Red is the quality of the sound each passing truck makes out there on the highway. On the roof of the building, positioned for maximum visibility from 101, is a red neon sign that announces OPEN 24 HOURS. A bumper sticker on the back announces that ELECTRICIANS KNOW HOW TO PLUG IT IN. Other than the motor home, it is the only vehicle in sight. When a truck passes, it cleaves the wind with a cry that seems strangely Jurassic.Ī Pontiac with Washington State license plates is parked at the inner service island, under the yellow sodium-vapor lamps. Out on Highway 101, there is little traffic at this hour. The convenience store - buff brick below, white aluminum siding above, big windows full of merchandise - stands in front of rising hills that are covered with huge evergreens the wind soughs through their branches with a hollow, ancient, lonely voice. Here at ground level, a lesser exhalation of cold wind huffs between the pumps, whistles alongside the motor home, and flaps the raincoat against Vess’s legs. At higher altitudes, a strong gale drives masses of clouds out of the northwest toward the southeast. He needs to go to the cashier in the associated convenience store to pay in advance and to identify the pump that he’ll be using so it can be turned on.

He is parked at the outer of the two service islands. He opens the door and gets out of the motor home.Īll eight gasoline pumps are self-service. In the driver’s seat again, he takes the keys from the ignition and checks that the brake is firmly set.

Intensity by dean koontz