Invasion USA by William W. Johnstone Page A

place. The sidewalk was blocked off with yellow crime-scene tape. Sheets of plywood had been nailed up over the gaping hole left behind by the crash. Part of Main Street had been blocked off with orange cones, leaving only one lane of traffic getting through in that direction. Tom drove past, shaking his head at the devastation.
    That crime-scene tape was getting to be a familiar sight in downtown. Earlier in the week, it had marked off the spot where Burt Minnow had been murdered. Tom had seen the dark stain on the sidewalk left by the old man’s blood. A city work crew had gotten most of the stain up, but if you knew where to look, you could still see it, mute testimony to the senseless slaying that had occurred there. Tom felt a pang of sorrow as he drove past the spot. Burt had been a friend and a neighbor ever since Tom had opened the auto parts store. It was still hard to believe he was gone.
    Tom turned into the side street, went along it to an alley that led behind the block of businesses, and parked back there in an open, graveled area where employees parked so as to leave the spaces along Main Street open for customers. He unlocked the rear door and went inside, past the restroom and the tiny lounge, through the big area behind the counter that was filled with shelves and bins where parts from light bulbs and fuses to brake drums and air cleaners were kept. Radiator hoses of all shapes and sizes hung from hooks on the walls and had to be gotten down with a long pole made for that purpose. Heavy steel racks along one side of the building were filled with tires. The parts counter bisected the main room. Up front were more shelves containing car wax, radios and speakers, motor oil, brake fluid, air fresheners, even fuzzy dice to hang from the rearview mirror. In this part of the country, where people didn’t think twice about driving ninety or a hundred miles to go shopping or take in a movie, their vehicles were mighty important to them. Brannon Auto Parts tried to provide anything folks might need for their cars and trucks, at a reasonable price. Not as cheap as SavMart, of course, but most of Tom’s customers were regulars who had been shopping with him for years and didn’t have any interest in going elsewhere just to save a few cents.
    When he came in, Louly Parker was behind the counter ringing up some windshield wiper blades for a customer. Her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her jeans were tight enough to hug the curves of her bottom. Tom was an extremely happily married man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize an excellent female behind when he saw one. When he had first hired Louly, some of his predominantly male, middle-aged customers had been a little unsure about buying auto parts from such a young, pretty gal. They had realized fairly quickly, though, that Louly knew engines inside and out. The only girl in a family of four brothers who had endlessly rebuilt hot rods, she had learned everything there was to know about cars at an early age—including how not to let boys get too fresh in the back seat.
    Of course, other customers had been more than happy to have Louly wait on them. Tom suspected some ol’ boys came in and bought stuff they didn’t really need, just so they could shoot the breeze with Louly for a while. That was all right, too.
    The fella buying windshield wipers was the only customer in the store at the moment. As soon as he was gone, Louly turned to Tom, threw her arms around him, and gave him a big hug. He patted her on the back. She put a hand on his chest and pushed, putting some distance between them. She said, “What the hell, Tom. You’re the Lone Ranger now or something?”
    Tom grinned. “How does a kid like you know anything about the Lone Ranger?”
    â€œI had to show my daddy how to work his DVD player so he can watch all the episodes he’s bought on disc. Don’t change the subject. You