Faces in the Fire by Hines Read Free Book Online

of the truck, pointed down the road behind them. “I . . . I saw you go by me just down the road back there, and you were . . . um . . . looked like your truck was having problems.”
    Kurt stared at her a few moments. “Problems,” he echoed.
    She itched at her cheek a moment. Kurt noticed she was wearing a short-sleeved shirt only, no jacket of any kind on this chilly Montana morning. She carried a baglike purse with her but that was all. Looked like she hadn’t showered or combed her hair for a few days. Probably a junkie of some kind, coming down off a high. Different kind of pharmacist, ha-ha.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “I mean, I thought you were having some kind of problem with the truck at first, the steering or something. But when you got it pulled to the side here . . . ” She let the sentence trail off, looked up at him again for a few seconds.
    â€œYou thought maybe I was the one having problems, rather than the truck,” he said.
    She nodded.
    â€œI’m fine,” he said, getting his bearings again. He tried to ignore the dead man’s shoes and concentrate on the woman. “Just dropped something on the floor, tried to get it. Stupid, I know.” He tried a smile.
    She didn’t return the smile, and he knew she didn’t buy the story at all.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “I just, uh . . .” She seemed at a loss for words. “I’ll let you get back to it.” She backed away, as if willing him to close the door again.
    The words returned to him again. Give her a ride, Kurt.
    Yeah, well, that might be a trick. He guessed the last thing on her list of things to do right now was crawl into the cab of a diesel that had come to a shuddering, uneasy stop with a sweaty, manic-looking driver behind the wheel.
    But: Give her a ride, Kurt . What if he didn’t? What might happen then? Would that itself be the bit of pressure that busted open the ever-weakening door between his reality and the ghosts’ reality?
    â€œYou need a ride?” he asked, surprised when his voice didn’t crack.
    To her credit, the terror in her eyes flared only briefly. “I . . . uh . . .”
    â€œLook, there’s a truck plaza down the road about ten miles. Me, I think I probably need to pull off for a quick break. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
    Her hand returned to her cheek again, and Kurt felt the blood draining from his face when he noticed the tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her right arm.
    â€œYour arm,” he said, studying the tattoo.
    She looked at it, as if unaware it was there, then back at him. Almost unconsciously, she folded her arms, trying to hide the tattoo. “What about it?”
    â€œIt’s a catfish,” he said.
    â€œLong story,” she said.
    â€œWhat do the numbers mean?” he asked.
    She wrinkled her eyebrows. “Numbers?”
    â€œNumbers, kind of hidden inside the tattoo—right at the snout of the fish.” He pointed, realizing it wasn’t doing any good—he was in the cab of the truck, and she was on the ground—but he still pointed. “See? Starts with a one—”
    The woman gasped. “1595544534,” she said, looking at her arm and reading the numbers. Suddenly, any trace of fear disappeared from her eyes. She climbed into the cab and shut the door behind her. “I guess I will take that breakfast.”
    62b.
    â€œHash browns and gravy,” she said to the waitress.
    â€œHash browns and gravy,” the waitress repeated. “Got it. What about you, honey?” she said, glancing at Kurt.
    â€œCoffee, to start with,” he said. “And I’ll do steak and eggs, over medium, wheat toast.”
    â€œHungry?” the tattooed woman said to him after the waitress left.
    â€œAlways.” Plus, Kurt was . . . waiting. He’d given the woman a ride, as the ghost in the shoes had asked him to do quite clearly. Now that