Jack looked into the backseat to make sure the kids were otherwise engaged.
Which they were.
“Tires blow. Happens.”
“Used to happen. I did the paperwork for this trip. You’re not even allowed on this highway unless you have those new reinforced treads. Want to tell me how you blow one of those?”
Jack looked down at the gas gauge, hoping for a distraction, and said, “Going to need a stop soon. Gas is getting low. There’s a rest stop in about ten more miles.”
Christie leaned close and at the same time lowered her voice.
“You didn’t answer me.”
He looked at her.
“Okay. There are reinforced tires, and some… not so reinforced. We see them in Red Hook. Trucks that have bought them as retreads. They’re listed with all the stats that supposedly make them safe. But now and then… something happens.”
“On its own or with a little help?”
Another look.
“Both.”
Another silence.
“So, which do you think this was?”
Jack laughed. “What do I look like—a cop?”
That made Christie laugh.
“Just relax, Christie. Some trucker with inferior tires. He throws on a spare and he’s out of here. Leaving that back chunk for us to dodge.”
A sign flew by.
NEXT REST STOP 7 MILES.
Then the symbol for gas, and a knife and fork for food.
“Going to stop up here. Fill up before we hit the Northway.”
Jack wondered if she was still thinking about the tire. Everything had gone so smoothly, almost as if they were some family from the twentieth century enjoying a simple summer trip up north.
It’s true enough, Jack thought. There were cheap “certified” reinforced tires, with the “approved” additional steel and nylon belts.
Normally, even the reinforced tires didn’t just blow.
And a trucker doing a long haul on this road… why, that would be the last thing he’d want.
Jack took a breath.
He could worry. Or he could let it go. Things happen. And if he didn’t get out of his paranoid state of mind—
—if it could even be called paranoia—
—it wouldn’t be much of a vacation.
The kids didn’t deserve that.
Another sign.
REST STOP AHEAD.
Jack pulled up to a row of gas pumps. He stopped the car but left the engine running.
“Aren’t you going to get some gas?” Christie asked.
“Can we get some stuff?” Simon said, eyeing the garish sign that announced a QuikMart inside.
“Hold on,” Jack said.
Jack looked at his hands locked on the steering wheel. What am I doing? he wondered. Looking around for what?
No other cars here getting gas. That wasn’t so strange; after all, the highway had been pretty deserted.
And in the parking areas…
A sixteen-wheeler way in the back, maybe the driver catching some Z’s. Two cars parked on the side, the patrons probably inside the QuikMart. Maybe hitting the restrooms.
“Jack? What is it?”
He killed the ignition.
He smiled. “Nothing.” He pulled the key out and turned toward Christie and the kids. “Look, I’m going to lock the doors when I get out, okay?”
“Jack, do you really—”
Simon turned again to the QuikMart. “You mean, we can’t go in there, Dad? Why not? Looks like—”
Kate leaned close to her brother. “’Cause there are Can Heads inside and they’ll eat you right up!”
“Kate—” Christie said.
Jack popped open his door. “Locked. Windows up tight. Got it?”
Christie nodded.
Steady, Jack told himself.
What the hell kind of vacation would this be if he drove his family crazy? He held the nozzle tight in the tank opening as it guzzled the ever-more-expensive fuel. Amazing, that with fewer people going anywhere, still the OPEC nations could tighten supply and make the once prosperous nations of the West pay and pay.
Just as they would squeeze every last drop of oil out of the deserts, so they would squeeze every devalued dollar and pound and yen from the countries that still desperately depended on their oil.
And while the gas chugged into the tank, Jack kept looking at the rest stop station.
He saw someone sitting at the checkout counter.
But no customers came by to pay for whatever pretend-food items the place sold.
No movement at all.
And the cars remained there.
Funny, he thought. Shouldn’t someone have come out by now?
The gas stopped. Jack looked down at the tank opening and squeezed in a few more bursts. Should be enough to get us the rest of the way, he thought. No more stops.
He pulled out the nozzle and placed it back in the tank. He heard Christie’s window whirr as she lowered it.
“Jack, Simon’s gotta pee.”
“He always has to pee,” Kate said.
The window open, Jack looked around quickly. The whole place was like a still life.
“Okay. Right. You sure he doesn’t just want to see what goodies they have for sale?”
“I got to go, Dad.”
“All right, all right. Listen, I’ll go check out the restrooms. I’ll give you a wave and then everyone”—he leaned down so he could see Kate—“and I do mean everyone can come in. This will be our only stop before the Paterville Camp. So, make use of it.”
Then back to Christie.
“But not until I give you a wave.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. We’ll wait for the official wave.” Christie said.
Jack grinned at her. She had every right to be pissed at him, scaring the kids; instead, she cut the atmosphere with humor.
“Okay. I’m off to take a look.”
Jack made a signal with his finger—rolling his finger to indicate that the window should be rolled up.
When Christie had done that, he turned and walked to the QuikMart.
Jack pushed the door open.
Couple of cars outside. Got to be some people in here, he thought.
But the aisles were absolutely empty.
Can’t all be in the john.
He saw someone manning the cubicle where people could pay for their sodas, the gas, some smokes.
The man had his head down, as if staring at a newspaper.
Jack spotted the way to the restrooms to the right, a corridor with the universal male/female sign hanging above it.
Jack started walking down an aisle of snacks.
What the hell do they make this stuff out of?
Salt was still plentiful. There were new sweeteners that replaced the suddenly, improbably rare high fructose corn syrup. The packages all in screaming colors, as if promising insanely good taste.
As Jack moved down the aisle, he kept looking at the cashier. Not even a look up.
Not like the place was exactly swarming with customers. Not like the guy didn’t hear Jack, see Jack.
Once again, he reminded himself to maybe—just maybe—stop being a cop. He was just here to scope out the restrooms for the kids.
No need to engage the guy.
No need to ask him how things have been.
Quiet on the highway?
Business kinda slow these days?
These weeks… months… years…