I threw a look over my shoulder. The Chevy passed under the overpass but didn’t turn left onto the Interstate feeder. That meant they were continuing north on FM 555, heading into the state forest. It was a stretch of hilly, winding road. The speed limit was 60 but there were a fair number of twists and turns. Maybe they wouldn’t speed. But I would have to be careful taking those curves on a wet road with the trailer attached. Would I be able to catch up?
To detach the trailer I would have to retrieve three wooden blocks from the saddle rack compartment, chock the trailer’s wheels, unplug the electrical cord, detach the chains, release the coupler, move the truck forward and then windlass the stand down onto the block. If the driver of the red Chevy went the speed limit they would be a couple of miles away, give or take, before I started after them.
I jumped into the cab, pulled the Ruger SR9 from under the console and the magazine, loaded with 115 grain Federal 9mm rounds, out of the console and loaded the pistol. There was a round in the chamber but now I had eighteen. Then I went north on FM 555 in a hurry, trailer and horses in tow.
9
I was going 50 mph by the time I came out from under the overpass, my brights on and the windshield wipers turned on high. The red truck was already out of sight. I pushed it to the limit around the turns and floored the accelerator going up the hills. The 5.4 Triton V8 was up to the task.
It was dark enough that I would see the glow of an oncoming vehicle’s headlights before I saw the vehicle itself when I took a curve, so I took some chances and used both lanes to make them.
I thought about calling Jenna or the sheriff’s department, but I was on the verge of losing the red truck. In these conditions I needed to see where it turned off the road, if indeed it did, so I decided to wait until I had a location.
The farm-to-market road led to a small hamlet called Shiloh with a population of about a hundred and fifty, and then a few other wide spots in the road before veering east to a junction with Highway 69. There were no campgrounds or hiking trails in this part of the state forest. The only people who frequently used the road were locals and Forest Service personnel.
There were occasional homes and trailers on private land along the road, but the rain was falling too hard and it was just too gloomy for me to see much more than an occasional house light. There were a few gravel or dirt roads going into the woods to the left and right but I saw no tail lights on any of them. Even so, I was beginning to wonder if the red truck had indeed turned off 555 when the road went down a long incline into the valley carved by Pepper Creek.
The road was straight here for about a mile-and-half. In the distance, where the road rose out of the valley, I saw tail lights. Due to rain and distance I couldn’t be sure if they were a Silverado’s. I goosed the Ford for more speed, and saw the caution sign flash by before remembering that the bridge that spanned Pepper Creek was narrow and pitted.
My foot left the accelerator and moved to the brake pedal, applying slow pressure at first. But I had been going too fast, and the truck began to jump and shudder over the poorly patched pavement of the bridge.
Then I hit some standing water. By the glow of my tail lights I could see the bucking trailer shimmy into the other lane. I felt it begin to torque the back of the Ford. Cursing, I accelerated. The trailer began to swing to the right -- too far right. I winced as I heard and felt it hit the bridge’s metal guard rail. The truck was pulled that way and went into a skid. The vision of truck and trailer breaking through the old guard rail and plummeting into the creek flashed before my eyes. If that happened I would likely have two dead horses on my hands, not to mention a totaled trailer and truck.
In desperation I gave it more gas. The Ford surged forward, forcing the trailer to straighten up and come along. A few very long seconds later I was off the bridge and starting to breathe again.
I had lost ground. By the time I reached the flashing four-way red light that marked the center of Shiloh I knew I had lost the red Chevy, too, having not seen tail lights since Pepper Creek. There was a small two-pump gas station on one corner at the intersection. It was shut down. I pulled in there, got out and walked around to check the horses and the trailer. The Runabout had sustained some damage but nothing critical. The horses were another matter. Neither was physically hurt but they were agitated, rocking the trailer as they stomped and fiddle-footed. Horses are fight-or-flight animals and if they can’t do either when in danger they’re not happy. Being confined in a trailer that moved under them was bad enough, but to be trapped in one that swayed and bucked and slammed into guard rails was about as bad as it could get.
I dialed Jenna Rekar’s cell phone.
“How are you doing, Jenna?”
“It’s quiet tonight. I’m trying to stay awake.”
“You should get married. Then maybe you’d get the day shift.”
“Is that a proposal?”
“Was wondering if you could run a plate for me.”
There was a moment of silence. She was in her cruiser. I could hear some police band chatter.
“What are you into, Roy?”
I told her what had happened, reducing the harrowing chase up FM 555 down to “I followed them for a while.”
“Jesus, Roy. You’re a shit magnet, aren’t you?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Outside the city limits it’s county business, you know.”
“Right.” I had wanted to avoid the county sheriff’s office as long as possible but I didn’t say so.
I didn’t have to. Jenna knew me as well as about anyone. Another moment of silence and then she said, “Hold on.”
Two minutes later she was back.
“I swear, Roy. God has it in for you. That plate comes back belonging to Andrew Guthrie.”
“Fuck me,” I muttered.
Ordinarily Jenna might have come back with something risque. But she didn’t, and sighed instead.
“If I was working the phones at the station I might get away with saying it was an anonymous tip. But there’s no way I could plausibly do that while on patrol in the city limits. I would need something more.”
“I know. I don’t want to put you on the spot. It’s my problem. Thanks, Jenna. I mean it.”
“Roy?”
“Yeah.”
“Use caution.”
She sounded very worried. So was I.
10
On the drive back to the Express Stop at the Interstate I thought about fate, because having run into Andrew Guthrie twice in one week under these circumstances went beyond just plain bad luck. It made me think about God, and all the commandment breaking I had indulged in. Years in a warzone had made me a believer in fate, and in God. In particular, I had done some things in Afghanistan that had to have brought me to His attention.
I called the sheriff’s office on the drive back and gave the deputy who answered the phone the details of what had transpired. I toyed with the notion of excluding the license plate number. But that wouldn’t help the blonde with the Monster energy drink.
It was obvious that the deputy ran the plate during the call. His tone of voice gave him away. It changed from polite to curt. He asked where I was. I told him I would be on the scene in ten minutes.
Back at the Express Stop, I found the same elderly lady at the counter. She was so engrossed in a cheap, spine-broken paperback that she didn’t look up until I was looming over her. “Oh!” she exclaimed and in the process of hurriedly stashing the book under the counter I caught a glimpse of the cover.
“Studs in the Saddle?” I asked.
Her age-creased cheeks turned a lively pink. She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m old but I ain’t dead.”
I smiled and asked if she remembered me. “A little while ago you had a transaction with a young woman right before you took care of me. Strawberry blonde, orange windbreaker, straw cowgirl hat. She looked about twenty.”
“I remember. You’re too old for her.”
“Did sh
e buy anything besides an energy drink?”
“Nope.”
“Did she pay with a credit card by any chance?”
“Nope. Cash. A five-dollar bill.”
“That book any good?”
“Why?” She chuckled, a twinkle in her eye. “You want to borrow it when I’m done?”
That might have made me laugh had I not just seen someone being kidnapped.
Two deputy sheriffs arrived twelve minutes later, each in his own cruiser. We stood out front of the store, under an overhang but still getting whipped by rainy gusts. I provided every detail, including my attempt to follow the red Chevy up FM 555.
“I thought maybe I could find out where they were going.”
“Why didn’t you call us then?” asked one of the deputies.
I gestured at the night. “I needed both hands on the wheel.”
The other deputy glanced at my rig. He could see the damage done to the side of the horse trailer from where we stood.
“That happen tonight?”
I said it had.
“You were driving recklessly?”
“I was driving the speed limit. Hit some water.”
“You ever seen the woman, before? The one you say was pulled into the truck against her will?”
“No.”
“You seen the truck before?”
“I don’t think so.”
Through it all they were looking at me the way law enforcement officers look at someone when a felony has occurred, when everyone is guilty unless proven innocent. But I didn’t fidget. I looked them in the eye. My voice was calm and steady, my replies matter-of-fact. I didn’t try to make a joke like nervous people sometimes do. I just answered their questions. None of that was easy, because there was a young woman out there, somewhere, in serious trouble.
“You carry a firearm, Mr. Creed?”
“In the truck.”
“You have a permit?”
“In my wallet.” Which I slowly took out of my back pocket. It was a Florida CWP, good in thirty states, including Texas. I gave it to the deputy along with my driver’s license. He looked them over then told me to stand by and walked back to his cruiser with my documentation. He wasn’t going to check the permit. He was going to run my license. And he took his time. When he made it back to me I looked at my wristwatch and, of course, that provoked him.
“You in a hurry, Mr. Creed?”
I wanted to tell him that he was the one who should be, but I refrained and instead opted for “Just wondering if that girl is okay.”
He handed my documentation back to me. “You let us worry about that. You’re free to go.”
I put the license and permit back in my wallet, got in the Ford and turned south down FM 555 in the direction of Wayland, looking back at the convenience store. The two deputies were going inside. Maybe to question the clerk. Or maybe to get some coffee and Twinkies. Shaking my head, I drove home as fast as I could.
11
It was still raining when I got home. Lopes showed up because he hadn’t expected me home for a few days. I told him what had happened. For once he stopped smiling.
I asked him to pamper the horses that we brought out of the trailer, then went inside the cabin. After Makker was fed, I sat down at the laptop on the table in the main room, a cold bottle of porter in hand, facing a window from which I could see my long dirt driveway. I dialed a number on my cell. It rang three times before a gruff voice said
“Yes?”
“Colonel Tully. It’s Roy.”
“Roy Creed! How’s civilian life treating ya, son?”
“Not bad. How’s retirement?”
Tully growled. “What do you think? Fuckin’ miserable.”
I smiled. John Jacob Tully had been my C.O. in Afghanistan. In my book, there were none better. He expected a lot from his men. He pushed us hard. And he went above and beyond to keep us alive. He didn’t leave a single man behind, even if that soldier was dead.
“I need Hack to call me, Tully.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No. But somebody is. Bad trouble.”
Tully was silent a moment, maybe waiting for me to say more. But since he knew me as well as anyone did, he didn’t wait long. “Okay. I’ll reach out. What else do you need?”
“I might need a chopper.”
“Hold on. Need to see if Billy Rogan is still in San Antonio. Haven’t heard from him in a while.”
While I waited, I wondered how many vets of the 75th Tully kept in touch with these days. Having reached mandatory retirement after forty years of service, he had nurtured a network of ex-soldiers, many of whom he had personally led into battle and who were now scattered to the four winds. But it was more than a network. It was kind of like an extended family. You didn’t stop helping or relying on each other after getting out. It was an elite club with a lifetime membership.
He was on the other call for about five minutes. “Billy’s still there. I put him on alert. Got his number?” He decided to give it to me anyway.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Whatever you’re into, could it go south?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You want to check in?”
He was asking if I wanted to contact him on a schedule. If I said yes and failed to get in touch when I was supposed to, one or more men just like me would arrive in Wayland shortly thereafter.
“I’ll be fine, sir, thank you.”
“Alright then. Get her done and do it right.”
“Yes, sir.”
Waiting for Hack’s call, I whiled away the time searching the Internet for some statistics. Within a quarter-hour I had plenty.
From 1979 to 2009 there had been an estimated 700 victims of sexual assault along interstate highways. About 500 of these ended up in a murder. If you factored in all other highways in the country there had been an estimated 2,700 reported sexual assault victims on the roads. A 2016 study showed that one in every six of the eighteen thousand young people reported missing were victims of sex trafficking. Another study indicated that over 50% of runaway youths ended up being prostituted.
The crime most often inflicted on a female hitchhiker was rape. An FBI report showed that three out of four of these crimes were committed by someone the hitchhiker knew. That whittled down the statistics some. But that didn’t make me feel any better, especially when I learned that if female hitchhikers were going to become victims it would most often be within the first three miles after pickup.
Most likely, then, it was too late for the blonde in the orange windbreaker.
The phone buzzed. It was Hack. He didn’t give his name but I knew his voice.
“Hey buddy,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
Hack’s real name was James Stacy. We had served together in Afghanistan. He did his eight and didn’t re-up, returning to civilian life to do what he did better than just about anyone in the world. He was a hacker. I didn’t know where he lived or where he was calling from and I never would know. Not even the FBI had that information. I did know that the only reason he was calling was because Tully had asked him to.
I told Hack what I needed, well aware that it was a tall order.
“No problem,” he said. “This the number you used to register for your email?”
“It is.”
“Then check your mail tomorrow morning.”
I would have offered to pay him for his trouble, but I knew he wouldn’t accept. So I said, “If there’s anything I can ever do for you….”
I went to bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t get the picture of the blonde girl fighting to get free as she was thrown into Andrew Guthrie’s truck. I also couldn’t stop wondering where she was now, and in what condition, though I surely tried. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all.
At 4:11 AM I heard the alert on my cell phone. A text message. The sender was DB3. It said your order sent. It was from Hack. I didn’t respond with an email of my own
because I wasn’t supposed to.
What I had were fourteen images from two different computer-enhanced 3-D envisions of the upper half of Creed County and portions of adjacent counties. Hack had produced them by combining two or more images from radar-imaging satellites, optic pairs which, when merged, produced the three-dimensional view.
I knew how Hack had created the images, but I didn’t know how he had acquired the envisions and I didn’t want to know. What I did know was that he had been one of my company’s computer specialists and played a crucial role as a geospatial intelligence analyst. In so doing he saved countless lives. I was hoping he could help me save another.
What I had now were the locations of structures within the national forest in the general vicinity of FM555 north of the Interstate and in all directions from the town of Shiloh. I couldn’t see all the roads that connected the structures to the paved farm-to-market but I didn’t need to.
I studied the images for over an hour. There was no guarantee that Guthrie had turned off 555, or which direction he had taken at the Shiloh intersection. Nor did I have any idea how long the girl might stay alive, if she wasn’t already dead. I didn’t have the time to physically check every possible location.
Of course I could hope that Sheriff Guthrie would know where to find his son. But I wasn’t sure I could count on that happening.
One obvious solution was to track the red Chevy, assuming I could find it again. I didn’t have military-grade tracking devices. But I knew how to make something that would work.
12
I had a cold shower, pulled on a pair of boxers, and went out onto the porch to sit in the rocker and drink a cup of black coffee. The sky was clear. The rain had cooled things off a bit. Letting Makker out to do his patrol of the property, I ran through a mental checklist of what I needed. Coffee finished, I went inside, took a cold shower, put on a black tee shirt and ERDL-pattern camo pants. It was the best camo for East Texas woodlands in summer. Shoving my feet into a pair of black Saloman boots, I opened the hidden panel at the back of my closet. All this required was pushing in the right spot and the narrow door sprang open.
The Highways of the Dead (A Creed Crime Story Book 1) Page 4
