Kearns pulled off the highway and into the gas station parking lot. He nosed the car, picked up that afternoon, beside a beat up Ford that probably belonged to the attendant. The bell over the door rang, and the man behind the counter turned his head from the small television to see who’d come in.
“Lemme know if you need anything,” he said from the side of his mouth.
What Kearns needed was to watch the highway, and make sure no one had followed him. He spun the postcard rack and paced the cracked linoleum.
Headlights appeared, coming this way.