“Yeah, I didn’t think so either. But then, I couldn’t have pictured him running off with that redhead either.”
**********
John X was following Greg and Cynthia on Highway 80, staying a couple of miles behind them. The tracking device was working perfectly, so there was no reason to get any closer until he was ready to strike. It would take at least another hour-and-a-half to get to Coreyville, whatever route they took. But if they stayed on Highway 80 all the way, it would be trickier to make it look like an accident. He was still hoping they would get off 80 and take a smaller road. A two-lane road, with no divider, and few witnesses.
He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw Greg exit Highway 80, and take FM-47. It was a smaller road, probably two-lane, he thought. It was time to move in. He increased his speed enough to close the gap, but not enough to attract a state trooper. As he turned onto FM-47, he passed a Wal-Mart truck going the opposite direction. This will be perfect, he thought.
He would gradually get closer to Greg and Cynthia. Then he would watch for an 18-wheeler coming toward them. If his timing was just right, he could pull up on their right side and force their car into the path of the oncoming truck. They would be dead. He would be $35,000 richer.
Then he could collect his cash from Buford, and go home to his fancy townhouse, his Jaguar, and his video games. There was no wife, no girlfriend waiting for him. He didn’t trust anybody enough to let them get that close. Hookers were always an option. He could certainly afford them. He had tried it a couple of times, but didn’t enjoy it because even that was too intimate for him.
But he didn’t really need sex anyway. He got off on killing people. A warm gun was his greatest aphrodisiac.
He was now close enough to see the big, red Bonneville. He eased in gradually, until he was fifty yards behind them. There were no other vehicles in sight. He would hold his position, and wait for an 18-wheeler of death.
If he was extra lucky, it might even be a tanker truck, filled with something combustible. With a direct hit, the car might get pushed down the road for a while. Then maybe the truck would jackknife and explode. That would eliminate his two marks, as well as the truck driver/witness.
31 - ROAD RAGE
It was a beautiful July morning. Perfect for a nice drive on a peaceful East Texas country road, Cynthia thought, as she and Greg made their way up FM-47. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been away from the bank on a Friday. She hadn’t taken a day of vacation in the past year, and actually dreaded holidays.
The Fourth of July had been a case in point. Troy had grilled some steaks in the backyard. But after a couple of hours of grilling and drinking, the meat was overcooked—and so was Troy. While carrying the burned steaks to the house, he had dropped the platter on the grass, which he had cut earlier that day.
Now the meat was covered with grass and dirt. He immediately began to yell obscenities at Cynthia, who was watching from inside the house. Then he picked up the metal platter, and flung it at her like a Frisbee, hitting and cracking the sliding glass door.
It had only been four days ago that she had met with Greg in his office at the church. She still felt bad about trying to seduce him into pushing the jury to an acquittal. But now Greg understood that she had only done it to keep her mother safe.
She had not doubted the scary-sounding creep who’d called her that Monday morning at the bank. He had told her she must do what he said, or her mother would be murdered. She wondered if that man was the one who had killed Troy and the others.
She couldn’t believe what she had done to Greg. But it was almost funny now. Cynthia had never before tried to use her seductive powers, and didn’t even know she had any. And it had made her feel a little sleazy.
But something unexpected had happened. Even though she had been acting, she had felt something real. Maybe that was the reason her act had been so believable. She had leaned in so close to Greg that they could feel each other’s body heat. Then she had raised the thermostat a few more degrees by peering into his eyes with a red-hot intensity that said, I dare you to take off all of my clothes, and make love to me—right here, right now.
Had it been so easy because she really did want to have sex with Greg right there in his office? No. But she had felt an attraction to him. And that attraction was growing stronger. She had never allowed herself to have any romantic feelings for another man after she was married.
But Troy had obliterated the love she once had for him. Still, she had continued to honor her marriage vows. Technically, her marriage contract was now null and void. But her dead husband had not even been buried yet. So, she should feel guilty about what she was feeling for Greg. Instead, she felt guilty about not feeling guilty.
John X was maintaining his position in the stolen, extended cab Silverado. He was fifty yards behind Greg and Cynthia. It was only a matter of time before an 18-wheeler appeared, he thought. Then he saw one. He kicked the accelerator to the floor. The automatic transmission downshifted, the big V-8 awoke from its nap, and the truck lunged forward. He was quickly approaching the Bonneville.
Then he realized the 18-wheeler was traveling faster than he had thought. He started to move to the shoulder, and pull up beside the Bonneville. But the timing was off. There wasn’t enough time to position the pickup alongside Greg’s car, and push it into the path of the big rig. So, he eased up on the gas, dropping back a bit. Next time he would start from a closer position.
Greg looked in his rear view mirror. “This guy’s in a big hurry.” The 18-wheeler passed by. “Okay. Now you can come around, Dude.”
It had only been a couple of minutes before John X saw another tractor-trailer approaching from the north. This time he would get it right. As he closed in on the big red convertible, he almost felt bad about what he was going to do to Greg’s beautiful car. The poor guy’s last thought before dying would be that some idiot in a big pickup had defiled his most prized possession.
“Here he comes again.” Greg wondered why the guy had waited until another truck was coming before trying to pass.
John X steered right, onto the shoulder.
Cynthia heard the truck approaching on her side of the car and looked back. “I hate it when people pass on the shoulder.”
The Silverado pulled even with the Bonneville. Only two feet separated the vehicles. Greg and Cynthia looked at the driver of the truck.
“This guy’s crazy,” Greg said. Then he realized the driver had read his lips.
John X looked back at Greg with an evil grin.
The 18-wheeler was getting close. The Silverado started moving to the left.
“Just let him go around,” Cynthia said.
Greg lifted his foot from the gas pedal, and they began to slow down. But then the Silverado slowed down too. Greg reacted by speeding up. But the Silverado sped up too. Then the Silverado made contact with Greg’s car.
Oh, no—my beautiful car, thought Greg.
John X pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The Bonneville was pushed a couple of feet over the middle line. The tractor-trailer was getting very close.
The trucker blew his horn.
John X pushed harder to the left, and the Bonneville was now half-way into the trucker’s lane.
The trucker hit his brakes. But at 70 miles an hour, he would never be able to stop in time.
Greg tried his best to move back to the right, but with no success.
John X was holding the Bonneville in place. The expression on his face was satanic.
They were doomed. The grill of the diesel monster was growing larger, and more menacing by the second. Greg and Cynthia had managed to stay alive this long, but now their luck was running out.
The trucker’s horn was now blasting steadily, eerily. The horn of the angel of death, proclaiming his arrival for the dispatchment of Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman. Their lives would be crushed in an instant. The seat belts and custom air bags would be worthless.
&n
bsp; Nothing could stop the tons of steel that was rolling ferociously toward them. There would be no tomorrow. No hope of falling in love. No chance of marriage and children. Only death. There was no time to think. Only time to die.
Then Greg jerked the steering wheel to the left as hard as he could. The Bonneville broke free from the Silverado, ripping off the pickup’s rear bumper. It clanged down the road and off to the side. The Bonneville went airborne for a moment, and then landed safely and in the gently sloping, grassy field.
Greg’s quick move had caught John X by surprise. Now it was his vehicle that was directly in the path of destruction. He made a hard turn to the right.
The 18-wheeler’s trailer brakes had locked, and its tires were melting into the pavement. The big rig screeched down the highway—barely missing the bed of the Silverado.
But the pickup was out of control. It tipped over and flipped down the highway and then off to the right, finally coming to rest in the grass.
Greg slowed the Bonneville to a stop at the bottom of the hill. “Wow. That was close.”
“That guy was trying to kill us,” said Cynthia, trying to catch her breath.
“Either that or he’s on drugs. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I think. How about you?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. If that guy is trying to kill us, we’d better get out of here.”
Greg drove up the hill at an angle, and then onto the highway. They saw the Silverado on its side in the field, and were surprised it wasn’t burning.
Cynthia said, “I wonder if he’s alive?”
“Let’s not stick around to find out.”
As they drove away, Cynthia looked back and saw the tractor-trailer. The trucker was getting out of the cab.
“Good. The trucker looks like he’s okay. He can call the police. If the killer’s still alive, they can deal with him.”
“Yeah. And if the trucker reports us for leaving the scene of an accident then we’ll just explain what happened. Besides, I doubt he got a good look at our license plate.”
32 - THE TRUCKER
As he stepped down from his cab, Willie saw the red Bonneville in the distance, driving away. He did a quick inspection of his rig. He had burned off some tire rubber, but otherwise his tractor-trailer was just fine. Then he saw the Silverado lying on its side in the field. He didn’t really want to get involved, but his conscience wouldn’t let him leave without checking on the man in the wrecked pickup.
He ran toward the truck, thinking it might catch on fire at any moment. He hoped he would make it in time to pull the driver to safety, without getting himself killed. Apparently, the people in the convertible didn’t care if the man died a horrible burning death. They were too busy to save somebody’s life.
The Silverado was lying on the driver’s side. Willie could smell the steam from the punctured radiator. And the gasoline odor was strong. He jumped onto the upside of the truck, and opened the passenger door, which was already ajar. He kicked the door back, beyond its designed stopping point, causing it to slam down on the front fender. Then he looked into the cab, and saw that the driver was not moving. “Hey, Man?”
John X opened his eyes, as if awaking from a dream, and looked up at Willie.
“Come on. We better get you out of here fast. She could blow at any second.”
After struggling to release his seatbelt, John X reached up for Willie’s hand. The strong arm of the trucker pulled him to his feet. He started to get out—but then hesitated.
Willie had already jumped down to the ground. “Come on, man. Hurry!”
John X grabbed his phone, and put it in his pocket. Then he reached into the back seat of the extended cab and pulled out his suitcase, and threw it to Willie. He climbed up onto the edge of the doorway, pulled his legs out, and jumped to the ground.
They moved away from the hot metal and gasoline as quickly as they could. Once they had reached the road, they turned around, expecting the Silverado to go up like a bottle rocket. But it turned out to be a dud.
Willie said, “Need an ambulance?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
Willie wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t have time to argue. “You want a ride? I could drop you off down the road.”
“How about at a restaurant? I need some food.”
“Sure. Come on.” They began to walk toward Willie’s truck. “You’re in luck, buddy. ‘Cause it just so happens I was headed to one of the best little barbecue spots in Texas. It’s just a few miles down the road, in Wills Point. Man, have they got some tasty ribs.”
“Sounds good.”
They got into the cab of the 18-wheeler, and headed down FM-47. John X wanted to go north. But he could catch up with Greg and Cynthia a little later—as long as his iPhone was still working. He turned it on, opened the browser, and entered the IP address of the tracking device he had put on Greg’s car. Yes—the cat could still see his mice. They would not escape his claws.
“I don’t believe I got your name,” said Willie.
“John.”
First names only, I guess, thought Willie. “I’m Willie. Good to meet you, John. Glad you didn’t get hurt too bad.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Just shut up, you country bumpkin. Can’t you see that I’m trying to think?
“What the heck happened back there? It looked like you were trying to push that Pontiac into my lane?”
John X didn’t want to have to kill this dumb trucker. Not that he ever minded killing. But it would have interfered with his current objective—to kill Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman—and get paid for it. And now it was personal—since they had almost killed him.
“I don’t know. Something weird happened with my steering. I was trying to pass the car on the right side—which was stupid of me, I know. I just got impatient. But then, my pickup started pulling to the left. I tried to turn it the other way, but it felt like my steering was locked up. And by the time I was finally able to turn the wheel to the right—there you were. You nearly creamed me.”
“Sorry, man. But you can’t stop one of these puppies on a dime.”
“Well, I’m just glad everybody survived.” Except Greg and Cynthia. They should have been dead. He didn’t care anymore about the extra $10,000 for their accidental death. Now he wanted them to suffer—to know they were about to die. What kind of cruel torture could he devise?
John X flinched when his cell phone rang. It was an unknown number. Possibly Buford. “Yeah?”
“Is it done?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not? What’s taking you so long?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.”
“But that’s just the point—I do worry. These loose ends must be snipped—now. When I pay this kind of money, I expect a professional job!”
“You are getting a professional job, Sir!”
Buford didn’t appreciate his tone. “Just get it done—now!” Buford hung up.
Willie looked concerned for his new friend. “Problem?”
“No. My boss is just a real pain in the butt.”
“Yeah—mine too.
It took only fifteen minutes to get Wills Point. Cowboy’s Bar-B-Q was a little cubbyhole of a restaurant.
John X wasn’t impressed. “This is it?”
Willie laughed. “Yeah, it ain’t much bigger than a phone booth. But, oh those ribs.”
“Mind if I leave my suitcase in the truck until after we eat?”
“You’ll pretty much have to. Ain’t no place to set it down in there.” He chuckled.
Willie fit right in with the lunch crowd. John X stuck out like a big-city accountant—who just got mugged.
To John X, everybody in the restaurant looked like a trucker. One of them apparently knew Willie.
“How’s it hangin’, Willie?”
“You oughta know, Fred.”
Willie ordered ribs and a coke. John X asked for the same.
Willie was right, thought John. The
ribs were some of the best he’d ever eaten.
After a quick trip to the men’s room, they were on their way to the truck. John X got his suitcase out of the cab, and said thanks and goodbye to Willie, and told him someone was coming to pick him up.
A few miles down the road, Willie realized he had never heard John call anybody to ask for a ride. Seemed odd. But he had freight to deliver.
John X stood outside the strip mall, scouting out his next vehicle. After about ten minutes, a very large, fifty-ish looking man parked his silver Mustang, and then waddled into Cowboy’s. Way too many ribs, John thought.
He carried his suitcase to the Mustang, and before anyone could notice, had popped the lock and was starting the engine. Man, was he good. He would be miles away before the local police were even called. And there would be plenty of time to kill Greg and Cynthia, and then abandon the car on the side of the road before the night was over.
In the meantime, he would plan their demise. He didn’t want to drive behind them, and shoot them through the back window of their car. They might not even see it coming. He wanted to be sure that they did see it coming—and had plenty of time to worry about it.
He could take them off into the woods and prepare a couple of nooses. Yes. He could hang them, facing each other. Stand them on a log or a chair. Then he would kick the support out from under them.
Greg would try to save Cynthia by holding her up, which would kill him even faster. They would watch each other die right before their eyes, yet be helpless to stop it. And the last sound they would hear as they took their final breaths would be John X laughing his butt off.
Or maybe he would finally use his .44 Magnum. He had waited so long for an opportunity. He could tie them up, back to back. Then he could hold the revolver close to Cynthia’s chest and tease her for a while. He would describe to them in sickening detail what was about to happen: the shot would tear a big hole in Cynthia’s chest, exit her back, and then rip through Greg’s body and come out the other side.
Two lovers’ hearts joined together—and blown all over the room by a huge bullet. What a way to go!
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 12
