Chris Rogers, Author

Spark of Evil by Chris Rogers

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Behind the bars, the warden checked his watch against the wall clock, then nodded at the doctor. The doctor turned the drip valve to release thiopental into Gruber's arm.

Gruber's upper lip twisted in a sneer. His black eyes, aimed straight at Billy Ray, seemed to glow even brighter.

Then they dulled to gray, like coals suddenly gone out.

Billy Ray felt a jolt.

Icicles spiked through his brain. Cold eked along his nerves to his fingers and toes.

Gruber's head jerked back on the pillow and lay still.

Billy Ray's feet came unnailed.

He stumbled against the wall, one hand to his thundering head. Someone caught him, patted him upright.

"I'm okay," he muttered, shuffling to the door.

Outside, a guard waved him over, told him to drive his station wagon around to loading. The doctor and the warden were waiting for him. As the body, wrapped in the gurney sheet, was handed into the wagon, Billy Ray's head began to clear. The pain subsided. He spied Gruber's shiny black shoes and decided they looked the perfect size for a swap with his scuffed ones.

Ahead now, on the highway, he spotted a familiar truck stop and recalled seeing a copy machine there, up front near the register. Easy as pie to copy the transfer papers. White out the date and description, and he'd have signed blanks on hand for any time he needed them. Any time he needed to haul an unauthorized body.

He recalled, too, a friendly waitress whose shift would be ending in a couple hours. Billy Ray had driven her home once.

The old Billy Ray.

The old Billy Ray would never consider the ideas that sprang to mind now ways to amuse himself with the friendly waitress. First, he'd deliver Gruber's corpse to the country church, then he'd swing back to the truck stop. Grab an early breakfast before the waitress's shift ended. Offer to drive her home.

Seven years in prison was a long dry spell.

THE END

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