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I am a former advertising copywriter turned stay at home dad. I have taken advantage of being home to do what I've always wanted to do...write mysteries.

Killer Traffic by Keith W. Harjes (1963 - 2007)

On I-95 in Virginia, an hour or so outside DC, the posted speed limit was sixty miles per hour. Due to congestion the speed for the vehicle parade was less than half that.

Now and then a car headed north would speed past the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Those cars traveled the restricted lane that ran between Jersey barriers, kept separate from the normal traffic flow.

A black Mercedes Benz crept along in what should have been the passing lane. The driver kept banging on the steering wheel. People in other vehicles thought he was just keeping time with whatever played on the radio.

Mark Callas wasn't listening to any tunes. The pounding was a way to keep his patience in check. He could see an opening for the restricted lane just a few car lengths ahead.

"Just a few more minutes and we'll really get this show on the road." Mark ran a hand over the five o'clock shadow on his chin and glanced at the three others in the car with him.

Mark looked out the windshield then at the person in the front passenger seat. The man was slumped in the seat, his eyes closed. He wore what was probably his best suit, but might have come from some consignment shop. Mark reached out and tapped on his arm.

"Where do you think they're going?" Mark laughed. "Some party we're not invited to?"

To the right of the Mercedes was a red pickup truck. The driver was a guy wearing a Redskins cap. He squirmed as he moved along with traffic. It looked like he was dancing, until the head of a redheaded woman popped up and cuddled on the driver's shoulder.

A quick look in the rearview showed Mark that the man and woman in the backseat were slumped so that their shoulders and heads rested together. "Don't get any ideas back there."

"Finally." Mark took a left turn into the restricted lane. "I'm going to miss you chatterboxes."

Within seconds the Mercedes sped down the highway at around sixty-five miles per hour. Along the way the driver pointed out people stuck in traffic. He made fun of the people that he pointed out. He laughed at each joke, though his audience stayed quiet.

A half and hour into the journey, Mark drove up an exit ramp. The car fell quiet as he steered the vehicle with silent determination. A few minutes off the highway, the scenery outside turned from tree lined highway and streets to industrial buildings.

"Last stop," said Mark when they reached the boarded up factory he headed for. Plywood covered every opening except one, where trucks had once entered the building to deliver raw materials or haul out whatever the place had made in its heyday was wide open.

The factory was almost a skeleton of what it had been in its prime. One of the only things that remained inside was the large industrial furnace and on this day it burned hot again.

Near the furnace a long black limousine with tinted windows sat idle. That car's driver stoked the furnace, his black suit jacket neatly folded on the limo's hood. Mark parked his car near the limo. He climbed out and nodded to the other man.

The limo driver stopped what he was doing, straightened his tie and looked at Mark. "Is everything in order?"

"Three passengers, just like the boss wanted." Mark glanced towards the back of the limo. "He in there?"

The other man picked up his jacket and slipped it on. "He is but does not want to talk to anyone."

Mark nodded. "Guess I should get this done."

The limo driver silently climbed into the driver seat of the long black car. Mark walked around to the passenger side of his Mercedes. He reached out with both hands and threw open the front and back doors. The arm of the man in the front seat fell limply out and hung in the air.

"Who wants to go first?" Mark asked grimly.

THE END