Back Track

by Jason Dean

  THREE

  ‘Leave her the hell out of this,’ Randolph said, taking a step forward. ‘You want a hostage, take me instead.’

  Bishop raised the gun. ‘Real decent of you, Randolph, but you’d only slow me down. And you can stop too, Leanne. That money won’t help. Sonja, come over here now.’

  The girl looked up at Randolph, said, ‘Thank you, anyway,’ and then slowly walked towards Bishop. He thought she already looked resigned, as though she’d expected nothing less at this point.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, pal,’ Randolph said. ‘That lady’s—’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ someone said at Bishop’s right.

  Bishop turned and saw a red-haired man entering the cashier’s room behind John and Leanne. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and tie and had a cell phone in his hand. Bishop knew this was the store manager. Probably come to see what all the noise outside was about. He was gaping at everybody in turn, but his gaze finished up at the gun in Bishop’s hand.

  ‘You missed all the fun,’ Bishop said. ‘But for now, lose that phone and keep your mouth shut like the rest of these good people. I don’t want to hear another word from anybody unless I ask a direct question.’ He waited as the guy placed the cell on the floor, then said, ‘Okay, Sonja, put one of these loops around your left wrist and pull the slack so it’s tight.’ He waited as she did as instructed, then said, ‘All right, now put your other hand in the second loop.’

  Sonja slipped her right wrist through and Bishop put the gun in his waistband and used both hands to tighten it. But not too much. He let go and Sonja dropped both hands to her waist. Holding the gun again, Bishop turned to the counter she’d been standing against and saw a Mexican-style shoulder bag by the window.

  ‘You keep your car keys in there?’ he asked.

  Sonja nodded.

  Keeping his eyes on her, Bishop reached in and rummaged around. Then he pulled out a key ring with four keys attached to it. The worn leather fob had a Ford logo in the centre. ‘What model, how old and where’s it parked?’ he asked, tucking them in his pocket.

  ‘It’s a fifteen-year old Mustang,’ she said. Her soft voice only wavered a little. ‘Just out front and to the right. About four or five cars down.’

  Bishop nodded. He knew where it was. ‘All gassed up? Don’t lie.’

  ‘Tank’s three-quarters full, I think. Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘I won’t if you do what I say,’ Bishop said. ‘Take these.’ He handed her Randolph’s keys. Then he turned her so she was facing the entrance. He put his right hand on her right shoulder and felt her flinch at the touch. His left hand pressed the barrel of the gun against her neck. Up close, he could smell the apple conditioner she’d used this morning.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Slow and easy, understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and began walking slowly towards the front of the store.

  Crouching a little, Bishop matched her, step for step, until they reached the door. He looked through the glass and saw two white Crown Vics parked at angles in the middle of the street. One on either side of the store. Behind the one on the left he saw the heads and shoulders of two male deputies. One held a handgun aimed at the storefront, the other a twelve-gauge Mossberg pump.

  Bishop turned to his right. Two more behind the second car. Male and female. Similarly armed. The guy looked to be Bishop’s height. Six, six-one, maybe. Beefy, wearing a moustache. His partner was crouched behind the front fender. Dark-haired, from what he could see. Bishop guessed there’d be others covering the rear. And this was just the beginning. More would come. Further back, a number of people were lining the streets to watch the spectacle. Bishop waited as the cop with the moustache reached into the car, pulled out a bullhorn and brought it to his mouth.

  ‘You in there. This is the police. We have you surrounded, front and back. Throw out your weapon and exit the store with your hands up.’

  Bishop felt the girl stiffen at the amplified words. ‘Not very original, is he?’ he said into her ear. ‘Use the large black key to unlock the door and then push it open. Slowly.’

  Sonja looked down and then chose the same key Randolph had used. She inserted it in the lock. Turned it counter-clockwise until it stopped. Then Bishop moved with her as she leaned forward, pushing the door open as far as it would go. Fresh air wafted in. It seemed a hell of a lot warmer outside than he remembered. Or maybe it was just him. But he was impressed with the girl’s composure so far. She was a lot calmer than she had any right to be.

  He put his mouth to her ear and said, ‘Tell them your name, that I’ve got a gun pointed at your head and that we’re coming out now.’

  Sonja took a deep breath and yelled, ‘Please don’t shoot. My name is Sonja Addison. This man has a gun at my head. He says we’re coming out now.’

  Bishop looked further down to the right and saw the dark blue Mustang parked next to the kerb about a dozen yards past the Crown Victoria, pointing north.

  The cop placed the bullhorn on the roof and aimed his gun at Bishop. ‘Let the woman go and drop the weapon, mister. Now.’

  Ignoring him, Bishop said, ‘We’ll walk to your vehicle now, Sonja, but we’re gonna do it sideways with you in front of me. Like a couple of crabs. Don’t worry, they’re not about to shoot you to get to me.’

  ‘Look, maybe if you just—’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ Bishop said. ‘Start walking now.’

  He nudged her forward until they were both outside, then Sonja began edging herself towards the Mustang. Bishop mirrored her movements exactly, like they were dance partners. He kept the gun at Sonja’s neck all the way, his head behind hers. He didn’t need to see the cops to know they were there. All he cared about was getting them to the Mustang. Twenty feet away now. Fifteen.

  ‘I won’t warn you again, mister,’ the cop shouted. ‘You’re just making things worse. Drop the piece. Now.’

  Bishop said nothing. Just kept edging his way to the vehicle in tandem with Sonja. He knew the cop was bluffing. There were witnesses all around. Five feet to go. Then three. Then two. When Sonja came to the passenger door, she stopped. So did Bishop. He reached into his pants pocket, found the car keys and handed them to her.

  ‘Unlock the door and open it.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ she said. Bishop could feel her body trembling. Her hands shook too, jangling the keys. Delayed shock. He’d seen it plenty of times before.

  ‘Take a deep breath, then put the key in the lock. Don’t think about anything else.’

  Bishop waited patiently as she took several deep breaths. Then, after some fumbling, she inserted the key on the second attempt. She unlocked it and pulled the key out. Then she grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

  ‘Good,’ he said, manoeuvring them so their backs were to the cops. ‘Now we’re gonna get in together. I’ll be keeping the gun on you as I slide into the driver’s seat, so make sure you stick close. Ready? Go.’

  Clutching Sonja’s shoulder tightly, Bishop ducked down and pulled them both inside in less than a second. He slid himself over to the driver’s side, holding on to her all the way. ‘Reach over and pull the door shut,’ he said.

  Keeping the gun at her side, he watched Sonja lie across the passenger seat, stretching her arms until her fingers touched the inner door handle. She got a good grip and pulled it until it clicked shut. Then she sat back up again, her body close to his.

  ‘Now start the engine for me.’

  Sonja stared into his light blue eyes, her expression blank, then took another deep breath before inserting the key in the ignition. She turned it and the engine caught immediately. Bishop pressed the button to lock the doors and stepped on the gas, watching as the tachometer needle swept over to the right. The engine still sounded smooth, despite the high mileage. It was a standard 3.8 litre V6 with a manual stick shift. Not as powerful as later models, but a definite improvement over the ’80s version. That had been a bad decade all round, but espe
cially for Mustangs.

  He checked the side mirror and saw the deputies had moved to the other side of their vehicle for cover, the other two joining them. In case Bishop decided to pop off a few shots to slow them down. But he had no intention of doing that. He wasn’t an idiot.

  Pulling his safety belt across, Bishop said, ‘Move over and buckle up.’

  He watched as she edged over and used both hands to pull the belt over herself. Once he heard the click, Bishop stuck the gun into his waistband and pushed the gear stick into second. Then he swung the wheel to the left and stepped hard on the gas.

  FOUR

  The Mustang screeched away from the kerb and took off like a dog let loose from a trap. As he gained speed, Bishop checked the rear-view and saw the beefy cop back there yank open the door of his vehicle and get in. He was already backing up as his female partner jumped in the passenger side. Bishop heard sirens and then saw flashing lights.

  Soon, they became dots in the distance. But they wouldn’t be for long.

  Bishop changed gear and checked his speed. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. The roar of the engine soon overrode everything else. The Mustang wasn’t pretty, but it could sure move. He still had to put some space between them, though. Time was against him now. Everything was against him now.

  He glanced at his passenger. She was staring straight ahead with wide eyes, her lips set in a straight line. Her face was white and she looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Join the club, he thought. At least she was quiet. Bishop faced front and saw the road was clear ahead. Houses and trees sped past in a blur. A few vehicles passed by, heading back towards town. Soon it was just trees and forest on either side. Farm country.

  And about a quarter mile behind him were the tootsie-roll lights. Right now, they’d be calling for back-up. Aerial as well as ground units. That would take time. But how much? No way of telling. Bishop was already up to ninety when the road began a long, slow curve to the left. He kept his speed steady and lost sight of the police lights behind him. Once the road straightened out again he saw the State Route 4022 intersection coming up ahead. As he approached, Bishop tapped the brakes, brought them down to forty-five and swerved left into the two-lane road without stopping. Luckily, there was no traffic. Just empty road. Fields and farms on either side. He began picking up the pace again and soon saw the cruiser make the same turn. Still a quarter mile behind him. That was good. As long as they got no closer.

  Bishop covered another mile without them gaining. Two miles. Then, in the distance, just before Jacob’s Cemetery, he saw what he wanted. The turnoff for the second leg of State Route 125, the heavily forested road bikers came from all over the state to ride. Mainly for its steep mountain climbs and its legendary, blind hairpin turns. He slowed as he approached, then took the right turn and increased his speed again on the straight. Sixty. Seventy.

  Dense forest began surrounding them on both sides. A pick-up passed by, going south, closely followed by a convoy of four motorbikes. The cops were still back there behind him. The road began to ascend gently as he entered the Appalachians. A low guard rail lined the right side of the road now, protecting drivers from the steep drop-offs on that side. If you could call something that only reached your knees protection. After a couple more miles he saw the road take a sharp left turn up ahead. Slowing to twenty just before the turn, he negotiated the car round it before speeding up again. Then two more bikes whizzed by. Followed by a FedEx truck. Then more empty road. Bishop took them back up to seventy.

  By the time he slowed down for a sharp right up ahead the cruiser still hadn’t appeared in the rear-view. He slowed to twenty-five, took the bend and was halfway round when he felt the rear end slide to the left. Sonja cried out and reached out to grab the dashboard for balance. Bishop ground his teeth as he steered into the slide, then shifted down into second and felt the tyres gain purchase again. Careful, boy, careful. Once he came out of the curve safely, Bishop kept pushing, pushing, pushing. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

  This section was on a gentle descent and acceleration was easy. Almost too easy. Cliff face at his left. Guard rail at his right, followed by a sheer drop into the forest ravine below. He glanced at the rear-view and saw empty road. No cops yet. He knew he was making good time on the corners. Then he downshifted as he saw the yellow sign ahead. Another arrow at a right angle. This one pointing left. A blind hairpin turn. One of the worst.

  Then he saw the turn, with the guard rail following it round. Beyond it were trees and a drop to nothingness. This time he reduced his speed down to twenty again. He kept his eyes focused on the few feet of black asphalt directly in front of him, gripping the wheel until his knuckles were white. But there was no time to waste. Halfway round, he pressed down hard on the accelerator again and by the time they shot out of the hairpin they were moving at over forty miles per hour.

  Sonja suddenly raised her cuffed hands and screamed.

  Directly ahead, a massive eighteen-wheeler was heading right for them down the centre line. Wide enough to take up both sides of the road. And only fifteen feet away from them.

  Less.

  FIVE

  Deputy Louise Fletcher held on to the dashboard as her partner, Deputy Garry Cavanaugh, carefully steered them through the bad hairpin turn. Every cop in the area hated this road. And this was the reason why. As soon as they were facing the straight, she saw what lay ahead and shouted, ‘Stop!’

  Cavanaugh jammed both feet on the brakes and the Crown Vic immediately jerked to a halt. They both stared at the scene in front of them.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Cavanaugh said.

  An eighteen-wheeler had stopped almost twenty feet away, the cab turned at an angle to the long box trailer it was carrying. The long stretch of road behind it was empty. For now. Fletcher watched wide-eyed as the truck driver ran over to the missing sections of guard rail and peered down into the ravine below.

  At the Mustang.

  Without a word, Cavanaugh pushed his door open, jumped out and ran over to join the young driver, a heavily built black man in a baseball cap. Thinking quickly, Fletcher slid over into the driver’s seat and carefully backed up until she was on the other side of the hairpin. So Richardson and Baynard, following half a mile behind, wouldn’t smash right into the back of them. She switched off the siren, too. The flashers she left alone.

  Then she got out and ran back towards the broken guard rail, where the truck driver and Cavanaugh were standing at the edge, looking down into the gorge. She was only a few yards away when she heard the sound of the gas tank exploding below. Cavanaugh and the trucker jerked their heads back at the concussion and then Fletcher was alongside both men, looking down through the trees. A hundred and fifty feet below, Fletcher saw the smashed-up remains of the blue Mustang they’d been pursuing lying amongst the foliage. A moment later the wreckage was completely obscured by flames and smoke.

  Fletcher searched for a way down, but there were no handholds and the drop was too steep. Impossible without proper equipment. And that wasn’t likely to arrive any time soon. Fletcher pulled the two-way from her belt as a second explosion shook the air. The truck driver lost his balance and fell back to the ground.

  As she put a call in to Jean at Dispatch, she saw Cavanaugh look back at her briefly and shake his head. They both knew it was hopeless. But she still requested an ambulance ASAP, and told Jean to notify the fire department three towns away. Then she turned back to see the young driver looking up at both of them as though only just noticing he wasn’t alone.

  He raised the visor of his baseball cap and said, ‘He was just there, officers. I mean, deputies. He just came out of nowhere, going way too fast. Then he must have seen me and just lost . . .’ The guy shook his head and looked at the ground. ‘Oh, Jesus. He was going too fast. There was nothing I could do. He just . . . Oh, man.’

  ‘You see anybody get out?’ Cavanaugh asked, looking down at him.

  The driver kept shaking his head as he slowly got to hi
s feet. ‘I didn’t see nobody, man. He just swerved and went right over. Jesus, he was just going too fast and I pressed down on the brakes. What else could I do?’

  Fletcher shook her head as she watched the smoke rising into the air. ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.’

  SIX

  ‘How long before we can leave?’ Sonja whispered from the passenger seat.

  Bishop removed the wig that had been annoying him for hours and dropped it on the dash. Brushing a palm back and forth over his buzz cut, he sat back and let out a deep breath as the adrenalin left his system. ‘Not too long. Once they take our driver’s witness statement, they’ll let him go. An accident scene like this, they’ll want to get this rig moving before it starts blocking traffic.’

  ‘God, I hope so,’ she said, still shaking. ‘Just knowing the police are a few feet away scares me half to death.’

  ‘Try and relax. They’re seeing exactly what we want them to see.’

  ‘So am I finally safe from him?’

  ‘Well, you’re officially dead. Or you will be in a few days. I figure you can’t get much safer than that.’

  Sonja looked at him without smiling. ‘I thought we really were dead a couple of times back there. My car never handled that good before.’

  ‘That’s because your car’s currently at the bottom of that ravine where we planted it earlier. We’ve been preparing this one for weeks to make it as identical as possible to yours, then swapped them last night while you were asleep.’

  She leaned over and checked the speedometer. ‘The mileage is all wrong and I never even noticed,’ she said. ‘Not even when I was driving into town this morning.’

  ‘You had other things on your mind, I guess,’ Bishop said, turning to watch the large shape of Luke Shelton at the rear of the trailer.

  He was carefully arranging the crates of soft toys back there until they reached all the way to the roof. After all this hard work and effort, Bishop thought it would be pretty sloppy to get caught out by a routine inspection. God, after all, was in the details. Luke worked fast, just like he had when he’d guided the Mustang inside. The truck hadn’t actually been moving towards them, of course, although it had seemed that way at first glance. Hence, Sonja’s scream. It had merely been idling. Waiting for Bishop. As soon as he’d come out of the hairpin turn, he’d steered the car precisely through the thin gap between truck and guard rail. Once through, he’d performed a 180-degree handbrake turn and seen Luke at the rear of the truck, waving him in. Bishop had then quickly guided the vehicle up the ramps and inside, after which Luke retrieved the ramps and shut the rear doors after them. The whole thing had gone like clockwork. But then, after all their practice runs, it wasn’t surprising they’d got it down to a precise science.