Page 9

Chapter Eight

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Knock on Any Door

Kingman, Arizona

Travis Hardin sighed as he took in the long row of parked camper vans and RVs. This was easily his least-favorite part of working at Walmart, and he wasn’t a big fan of the rest of it either. He’d prefer taking inventory or restocking shelves any day of the week over this. At least he’d managed to sneak a joint in his car on the drive over, so his senses were, for the moment, pleasantly numbed.

Still, this sucked. Travis shivered in the early morning light, a stack of green stickers in his hands. The problem was, a lot of Walmarts let people camp in the parking lot overnight. Whole hordes of sunburned tourists fresh from the Grand Canyon or Vegas would wander through the aisles, buying food and whatever else they needed. Win-win. It had been the same at the Kingman superstore until recently. For some reason, the corporate policy had changed and overnight stays were now a big no-no. So for the past few weeks, right after clocking in, Travis had to come out here and affix bright green stickers to the RVs. Which pissed off the owners, and some of those folks were armed.

Consequently, Travis tried to treat it like a covert op, like this was a real-life Call of Duty mission.

He just hoped the folks boondocking in the back lot were still asleep. More than anything, he didn’t want to spend the first hour of his shift running from tourists.

Moving as silently as possible, Travis sidled up to the line of RVs tucked along the lot’s far perimeter. It smelled awful back here, a toxic mix of gasoline fumes mingled with rotting food from the dumpsters. Trying not to gag, he managed to plaster stickers on the first four RVs. Then he hesitated.

The fifth vehicle was a battered Subaru wagon, dwarfed by the RVs flanking it front and back. Travis frowned. Should he skip it? His boss would be pissed if he found out, but Travis really wasn’t in the mood to face off against an angry asshole. And he probably wouldn’t be able to get the sticker on without waking whoever was inside.

Screw it , he decided. They didn’t pay him enough to risk an ass-whupping.

Travis eased forward, trying not to scuff his Vans against the pavement. He could see a dark silhouette through the Subaru’s rear hatch window. Kind of a tight space to crash in, but whoever it was probably didn’t have a choice. He’d been there himself when his mom kicked him out of the trailer, but at least he had a truck bed to lay a mattress in. It looked like the Subaru was leaking oil, too; there was a big pool of it spreading out from the rear…

He frowned and bent down to get a closer look. The liquid was thicker than oil and ruddier-looking. It wasn’t coming from beneath the car either, but from the cargo area, a stream of it running under the hatch door and over the rear bumper.

Maybe something inside had spilled? Travis rubbed his goatee with one hand. Not really any of his business, but for some reason, an alarm bell was pinging in the depths of his consciousness.

He’d just take a better look, ninja-like.

Travis shifted closer to the car, tilting his head to see inside. The windows were slightly tinted, but he could make out a figure curled up in the small rear cargo area. They hadn’t even bothered to put the back seats down to make more room, which was super weird. His breath fogged the outside of the window slightly as he peered in, seeing long hair, a hand—

An eyeball, open and staring right at him.

“Oh shit!” Travis exclaimed, jumping back. He was ready to bolt, but no one jumped out of the car and started cursing him out.

There was no movement at all, in fact.

Travis frowned. He was pretty stoned, so it was taking an extra beat for his mind to process. But something should’ve happened, right?

Emboldened, he lightly rapped on the window and asked, “Hey, you okay in there?”

While he waited for a response, his brain nudged him. Something was off. What was it?

The hand. There was something wrong with the hand.

Travis leaned in again and cupped his fingers around his eyes to get a better look.

He clapped a hand to his mouth and stumbled back, nearly falling.

“What the fuck?” a deep baritone rumbled behind him. The bang of an RV door as the voice said, “Hey, asshole, did you stick this on my RV?”

Travis couldn’t answer. He was too busy puking his guts out.