Gallery of the Dead

Fifty-Nine

‘I guess it’s time for a break,’ the man the FBI called The Surgeon said out loud, as he exited the highway, taking the slip road that led to a small truck stop with a faulty neon sign up front. He’d been driving solidly for the past three hours and he still had at least another three to go. He felt hungry, but not desperately so; what he really needed was a bathroom break and a coffee refill.

The truck-stop diner was reasonably sized — twelve seating booths, nine of them empty. Against the counter, the man counted ten rotating red bar stools. Their bases were fixed to the floor. A young couple, having their last bites of a hamburger meal, occupied stools number eight and nine, counting from the diner’s entrance inwards. The old-fashioned, black-and-white checkered floor was spotlessly clean, which pleased the man. Outside, a Kenworth, a Peterbilt and a Volvo truck were parked side by side. The load of the Kenworth seemed to be about twice the size of the other two trucks.

As the man entered the diner, all three truck drivers, who were individually occupying booths one, two and three, curiously looked up from their food to check on the newest arrival. None of them paid the tall man more than a couple of seconds’ attention.

As the man approached the counter, the short-haired, middle-aged waitress standing behind it smiled at him. It was a courteous and professional smile, the same greeting smile she gave every customer who walked through the diner’s front doors. The red apron around her waist had a couple of finger marks on it — mustard, judging from their color. A pair of dark-framed glasses hung from her neck on a thin cord. Her nametag read Nancy.

‘Hi there,’ Nancy said. ‘Please take any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.’

Her voice, despite being warm and welcoming, sounded tired. Her face looked worn and defeated, which gave away the fact that she’d been working at the same place for way too long and by then had given up on any dreams that she once might’ve had when young.

‘Thank you,’ the man replied with a nod, and made his way to the last seating booth at the other end of the diner. He sat with his back against the wall, facing the entry door.

The menu was pretty much a box-standard, middle-of-the-road diner menu — burgers, sandwiches, hot dogs, mac-and-cheese, ribs and so on. The diner specialty was a meatball sandwich with the chef’s own secret recipe sauce.

‘So what can I get you?’ Nancy asked. Her glasses were now perched high up on her nose and she held a notepad and pen in her hands.

‘Do you have any meatball sandwiches left?’

Nancy looked back at the man and the courteous and professional smile returned to her lips.

‘Darling, meatball sandwiches are our trademark. We have them twenty-four seven, and they are always fresh, plus they really do taste amazing.’

‘Sold,’ the man replied. ‘Can I also have a coffee refill in here, please?’ He handed her a large travel coffee container.

‘Of course.’ Nancy took the container. ‘Anything else? Our pecan pie is also quite fabulous.’

‘Fabulous?’

‘Indeed.’

‘With that sales pitch, how can I refuse? I’ll have a slice. And some still water, please.’

‘Coming right up.’

It took Nancy less than five minutes to bring the man his order. She hadn’t lied. The meatball sandwich was nothing less than spectacular. The pecan pie, truly fabulous. The coffee wasn’t bad either.

The man ate like he had zero worries in life. When he was done, he paid his bill in cash and left Nancy a twenty-dollar tip. This time the smile she gave him wasn’t her regular, rehearsed one.

As the man walked past the cash register, a clipping on the local bulletin board by the entrance door caught his eye. He paused and studied it for a long moment.

‘No way,’ he finally whispered to himself, adrenaline already refilling his veins. He almost threw his head back and let go of a loud, animated laugh, but he wasn’t about to call any attention to himself.

The man took a quick peek over his right shoulder to see if anyone was looking. No one was. Nancy had gone back into the kitchen, the young couple at the counter had left minutes ago and the only truck driver left, the one in booth three, was too busy devouring his order of ribs.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ the man said, his eyes back on the clipping. In one quick movement, he ripped it from the board. As he placed the piece of paper in his pocket, he felt a strange kind of warmth envelop his entire body.

He now knew exactly who his next victim would be.