution center," the journalist said, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. "If that box gets into the sorting facility, it's gone. Palletized and shipped out to fifty different states by noon."

"We have to stop them before they get there," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the truck. "Is there any police chatter?"

"The scanner is lit up," the journalist said. "But not about the truck. They're all responding to a 'civil disturbance' at the airport. Something about a private jet being grounded by the FAA."

"Arthur," Elena whispered. "He's trying to leave."

"Let him go," Marcus said, his knuckles white on the wheel. "We get the ledger, we get Halloway. If Halloway falls, he'll give up Arthur to save his own skin."

It was a house of cards. One card. That was all it took.

The truck changed lanes, moving toward the express route. Marcus followed, the van's engine whining in protest.

Suddenly, headlights flared in the rearview mirror.

Bright. High beams.

"We have company," Marcus said.

Elena turned. A black sedan was weaving through traffic behind them, gaining fast. Not a police cruiser. An unmarked car.

"Is it Halloway?"

"Or Julian," Marcus said. "Or maybe just another ghost Arthur hired."

The sedan accelerated, pulling up alongside the van. The passenger window rolled down.

A man leaned out. He was holding a submachine gun.

"Down!" Marcus screamed.

He jerked the wheel to the left.

The van swerved, slamming into the side of a delivery truck. Metal shrieked. Sparks flew.

The gunman fired.

Bullets stitched a line across the side of the van, punching holes in the metal. The journalist screamed, clutching her laptop.

"Hold on!" Marcus yelled.

He slammed on the brakes.

The sedan shot past them, unable to stop in time.

Marcus shifted gears. He floored it.

He rammed the back of the sedan.

The car spun out, careening across three lanes of traffic before slamming into the median barrier.

"Nice driving," Elena breathed.

"Don't thank me yet," Marcus said. "We lost the truck."

Elena looked ahead. The highway was empty. The white box truck was gone.

"There," the journalist pointed. "The exit. They took the off-ramp."

Marcus swerved again, taking the exit at sixty miles an hour. The van tilted on two wheels, then slammed back down.

They were on a service road now, industrial and dark. Warehouses loomed on either side, silent monoliths.

And there, a quarter mile ahead, was the truck's taillights.

"We can't just ram them," Elena said. "The evidence is in the back."

"We don't have to ram them," Marcus said. "We just have to make them stop."

He reached under his seat. He pulled out a flare gun.

"Where did you get that?" Elena asked.

"Boat safety kit," Marcus said. "From the estate. I grabbed it when we took the van."

He handed it to Elena.

"You're the archivist," he said. "You have steady hands."

Elena took the flare gun. It was heavy, orange plastic.

"Aim for the tires," Marcus said. "Or the road in front of them."

He rolled down the passenger window.

The wind roared into the van, cold and biting. Elena leaned out.

The truck was huge, a moving wall of steel.

She aimed.

She fired.

The flare hissed through the air, a streak of red fire.

It missed the tires.

It hit the asphalt directly in front of the truck's cab, exploding in a blinding flash of phosphorus.

The truck driver panicked. He slammed on the brakes.

The truck skidded, the trailer swinging wide. It jackknifed.

Tires screamed. Smoke billowed.

The truck slammed into a telephone pole and came to a shuddering halt.

"You got him!" the journalist shouted.

Marcus pulled the van up behind the wreck.

"Let's go," he said.

They jumped out. Elena ran to the back of the truck. The rolling door was dented, but intact.

"Help me," she said.

Marcus grabbed the handle. Together, they heaved.

The door flew up.

Inside, boxes were scattered everywhere, thrown by the crash.

Elena climbed in. She scrambled over broken furniture and bags of clothes.

"The encyclopedia box," she muttered. "Julian's handwriting."

She found it. Crushed under a dresser, but still sealed.

She ripped the tape.

She opened the flaps.

It was empty.

No ledger. No tape.

Just a single sheet of paper, taped to the bottom.

Elena pulled it out. She shone her phone light on it.

It was a receipt.

*Item removed for personal transport. J.V.*

"Julian," Elena whispered.

He hadn't left the ledger in the box. He had taken it out before the movers loaded it. He had sent the truck as a decoy.

"He played us," Marcus said, standing behind her.

"No," Elena said. "He played Halloway."

She turned the paper over. There was a handwritten note on the back.

*Meet me where it started. Midnight.*

"Where it started?" the journalist asked. "The estate?"

"No," Elena said. "Before the estate. Before the lies."

She looked at Marcus.

"The orphanage."