The Overnight Crew
It was just past two in the morning when Christian Wylie glanced at the navigator mounted on his Honda Accord's dashboard and noticed that the map had frozen. Keeping his eyes on the road, he reached his right hand over and tapped the screen. Nothing happened. Since he needed the navigator to get him to his destination, he pulled over onto the shoulder and tried to fix it by turning the power off and then on again.
"Shit!" he swore when he realized it was beyond repair. "Nothing but a black screen! Now how will I find my way?"
For the time being, there was only one thing he could do: stay on the interstate—at least until the next exit.
That's the modern world for you, he thought with irritation as he pulled back onto the highway. We rely on electronic devices way too much. My old man would have had a map in the glove compartment.
He drove for fifteen minutes before he came upon the next exit. There were no hotels or restaurants, but there was a gas station—and not just any gas station. It was a Good Knight service center where motorists not only gassed up their vehicles and went to the restrooms but could also purchase a selection of flavored coffees, slushies, fast food, ice cream and baked goods. The convenience stores in the Good Knight chain were like mini-grocery stores, offering a variety of items from dog treats to breakfast cereal, from shampoo to canned soup and from cigarettes to lottery tickets.
Christian pulled off the highway, drove down the exit ramp and turned right, heading in the direction of the neon sign in the shape of a suit of armor. There were five cars in the parking lot, all in the back of the building.
They must belong to employees, he supposed.
His assumption was correct. When he walked into the store, there were no other customers inside.
"Hello, there! Welcome to Good Knight," cried a pretty and perky blonde, who surely must have tried out for the cheering squad when she was in high school.
"Hi," he replied.
Christian's eyes went to the nametag she wore just inches from her right armpit. The medieval-looking badge identified her as "Lady Kirsten."
"Do you sell maps?" he inquired.
"Gee, I don't know! I've never had anyone ask for one before. Most people use navigators or their cell phones."
"My navigator died out about twenty miles back, and I forgot my cell phone at home."
The door to the women's restroom opened, and out stepped the blonde's fellow cashier. Lady Mikayla had spiky black hair with purple and red streaks. Her arms and neck were decorated with tattoos, and Christian suspected there were parts of her body hidden by her uniform that were also covered by body art.
"Mikayla," the blonde called, "do you know if we sell maps here?"
"Aisle one," the girl replied.
When she walked past him, Christian noticed the dark-haired cashier had piercings not only in her earlobes but also in her nose, her eyebrows and her tongue.
"Thanks."
When he stepped up to the cash register, he reached into his wallet and took out the money to pay for the map.
"Five bucks," he said with disgust. "When I was a kid, gas stations used to give these things away for free."
"Yeah? And when my father was a boy gas used to cost thirty-seven cents a gallon," Mikayla Beale countered.
Clearly, she was not as happy with her job as the blonde was. Not that Christian blamed her. After all, she probably worked for minimum wage.
"I don't need a bag," he said and then realized she had not offered him one.
"Thanks for shopping at Good Knight," she said with no enthusiasm.
After scanning the map for the best route to take, Christian turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. The Honda, like the navigator, was dead.
"Oh, great! What else is going to go wrong?"
He got out of the car and, not bothering to lock the door, he went back inside the convenience store.
"You got a phone here?" he asked.
"A phone?" Kirsten Garrick echoed with a giggle. "There's no public telephone, and I'm not sure the company would let you use the one in the office."
"Is it a local call?" Mikayla asked.
"It's a toll-free number. I need to call AAA for road service."
"Here, you can use my cell," she said, taking an iPhone out of her pocket.
A young man, who had emerged from the stockroom pushing a cart of boxes, saw the phone in the cashier's hand and called, "You know the rule about using your phone while you're on the clock."
"I'm letting a customer use it to call for a tow truck," she explained. Under her breath she added, "Asshole!"
"Good. That's excellent customer service. Now that's what I'm talking about."
Christian smiled. The girl was beginning to grow on him. He took his AAA membership card out of his wallet and called the emergency road service number on the back.
"They won't be here for more than an hour," he said as he handed the phone back to Mikayla. "I guess I'll have something to eat while I wait."
"Have Ava make you something fresh," the tattooed girl whispered to him. "Those burgers have been sitting under the heat lamp since before midnight. They must be as dry as shoe leather by now."
"Thanks for the tip," he said in a conspiratorial manner.
"Is there something I can do for you?" asked Skip Predmore, the young man with the cart full of boxes. "I'm in charge right now."
"Oh, are you the store manager?"
"No, but I am in management."
Christian correctly assumed that Skip was at the lowest possible rung of the managerial ladder, that he was several years away from becoming even an assistant manager.
"I'm fine," Christian replied. "Lady Mikayla here has been a great help to me. Besides, it looks like you have a lot of stock to put away, there Sir Skippy."
Mikayla bit her lip to hide her smile, but her eyes indicated her amusement.
* * *
The woman behind the counter, identified by her badge as Lady Ava, reminded Christian of Maxine, the cantankerous senior citizen made popular by Hallmark greeting cards. Well past retirement age, the old woman could not get by on her social security benefits alone and was forced to keep working to pay her bills. In the rural area in which she lived, the Good Knight service center was the only business willing to hire someone of her advanced years.
"Can I help you?" she asked in a manner that made it clear she would prefer he take a premade sandwich from beneath the heat lamp.
"Yeah," he replied, turning on his boyish charm. "Can you make me a sandwich?"
After hearing his request, Lady Ava looked more like Lady Macbeth.
"What do you want on it?" she grumbled.
Christian wondered why Skip was not giving the cook a pep talk on customer service. Could it be he did not want to tangle with an irritable old woman with ready access to a selection of sharp knives?
"Can I have an Italian sub with the usual meats, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes ...."
"Hold on," the old woman commanded. "Let me write that down."
Ava Milhaus took a pen and pad of paper from the pocket of her greasy apron, emblazoned with a gold crown on the bodice, and began to write.
"It'll be a few minutes," she told the customer after taking his order. "I'll holler when it's ready."
"Fine. Thank you. I'll just take a seat over there," he said, nodding his head toward the half dozen tables and gaudy orange plastic chairs.
Christian heard the old woman grumbling as she turned and headed toward her work station.
"I'm getting too goddamned old for this. I ought to be in bed sleeping at this hour."
Still the only customer in the service center, he called out to Mikayla at the register, "Is it always this slow around here?"
The tattooed cashier left her post and sat down at a chair across from him. This prompted Skip to immediately stop stocking bottles of soda in the cooler.
"You're not supposed to walk away from the cash register," he said.
"I've been here since ten. By law, I'm entitled to a lunch break. I'm taking it now. Kirsten is in the ladies' room. She'll be back in a second."
"Okay, but next time wait until she comes back before you leave your post."
"Yes, Skip," she said.
"Dedication and loyalty to the store is as important as patriotism to our country—now that's what I'm talking about!"
"Is he like that all the time?" Christian asked with a laugh.
"No. Sometimes he's actually worse! He only got his supervisory position because he's been here the longest."
"And it went to his head?"
"Without stopping at Go and without collecting two hundred dollars! But what do you expect? Nature abhors a vacuum."
The door to the ladies' room opened and Kirsten emerged. Immediately Skip told her to get back to her register.
"Sure thing," the blonde replied. "I just had to go to the little girls' room."
"Wait ten minutes," Mikayla told Christian. "She'll go back there again."
"Weak kidneys?"
"Nah. It's the only place Skip won't see her texting her boyfriend."
"Your sandwich is done," Ava announced and tossed a wrapped sub on the glass counter.
"Do I pay you now?" Christian asked.
"No, take the slip to the cashier on your way out."
Even if there had been a cup for tips, Christian doubted he would put money in it—not given the service he had received. But then, he put himself in Ava's situation. The old woman would no doubt have to work until she died, going home in the early morning hours every day with sore feet and an aching back and little in the way of compensation to show for her pains.
Suddenly feeling sorry for the old woman, he put a five-dollar tip on the counter (for a six dollar sandwich), and said, "Thanks, Lady Ava. This is for you."
The brief smile that appeared on the wrinkled face and the twinkle in the blue eyes behind the trifocals was a hint that one time—before President Kennedy met his tragic end in Dallas—Ava Milhaus might have been a pretty girl. Christian wondered what such a girl might have wanted out of life: a husband and family, a successful career, a life spent traveling the world? One thing was certain; she would not have wanted to be cooking burgers and personal-size pizzas in a service station at two in the morning for seven and a quarter an hour!
"Don't you want anything to drink with that?" Skip asked, always eager to increase the store's sales. "We have slushies, fountain sodas, a coffee bar, energy drinks, milkshakes, ice cream floats ...."
"Milkshake? That sounds good," Christian said, more to shut up Sir Skip than because he was thirsty.
"Jody!" the overnight supervisor called in the direction of the ice cream counter. "You've got a customer."
A baby-faced young man, who looked too young to drive, vote or drink, came out of the walk-in freezer wearing a fur-lined parka. He took off his glasses and wiped the frosty condensation off the lenses on his apron.
"Can I get you something?" Jody O'Halloran asked.
"I'll have a peanut butter milkshake."
"Salesmanship! Now that's what I'm talking about. That's the key to being a successful Good Knight employee and to being a good American," Skip said to Kirsten who wasn't particularly interested in being successful at either.
"Spoken like a budding capitalist," Mikayla said sarcastically.
However, Skip took it as a compliment.
"Capitalism. Now that's what I'm talking about. It made the U. S. of A. the greatest nation on the planet."
Mikayla rolled her eyes, shook her head, and again called her supervisor an "asshole" underneath her breath.
"Would you like anything to drink?" Christian offered the tattooed cashier when he returned to his seat. "My treat."
"I wouldn't mind a coffee. It'll help me stay awake until seven when the morning shift comes in."
"Seven o'clock," Ava griped. "I don't know how I can take another five hours of this. My feet are killing me."
"Can I buy you a cup of coffee as well?" Christian asked the cook. "It'll give you a chance to sit down."
"Ava had her break at one," said Skip, who apparently listened in to every conversation that took place at Good Knight. Then, fearing he might lose a sale, added, "Of course, I have no objection to her drinking the coffee at her counter."
"That's big of you," Christian said.
"I sure could use some caffeine," the old woman declared in a clear, distinct voice, giving the customer a fleeting glimpse of the long-gone pretty young girl again. Then she continued in her low mumbling tone, "Two in the morning. You'd think the overnight crew would get paid more, but no. The cheap bastards!"
Both Christian and Mikayla were amused by the old woman's rancor.
"Don't pay any attention to her," the cashier said. "She complains a lot, but she's a good soul."
"It's a shame she's still working at her age."
"I agree, but this job is all she's got."
"What about her family?"
"Her parents are both long gone. She never had any siblings, and she never married. Her life is divided between Good Knight and her apartment above Van Gelder's. Given a choice between the two, I'd definitely take this place."
"Why? What's Van Gelder's?"
"The local funeral parlor."
Meanwhile, Skip looked at his watch one last time and then called to Mikayla, "Do you plan on going back to work anytime soon? Company policy is a thirty-minute meal break. You've been away from your register thirty-five minutes already."
"I tell myself not to get angry with him, but sometimes he makes it damn near impossible," the cashier confided to Christian.
"You're a better person than I am. I'd tell him where he could shove that watch."
"I feel sorry for him. His life is going to end badly."
"What makes you say that?" Christian asked with interest.
"I just know. The same way I know you're going to be stuck here longer than you think. I'm psychic, you see."
"Mikayla," Skip called.
"Relax, man," Christian turned and said with annoyance. "There's no one in the damned place. What's the rush?"
"As part of the management team, I'm responsible for ...."
"Why don't you just put your candy bars on the shelf and stop irritating your only customer."
Kirsten Garrick, who had overheard the conversation from her register, giggled like an adolescent. Jody O'Halloran, the hard-working and quiet young man behind at the ice cream counter, stopped washing dishes to gawk at Christian. Even Ava Milhaus ceased her complaining long enough to smile at the stranger.
"'Bout time somebody told that little shit off," the old lady muttered, apparently liking Christian's words even better than his five-dollar tip.
"Don't worry," Mikayla told her supervisor, "I'm going back to work right now." Then she said to Christian, "Thanks for the coffee."
"Since you don't have any customers to wait on, why don't you straighten up the magazines?" Skip asked, desperately trying to maintain his self-respect. "Keeping busy is the Good Knight way. We're not a bunch of food stamp recipients here, are we? No. We're all hardworking, tax-paying Americans. Now that's what I'm talking about."
As Christian sipped the last of his peanut butter shake, Mikayla Beale's cell phone rang.
Skip was about to remind his cashier of the no-phone-calls rule, when she called to Christian, saying, "It's for you. It's the tow truck driver."
"You don't mind if I take this, do you, Sir Skippy?" he called over his shoulder as he reached for the iPhone.
"Whatever you want. You're the customer."
"That's right. It's people like me that pay your salary. Now that's what I'm talking about!" Christian said, winking his eye at the tattooed cashier.
When he ended his call, he looked at Mikayla with curiosity.
"The tow truck will be delayed," she said.
"That's right. It was called to the scene of a multi-vehicle accident. The driver doesn't know when he'll get to me. How did you know?"
"I told you; I'm psychic."
* * *
It was after three when Christian Wylie finished his second cup of coffee. Those two drinks on top of the peanut butter milkshake caused him to make more than one trip to the men's room.
Jody O'Halloran took his break the same time as Kirsten Garrick, and the two of them sat at a table with a tray of hamburgers, French fries and fountain sodas. Thankfully, Ava had stopped griping long enough to cook them fresh food. While the two coworkers were eating, Kirsten texted her boyfriend, and Jody played a video game on his cell phone.
In all the time since Christian had arrived at Good Knight, only one other customer stopped at the service center, and that motorist paid for his fuel at the pump with a credit card rather than come inside the store. Christian wondered how busy the place got during the autumn when people flocked to New England to see the foliage or in the winter when they headed for the ski resorts.
No doubt with a barrage of New Yorkers invading the place, he thought with amusement, Ava would really have something to bitch about!
Bored, he walked to the magazine rack and began searching for something to read. There were the usual titles available at most grocery store checkout lines: Time, Sports Illustrated, Reader's Digest, National Geographic and a selection of popular magazines that appealed mainly to women.
"Looking for something in particular?" Mikayla asked.
"No. I'm just getting restless. I wish that tow truck would get here so I can be on my way."
"Why? Don't you like hanging out with our overnight crew?"
Christian noticed that after the cashier posed her question, all four of her coworkers turned and faced him. He found being the object of their attention oddly disturbing.
"I've got nothing against any of them," he replied.
Four pairs of eyes continued to stare at him, making him decidedly uncomfortable. What were they looking at anyway?
"I think I'll step outside and get some fresh air," he announced, eager to avoid the overnight crew's piercing gaze.
"Whatever you want," Mikayla called through the open door. "After all, you're the customer."
* * *
When Christian went back inside the service center ten minutes later, Kirsten and Mikayla were conversing in low whispers. Ava was wiping down the plastic tables with a soapy rag. Skip had finished putting out his stock and was pretending to straighten the cigarettes, even though there was not a single pack out of place.
"Any word from the tow truck yet?" the customer asked the tattooed cashier.
"No."
"Can we get you anything else?" Skip asked. "Maybe another coffee?"
"I've had enough to drink for one night. I'll take a candy bar though," he said, picking up a king sized pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. "Would either of you ladies care for one?"
"No, thanks. I'm not a big fan of chocolate," Mikayla replied.
"How about you?" he asked the perky blonde.
Kirsten looked at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in a car's headlights.
"No, thank you," she answered. "My parents wouldn't like it if I accepted candy from a stranger. Neither would my boyfriend."
Christian took his chocolates and sat down at his plastic table.
"Peanut butter cup?" he asked Ava, as he held out the open pack to her.
The old woman took one and nodded her gratitude.
"At least someone around here appreciates my hard work. Not like that snot-nosed, Hitler-youth night supervisor they got working here."
Five minutes later, the customer made another trip to the men's room. No sooner had the door closed behind him than he heard someone enter the ladies' room next door.
It must be time for Kirsten to check in with her boyfriend, he thought with amusement.
When Christian came out of the bathroom, he noticed the door to the right of the men's room was marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. It was ajar, and he could see Ava sitting down on a stepping stool in the rear of her kitchen, taking an unofficial break where the relentless Mr. Predmore could not see her.
Good for you! Christian thought charitably. An old woman like you deserves to rest.
When the customer returned to the main part of the convenience store, he saw Mikayla and Skip standing near the registers, staring through the window. The black of the starless, moonless night was broken only by the overhead lights around the gas pumps and the tall neon sign at the end of the access road.
"I wonder what's taking Jody so long," Skip mused. "He went to take the trash out more than ten minutes ago."
"Texting his girlfriend?" Christian whispered to the cashier.
"He hasn't got one," she replied. "His life is simple: he works, plays video games and goes to church. Not that I'm knocking it. He's one of the nicest guys I know. Jody would do anything for anybody if they asked."
"I'm going outside to look for him," Skip announced.
"Jody doesn't goof off. More than likely that raccoon got into the dumpster again, and he's cleaning up the mess."
"I'll make sure that's all it is. I have to take the readings on the tanks anyway. Always keep busy! That's what I'm talking about."
Only moments after the self-important night supervisor left the building, headlights could be seen driving up the access road.
"That must be the tow truck now," Christian announced.
"Good luck," Mikayla called to him as he walked out the door. "And thanks again for the coffee."
When the vehicle neared the pumps, the cashier could plainly see that it was an SUV, not a tow truck. She watched as the driver pulled up to the self-service island, swiped his credit card, pumped his gas and then drove away. Meanwhile, neither Skip nor the customer returned to the store.
Maybe they're helping Jody clean up after the raccoon, the tattooed cashier thought. Or, more likely, Jody and the customer are cleaning up the mess, and Skip is supervising their efforts.
For all his talk about keeping busy and being dedicated to the company, the night supervisor had a way of avoiding physical labor.
When Christian came in from the outside, he had his jacket zipped to the neck.
"Getting cold out there?" Mikayla asked.
"A little," the customer replied and theatrically rubbed his hands together as though trying to warm them.
Mikayla noticed a large scratch on his right hand, just below the knuckles.
"You're bleeding," she said. "Let me get some disinfectant from the first aid kit."
"That's not necessary."
"If you were picking up garbage from the dumpster, you could have been exposed to any number of germs."
"I wasn't near the dumpster; I went to my car."
"I'm sure the tow truck will be here any minute now."
"That's okay. I'm in no rush."
Suddenly, Mikayla experienced that peculiar feeling many people describe as having someone walk on their grave. Her eyes quickly scanned the service station. Not only had Jody O'Halloran and Skip Predmore not returned from outside, but Kirsten was apparently still in the ladies' room and there was no sign of Ava.
The anxious young woman looked at her watch and declared, "It's after five already. Any minute now the store will be packed with morning commuters."
"I doubt that very much," Christian said. "This place is in the middle of nowhere. I think the only people it attracts are the occasional tourists and people like me who have lost their way."
Mikayla looked into the customer's eyes, and there was fear on her face.
"I'd better go get Kirsten. If she's not at her register when Skip comes back in, he'll have a fit."
She went down the hall to the ladies' room and opened the door. A moment later, her scream echoed through the near-empty service center. Kirsten Garrick, the vivacious blonde, was lying dead on the bathroom floor, her cell phone still gripped tightly in her hand.
Instinctively, the surviving cashier called the only figure of authority in the vicinity: Skip Predmore, the night crew supervisor.
"Skip!" she shouted as she backed out of the ladies' room.
Mikayla turned, intending on running down the hall, but she stopped when she saw the door to the kitchen partially open. Inside, lying on the floor, was Ava Milhaus. She had been strangled just like Kirsten.
"Skip!" she screamed again.
"I'm afraid he's not here," Christian said.
"Where is he?"
"In the back seat of my car."
"And Jody? Where is he?"
"In the dumpster. You know, you're not much of a psychic. If you were, you would have known none of the night crew would ever leave here alive."
"Why? What have any of us ever done to you?"
"Nothing. This isn't personal. It's just what I do. I kill people. I was on my way to murder everyone at a small campground in Mill Creek when my navigator died. As fate would have it, I wound up here. Those campers can now go home with pleasant memories of their vacation, never knowing how narrowly they escaped death."
Trying to fight her mounting panic, Mikayla searched for a weapon she could use to defend herself.
"You can't get away," Christian said, "so don't bother trying."
Suddenly the cashier saw headlights turn onto the access road. The tow truck had finally arrived.
* * *
Buster Reinhardt pulled his flatbed up to the front of the service center, turned off the ignition and went inside the building.
I might as well get a cup of coffee while I'm here, he thought. It's been a hell of a night.
He walked in the door and waved to the cashier in the Good Knight T-shirt behind the register.
"Hi, there," the young man called.
"Hello, Skip," the driver replied, reading the cashier's nametag. "Someone here call for a tow truck?"
"Yeah, the guy in the Honda out there."
"I'll just grab a cup of java and go give him a hand."
Christian Wylie moved quickly, coming from behind the cash register and grabbing the tow truck driver by the throat from behind, taking him by surprise.
* * *
It was nearly six thirty when Christian merged onto the interstate with the flatbed tow truck. The sun had dawned on a new day, and soon the morning staff of the Good Knight service center would begin arriving for work. At first they would wonder what had become of the overnight crew. When one of them finally noticed the security camera had been destroyed, no doubt someone would pull a cell phone out of his or her pocket and call the police.
Christian wondered how long it would be before anyone opened the lid of the dumpster and discovered the bodies of the perky blonde, the girl with the tattoos and piercings, the quiet young man who liked to play video games, the self-important overnight supervisor and the irritable old woman who ought to have retired years ago.
One thing they would not find was the body of Buster Reinhardt. He would dump that in a wooded area where no one would discover it any time soon. For now, he did not want anyone to know that the tow truck had ever been at the service station.
Once the flatbed driver's body was disposed of, Christian got back into the cab of the truck. He turned on the radio and listened. Eventually there would be a call for emergency road service. He imagined pulling over on a lonely stretch of road where an unsuspecting motorist would sigh with relief at the sight of him.
I hope it's a young woman, one with a lot of spirit, like Mikayla.
Less than twenty minutes later the first call came in, and Christian responded quickly. As he approached the disabled vehicle on the side of the road, a young red-haired woman got out of her car and waved to him.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Christian Wylie said and smiled in anticipation.
Whenever Salem needs a boost of caffeine, he drinks—what else?—Black Cat dark roast coffee.
