HIGHWAY HOMICIDE by Bill WENHAM Read Free Book Online Page B

old wooden building with a sagging roof. A garage or equipment storage building perhaps, he thought. He trudged across the calf deep snow and pulled the double doors open.
    Inside the building, right in front of him was an old Ford tractor. A very old Ford tractor! The man thought it had probably been manufactured in the early forties, 1942 or 43. He knew these old Fords had originally been painted cream and red. He’d seen pictures of them. But over the last sixty years or so, someone had repainted it red all over, a bright fire engine red. Although it looked as if it hadn’t been moved in years, the tires appeared to be sound. Along the wall beside were several gasoline cans and above them, on a hook, was a set of keys on a ring.
    The man removed the cap from one of the cans and sniffed at it. Kerosene! Then he tried another. That one was gas but it was almost empty. Rather than struggling to open each one unnecessarily, he lifted the next one first. It appeared to be full or close to it.
    He opened the cap of that one and sniffed at it. Gasoline and a full can of it. So far, so good, he thought. Next he clambered up on to the tractor’s metal seat. Trying each of the keys in turn, he finally found the one that fitted the tractor’s ignition.
    So now he had the ignition key and gasoline but the tractor’s battery was completely flat and looked a bit corroded as well. But leaning up against the wall beside the cans was what he taken to be a tire iron at first glance.               When he reached over the cans and pulled it out, he realized it was a hand cranking handle for the Ford.
    He then took the full can of gas and tipped it carefully into the tractor ’s gas tank. I hope to hell it’s not a diesel engine, he thought as he climbed back into the seat. He put the gear box into neutral and pumped the accelerator pedal several times. Finally he turned the ignition key on.
    He climbed back down again, went around to the front of the tractor and thrust the cranking handle into its hole under the radiator.
    Before he did anything else, he looked around the rest of the wall and on the workbench behind the tractor. He picked up an old and worn pair of leather work gloves from the bench. They were stiff from the cold and disuse, but he managed to get his fingers into them. A minute or two later he was able to flex his fingers inside them.
    He moved back to the front of the tractor, grasped the handle and pulled hard on it. The old Ford backfired like a shotgun blast but didn’t start. He gave the handle several more pulls without success. Then he climbed back up into the seat.
    He had completely forgotten all about the damned choke! He pulled the choke knob out and pumped the gas a few more times. Quickly jumping down, he went to the front, grasped the cranking handle again and gave it another fast pull. The old engine gave reluctant ‘chug, chug’, and then stopped. He swung the cranking handle hard again and this time he got another ‘chug, chug’ and then the engine caught and started to run.
    The man was jubilant until a few seconds later it stopped again. He stood in front of it, angry and bewildered, until the problem dawned on him.               It was that damned choke again! He remembered now, that once the engine was running properly, the choke had to be pushed back in again or the carburetor would flood.
    He scrambled back up onto the seat again, pushed the choke knob halfway in, pumped the gas a couple of times and jumped back down again. This time the engine caught at the first cranking.
    He quickly clambered back up into the seat and very slowly eased the choke all the way back in. The tractor was noisy but was now running smoothly.
    Leaving it idling to warm up, he got down again and looked around the rest of the old building’s walls. Hanging on hooks on the far side of the shed he found an old plaid hunting jacket, a big one. On the hook beside it was a well worn winter cap