In the sparse light admitted by the doors, I could see that the building was packed with vehicles. There was a windowed office just inside, but otherwise the garage was one big open space. I scooted to the side of the truck’s roof for a better view.

We pulled up alongside a huge stack of gas cans. Hundreds of red, plastic five-gallon cans were arrayed in layers—each layer separated from the one above with a sheet of plywood.

The truck’s engine cut out, and Ace slid out the driver’s door, slamming it behind him. Someone else was approaching from the direction of the office. I scooted backward on the roof, out of their view.

“Fill ’er up!” Ace roared.

“Five gallons should be plenty to get you back to Cascade,” another voice said.

“Screw that! You wouldn’t be eating tomorrow ’cept for me. Fill it the peck up. All fifty gallons.”

“Can’t spare that much juice.”

“Whaddya mean? You’ve got a few thousand gallons here.”

“I gotta conserve it—there’s no new supply coming in. Every tank in Iowa’s empty now.”

As they continued to bicker, I looked around for a way down. I belly-crawled to the far side of the truck. From there I could see a large work area. A pickup sat in the middle, its hood off and engine suspended on a chain hoist beside it. Two guys were working on the engine. I pushed myself slowly backward, out of their line of sight.

To my right—two guys and the engine. To my left—Ace and the argument over gas. To my rear—a large open space with no cover. To my front—Len, probably still sitting in the passenger seat.

Apparently, I had an unfortunate talent for getting trapped inside cannibals’ garages.

Chapter 43

The two mechanics walked over and started unloading the truck parts. They were carrying everything to their work area to my right, so I couldn’t slip off the truck on that side. The bickering about gas ended. Ace and the guy from the office had agreed on twenty gallons and were pouring the first five into the tank.

It occurred to me suddenly that I was making the same mistake I’d made just a few minutes ago. I was forgetting about one direction—up. The roof of the garage was held up by a latticework of steel trusses, like the ones that support the roofs above gas pumps. The closest truss was nine or ten feet from the roof of the truck and made up of a triangular network of steel tubes.

Best of all, it was dark up there. Very little light from the open doors reached that high. I’d be visible from the floor, of course, but difficult to spot. And none of the Peckerwoods had a reason to look up, anyway.

I waited until the mechanics had finished unloading. They stood over the pile of truck parts, checking them over and planning. I stood slowly, balancing on one of the bows, watching and waiting for a moment when no one was looking my way. When the moment came, I jumped. I caught the bottom strut and dangled, checking to see if I’d been spotted. The metal bars of the truss were so cold I could feel it even through my gloves. The mechanics were still absorbed in their work. I couldn’t see Ace or the guy gassing up the deuce—they must have been right up against the side of the truck.

I slowly curled up, flexing my arms and raising my legs until I could hook my ankles over the lowest strut. One of my boots bumped it, making a resonant clunk that sounded as loud as a car crash to me. My heart leapt into my throat. I froze, dangling by my hands and ankles. They must have heard me. My mind raced. What would I do if they raised an alarm? I’d drop back onto the roof of the truck and try to fight, I decided. It would be hopeless but better than getting shot while clinging to a girder.

But no alarm came. I slowly swiveled my head. The mechanics were sorting the truck parts. In the other direction, I still couldn’t see Ace or the other guy.

My head swam. The room made little quarter-turns around me, spinning and then lurching suddenly back to its starting place, making me nauseated. I could hear the blood rushing to my ears. Maybe the dizziness was caused by my position, hanging with my head lower than my feet. Maybe it was the height, the risk of being noticed, or perhaps the beating my body had taken under the truck. I had to get to a more secure perch or I’d fall.

I seized two of the crossbars connecting the struts. Using them for leverage, I strained, trying to twist my body onto my stomach. No way could I push straight back into the truss—my backpack would have gotten caught. I would have grunted with the effort, but with the Peckerwoods so close, I had to keep my mouth clamped shut.

As soon as I got twisted all the way onto my stomach, I could push farther back into the triangular space within the truss. When I’d shoved myself completely inside, I collapsed, panting quietly and resting from the exertion of forcing my way into this tiny perch. The crosspieces that made up the truss held my body and legs securely. I closed my eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning around me.

A few minutes later, I heard the truck roar to life. I opened my eyes just in time to see it pull away. Without the truck, it was a long fall to the garage’s cement floor—twenty feet or more. My relief at not having been seen balanced almost perfectly with my fear of heights. The guy who’d been gassing up the deuce sauntered to the office. The other two guys had resumed working on the pickup’s engine.

I waited for nightfall, afraid if I continued to move around in the rafters, I’d be spotted. I watched the mechanics, my hand thrust into my pocket, fingering Darla’s broken chain. When the wan light outside started to fade, two new guards entered the garage, and the mechanics and day shift guard left. The night shift closed, chained, and padlocked the big entrance doors and retired to the office.

I pushed myself up off the girder I’d been resting on. Painful welts crisscrossed my side and legs where the struts had dug in. I worked my way backward within the truss, away from the office, and then dropped down onto the roof of a parked pickup with a heavy crunch. No one heard the noise—or at least nobody came to check on it.

I explored the garage, looking for a way out, working more by touch than sight. It was packed with vehicles parked in ranks so close that I often had to turn sideways to pass between them. In the darkest parts of the garage, the back corners most distant from the door and guardroom, the trucks were dusty and partially disassembled. Some were missing wheels or body panels. All of them had their hoods propped open. I didn’t know enough about trucks to tell for sure by touch, but I guessed these vehicles were being cannibalized for parts.

Darla would’ve been able to figure out what they were doing with the trucks, even without being able to see clearly. That thought gave me hope. Maybe the Peckerwoods would put her to work when they discovered her genius for machines. Maybe she would walk into this very garage in the morning.

Then I remembered the crack of the gunshot and the red bloom spreading across her shoulder. I crouched and put my head between my knees, trying to catch my breath and waiting for the trembling in my limbs to subside.

I couldn’t find any exit except the big vehicle doors. The key to the padlock holding the garage doors shut would probably be in the office, but there was no way to get close without being seen by the guards. I retreated to the darkness of the far corner of the garage to think.

I climbed into the bed of a deuce and curled up, holding my head in my hands. But my thoughts just ratcheted over and over the same territory, like a slipping gearshift. The longer I sat there, the more futile my situation seemed, and the more despondent I got. I was aware of being hungry but couldn’t summon the energy to take off the pack and get food. Soon I was yawning. I curled up on the floor of the truck and slept.