Page 1 of Cole: Bloodlines
BEFORE: THE CRATE
The red suburbansped along the lonely, winding stretch of highway that wound through a barren landscape in the middle of nowhere, USA. The engine roared through the quiet emptiness, and the tires rumbled along the pavement, occasionally crunching over small rocks and debris. Once a vibrant cherry red, the rig's paint had weathered into a dull, rust-hued finish, further dulled by a coating of dust, while the underside of the fenders bore the crusty remnants of dried mud.
The driver, a figure in a black billed cap and dark sunglasses, whose license identified him as thirty-eight-year-old Harlon Dodd, held the steering wheel loosely, his eyes lazily taking in the vast emptiness that sprawled endlessly in every direction. The sun, a blazing orb of fiery orange, slowly sank toward the horizon, casting a glowing reflection in the side mirror. With a lazy motion, the driver removed the sunglasses, hooking them onto the visor, and casually rested his left elbow on the open window. The warm breeze rustled the fabric of his shirt as he guided the suburban with a steady, relaxed hand.
Harlon Dodd’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, lingering on the massive wooden crate that filled the rear cargo area of the rig. The rough-hewn pine planks were secured with shiny steel bands, taking up nearly the entire space. A smirk twitched at the corner of his sun-chapped lips. “And you thought I'd never take you anywhere,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper in the cab's dusty silence. He chuckled—a dry, rattling sound—and fixed his gaze on the shimmering asphalt ahead.
His foot eased off the gas pedal when a midnight-blue state police cruiser appeared in the distance behind him, its roof lights catching the late afternoon sun. His pulse didn’t so muchas hitch, even as the cruiser's red and blue lights began their frantic dance and the siren punctuated the desert quiet with two sharp bleeps. The suburban slowed to a reluctant crawl, tires crunching over loose gravel as it edged onto the shoulder, finally settling into stillness with a sigh of hot metal.
The driver tugged the brim of his cap lower and tracked the officer through the side mirror as the cop stepped out of his vehicle and approached with the cocksure swagger of small-town authority. The officer's polished boots kicked up small clouds of dust as he strutted toward the suburban, his mirrored aviators reflecting twin distorted images of the rig as he deliberately slowed to peer into the cargo area. Sunlight glinted off his badge and the handcuffs dangling from his belt. He was a tall, stout man with shoulders that strained his khaki uniform and a mustache so thick and lush it seemed to be consuming his upper lip like some furry parasite.
Arranging his features into a calm, disarming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Harlon acknowledged the cop with a slight nod. “Afternoon, officer. Is there a problem?”
The trooper studied Harlon a moment. “You've got yourself a busted taillight,” he drawled, thumbs hooked into his belt loops.
“No shit?” Harlon laughed—a short, sharp bark. “Well, I'll be damned. Must've been those punk kids loitering outside that greasy spoon in the last town—all torn jeans and bad attitudes.” He flashed a wolfish grin and raised his hand, two fingers in a V, the skin around his knuckles whitening slightly. “Scout's honor, I'll get it fixed at the next town.”
The officer nodded. “May I see your license and registration?”
“Of course.” The driver dug out the items and handed them over.
As the trooper studied the articles, he craned his head toward the back of the rig as he slid his aviators down his nose slightly.“Whatcha haulin’ back there?” he inquired, his voice steady as he returned the items.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Harlon shrugged casually. “Just some tools,” he replied, his tone nonchalant. “I’m a professional handyman.”
“Mm,” the cop murmured, his gaze lingering on the dusty windows that barely hid the silhouette of the large crate. He then fixed his eyes on Harlon, a look of probing persistence on his face. “Why don’t you show me, Mr. Dodd?”
“Uh… why?” Harlon asked, only mildly annoyed by the trooper’snosiness.There was an old adage about not sticking one’s nose in where it doesn’t belong, lest…
The cop cleared his throat, straightening his posture with a sense of authority. “Because I asked nicely,” he replied, the words a subtle challenge. He removed his sunglasses, the metal frames glinting in the light, and hooked them into the pocket of his crisp uniform shirt.
The driver met the officer's gaze with a sly smile spreading across his lips. He nodded, tugging the keys from the ignition, then opened his door. “Sure, no problem,” he said as he stepped out. His hiking boots crunched loudly on the dirt and gravel while he walked to the back of the suburban and unlatched the double rear doors, the metal hinges groaning in protest as they swung wide and thudded against the sides of the vehicle, disturbing the resting dust that plumed into the dry air.
He rifled through his keys one by one, unlocked the crate, and removed the heavy-duty padlock securing it. Glancing at the trooper, he stepped back and gestured grandly for the officer to look for himself.
The trooper moved forward and lifted the heavy wooden lid of the crate. As the contents came into view, his body froze, and a subtle expression of horror crossed his face. “What the fuck—”
In a quick, savage motion, Harlon Dodd struck, a long blade flashing in the failing light as it plunged into the trooper’s back. The cop dropped the crate lid with a loud bang, collapsing to his knees with a sharp gasp, his hands desperately gripping the cargo bed for support.
Leaning down, the driver pressed the cold steel of the blade against the officer's throat, his lips brushing his ear as he whispered, “You shouldn’t be so nosy.” With a swift, merciless motion, he slit the trooper’s throat and shoved him to the ground. “It’s rude,” he added with calm indifference.
The cop’s body slumped lifelessly into the dirt, his eyes wide and glassy, staring at nothing as his life bled away, darkening the earth and gravel beneath him.
Wiping the bloody knife on the trooper’s once-crisp uniform, the driver slid the blade back into its sheath, then hoisted himself into the cargo bed of the Suburban. He crouched low, the cramped space forcing him to duck his head beneath the vehicle's low roof as he carefully lifted the lid of the sturdy crate. His lips curled into a satisfied smile. “No worries. We’ll be on our way here shortly,” he assured with a wink, the gleam in his eyes betraying a hint of dark mischief. “Road trips are fun, huh?”
A soft chuckle escaped him as he carefully lowered the lid, secured the padlock, gave it a quick yank, then released it as it thumped hollowly against the side of the crate. He climbed out of the rig, the rear doors closing with a dull, resonant thud that echoed in the quiet, stirring up more dust that drifted down the rear windows. With a grunt, he grabbed the trooper under the arms, dragging the heavy, lifeless body across the rough ground to the waiting cruiser, leaving a gritty trail in the dirt where the cop’s boots gouged the earth.
He heaved the body into the driver’s seat, the figure slumping awkwardly behind the wheel. Stepping back, he shook his head, panting slightly as he removed his hat and wiped his brow withhis arm, then replaced the cap. “Heavy fucker,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering to the shotgun securely locked near the dashboard.
Taking the cop’s keys, he unlocked the weapon and carried it back to the Suburban, propping it upright in the front passenger seat. He retrieved a handkerchief, returned to the cruiser, and removed the gas tank cap, stuffing the bandana inside, then fished a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open with practiced ease, and set the fabric ablaze.
With a smirk, he rapped his knuckles against the driver’s window as he walked by, offering a mocking salute to the dead trooper, then returned to the Suburban. The engine rumbled to life as he pulled onto the highway, tires crunching over gravel, and headed east. In the side mirror, he watched with satisfaction as the cruiser burst into a roaring inferno, a billowing cloud of smoke and flames painting the sky in fiery hues, debris scattering like confetti in the wind.
When the midnight-black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon rolled up on what remained of the police cruiser, the acrid stench of melted rubber and scorched metal hung in the air like a toxic fog. The once-pristine patrol car was nothing more than a smoking, charred, skeletal frame, its white and blue paint bubbled and peeled away, revealing the raw, blackened chassis beneath. The Jeep eased onto the loose gravel shoulder, pebbles popping beneath its heavily treaded tires, its high beams cutting through wisps of lingering smoke to illuminate the blackened husk.
Behind the wheel, the driver's weathered face remained impassive, deep-set eyes narrowing as he studied the scene through the windshield, the vehicle idling with a low rumble. Leaving the headlights on, he turned off the engine with aquick twist of his wrist, grabbed a heavy-duty Maglite from the cluttered glovebox, and swung open the door with a creak of protest from the hinges.
His tall, sinewy frame unfolded from the driver's seat, casting a distorted shadow that danced across the ground as he approached. Each deliberate step sent gravel and charred debris crunching beneath worn leather boots. The flashlight's powerful beam sliced through the night, revealing melted dashboard components and the cruiser's frame, still radiating heat. The light finally settled on what was unmistakably human—the charred, contracted skeleton of the officer, teeth bared in a permanent grimace.
