Broken Promise: A Solomon Creed Novella

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need anything else. And thank you for the meal.’

Chapter 6 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc)

The sun was still high in the sky when Solomon climbed into the oven of the big rig’s cab. He closed the door and felt the usual anxiety rise up at being confined.

‘Mind if I keep the window open?’ he said.

‘Nope.’ Earl settled in his seat and flicked on a small fan clipped to the dashboard. ‘Prefer me a breeze to the air-con anyways and it’s a damn sight kinder on the fuel.’ He twisted the key in the ignition and the truck’s engine roared into life. ‘Where you headed exactly?’

‘East,’ Solomon said. ‘Galveston, Corpus Christi, Houston, anywhere with ships going to France.’

‘What’s in France, a lady?’

Solomon opened the flap of his jacket and looked down at the label saying – This suit was made to treasure for Mr Solomon Creed.

‘The man who made this suit for me, hopefully.’

‘Hell, I know a guy in Fort Worth if you need a tailor.’

Solomon let the jacket flap drop. ‘I need to see this one specifically,’ he said. ‘Long story.’

‘Well there’s a whole lot of road between us and the sea. Happy to hear it if you’ve a mind to tell.’ Earl pulled out of the parking lot and onto the I-10, the roar of the diesels and rumble of tyres drowning out the high-pitched whine of the desert. Solomon looked north across the scrubby plain to a set of red hills that rolled across the distant horizon like an ocean of stone. Somewhere in that rise and fall was a cave with pictures carved on its walls, a natural document sealing a five-hundred-year-old deal. There was nothing else to see. The land was untouched, undeveloped. He thought about Rita with her Irish eyes, queen of all she surveyed, though not for much longer. He shifted in his seat to look back at the diner in the side mirror.