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by J. Carson Black

  He turned off and drove up to the rolling gate. He’d managed to get the touchpad number from the laundry truck guy, but when he punched in the numbers, the gate didn’t roll back. He tried combinations of the numbers, but he hadn’t written down the information and now it was lost.

  There was an intercom. He thought about talking into the speaker, but then Gordon would know he was coming and would prepare for him. He sized up the fence and the gate. The fence was tall chain link. He could scale it easily. Or he could go over the gate, which was solid and lower. He backed up and drove the LeBaron under the pines to the right of the gate so he wouldn’t block access.

  Behind him a car flashed by on the road, followed by a motorcycle.

  He got out of the LeBaron and walked toward the gate.

  Max stared at the gate. Should he climb the fence, or go over the gate? Two cars flashed by on the road behind him. It occurred to him how vulnerable he was out here—he’d left his gun in the car. He heard the crunch of tires on dirt. A truck turned in behind him, its big diesel engine sounding rough. In the moment it took for him to look around, the massive truck was right there. He squinted into the blinding light, the needles of hard rain like a shiny curtain. He was pinned to the gate by headlights under a gleaming, crimped-up hood.

  The truck revved, growling like a mad pit bull, then launched forward, as if it had thrust itself from massive hind legs, hurtling toward him. It accelerated at an unbelievable rate, the engine switching from a roar to a catamount shriek. For all of a second, he couldn’t move. The headlights bloomed yellow behind his eyelids, and the square grille seemed to grin at him, the gleaming Chevy logo askew, filling his vision as fear buzzed in his ears.

  He hit the ground hard and rolled just as the truck rammed the iron slats of the gate with a clang that shook his teeth. The smell of burning rubber, hot oil, and exhaust told him how close he was to being squashed like a bug. He rolled more, thinking if he could just get to the fence, if he could get over—

  Impossible.

  It was her. The killer.

  Max didn’t stick around to look. He scaled the chain-link fence and launched himself over just as the truck backed up for another run. Behind him, he heard the truck bull through, flipping the chain link up. Max didn’t have time to get to his feet so he wriggled away, just as the tires bit into the wet ground near his face. The truck’s momentum carried it past him, the chain link enmeshed in the grille like a hockey mask. Max skittered down into the gully. The truck had come to a halt thirty yards away. Stuck. Tires spun in the dirt. The engine screamed. Max thought about flagging down someone on the road, but he would only endanger someone else. The rain was coming down, hard, as he ran for cover. The truck’s big engine shrieked. Max ran along the gully, aiming for the LeBaron. The gully was already filling up with water. He kept to the path along the gully, which was overgrown with weedy trees and some kind of vine that grabbed at him.

  He heard a snap above him, slashing through the trees.

  Realized it was a bullet. He dove to the dirt, half in the churning water.

  Had to get up and run. If he could make it through the hole in the fence and get to the LeBaron—it seemed impossible to do.

  He wished he had a gun. He’d shoot her, no question. And he wouldn’t wait for her to start shooting at him.

  He squinted back at the truck, amazed at how much ground he’d put between himself and the vehicle. The truck idled, exhaust burbling out of its tailpipe. The taillights were bright red. But she was after him. He couldn’t see her, but she was following in the rain. He heard another snap, and a twig shattered near his head.

  He had to make a break for it. He couldn’t just hunker down here and wait for her to reach him. He was maybe ten yards from the car now, and it was his only chance.

  He dashed, zigzagging, which made the yards he had to cover longer but made him less of a target. Dirt kicked up at his feet, and a bullet clipped his ear. His heart was bursting. Adrenaline shoved him forward; he stepped onto the flattened chain-link fence lying on the ground, snagging his boot on a sheared-off corner of the mesh. He managed to extricate himself and reached the car, fumbling for the door latch. His fingers slipped in the rain.

  She was coming for him. He could see her dark shape, walking deliberately. But no shots.

  Did she have to reload?

  He didn’t wait to find out. He was dead anyway. He scrambled into the car. Turned the key and nothing happened, turned it again too quickly. The start made the hideous metal-on-metal sound. He tried one more time, and this time it caught. Another slingshot sound and a loud bang against metal, but he got the car going and hit the accelerator. It lurched forward toward the fence. Put it in reverse! He did, and floored it.

  She was almost to him. He entertained a thought of running her down, killing the monster once and for all, but he was going too fast. The LeBaron slewed out onto the road in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber. He was already facing one way, so he hit the gas and drove, heading up into the mountains toward Jerome.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE GLOOM AND the falling rain almost rendered Tess invisible. Cars sped by on I-17, catching her in their headlights, but they were going too fast. She held up her badge, but the drivers were by her in a flash and it was doubtful they’d register what the badge meant anyway.

  And so she trudged north, holding up her badge. The Verde Valley was a long way from here.

  It was probably thirty, forty miles away.

  Finally a DPS vehicle flashed by, slowed, and pulled over way up ahead. The reverse lights came on and the car backed down the verge toward her.

  “Bajada Sheriff’s,” she said to the highway patrol officer. “Tess McCrae.”

  “What happened to you?” the officer asked, once she was in the car and they’d pulled back out on the road.

  “Long story.” She told him about the wreck, being run off the road by a white Chevy truck. She gave him the license number.

  He nodded. “I just came from there now. Your car is part of a crime scene.”

  One of the many crime scenes, she thought.

  They turned off at Cottonwood and drove to the DPS office on Encanto. Once in the office, the DPS officer introduced her to their detective in this sector, an older man named Glazer. Tess went through it with him, gritting her teeth in some parts. Shamed that a movie star like Max had gotten the jump on her.

  Embarrassing. She wasn’t going to lie, though.

  “He produced a firearm?”

  “No, he just showed it to me. It was in the waistband of his jeans.”

  “It was an implied threat, though.”

  “Yes.” She felt it was important to add, “He was scared of someone. He was trying to get away.”

  “And you’re sure it was the actor, Max Conroy?”

  “Yes.”

  The interview was painstaking, emphasis on pain. She felt like a first-day rookie. Tess gave him just the facts, though, although they were damning enough.

  She recalled her conversation with Max. He could have been snowing her. She admitted that. But she didn’t think so. And there was proof. He was right about the white truck, and the woman and the boy.

  Glazer wanted to hear all about Max Conroy. Tess told him what she knew, not what was conjecture, that the woman and boy were after him for some reason. “They tried to kill us.”

  “And you have no idea why.”

  “No.”

  “And you say the boy is dead.”

  “Yes, but she took him with her.”

  “Took him with her. You mean, put him in the vehicle and drove away?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” She felt defensive. The man looked at her with skeptical eyes. He didn’t think much of a cop who let someone get the jump on her.

  His lips tightened into a line. Tess knew what it was like to sit on the other side of the table, knee to knee with a suspect. All the mental games you played to get the upper hand. There was a whole toolbo
x of them, and she knew all of them. She’d been considered the best interrogator in her department in Albuquerque. And now here she was, feeling that they were halfway humoring her and halfway pegging her as Bonnie to Max Conroy’s Clyde. How’d she lose her phone? Why didn’t the car have a radio? How did she team up with Conroy?

  When she’d finished, Glazer nodded. He stared at her, skeptical.

  She stared back at him. Stay calm. It helped to know that she’d been in his shoes hundreds of times. She knew the drill. “Are we done here?”

  He grunted, stood up, gathered the papers together. “Wait here,” he said.

  Forty minutes later, he returned.

  “I talked to Sheriff Bonneville. He asserts that everything you said was true.” His distaste was clear. “Bonny’s always been eccentric, but it’s his agency and I guess he runs his ship his own way.”

  Underneath, he was saying, It sure isn’t a tight ship.

  He added, “We want you to go to the hospital for observation.”

  “I don’t plan to do that.”

  He shrugged. “Your call. But you’re beat up. You could do yourself some damage.”

  “Is one of my people coming?”

  “He’s on the way. You can wait in here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Soda?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He ducked out. She had a feeling he was watching her through the one-way mirror.

  Let him. All she had to do was wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  TWO MILES LATER, the truck loomed in Max’s rearview mirror. It roared up behind him and almost connected. He hit the gas and spurted away.

  No match, though—and he knew it.

  They were quickly coming up on the first hairpin turn. He could not go too fast. And yet the freight train on his tail was moving up, closer and closer. Ready to project him into space.

  Doubtful this thing had airbags.

  The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but it was almost completely dark.

  He kept hitting the gas, gaining a few feet. The truck behind him seemed to have steering problems—he saw it overcorrect a couple of times as they made the hairpin.

  Max thought through his options. He tried to remember this road—but he’d only been on it twice. Knew the streets were narrow and one section was one-way. If he could slow it down without getting pushed by the truck, he could jump out and run for one of the houses. But the truck hugged his bumper, and he couldn’t stop.

  Max could almost feel the hatred coming at him. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Although it was dark he could see her sitting like a mannequin, high up in the truck. And a smaller figure, strapped into the passenger’s side. The kid? Could it be the kid? Was he dead, or just wounded? He only saw the silhouettes. He heard the truck throttle up, the loud, big engine—and felt the thud as she hit him. Tires screeched—his. He felt the back end slide a little, then catch, and he hit the gas. The truck came up and bumped him again, a glancing blow. He kept his hands steady on the wheel—don’t overcorrect. He’d had training, a lot of training, but most of it flew out the window now. He spurted ahead again, looking through the mist and the rain for an offshoot road, or an empty parking lot, but all the lots were full. The cars must belong to tourists, kept on the mountain by the thunderstorm. He could go left, onto a side street, but by the time he thought it, the street was gone.

  “You remember when you were in Brickyard Dreams?”

  Max turned his head in the direction of the LeBaron’s passenger seat. Shower Cap was belted in beside him.

  Jesus! The woman behind him had the dead boy belted in the car, and he had a goddamn hallucination sitting in his front seat. “What?”

  “Rinaldo—remember? You remember Rinaldo Anisetti? He liked Grey Goose vodka and plump women. He and his crew worked with you for a week.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” And suddenly he did know. Anisetti had taught him how to drive an Indy car. They’d worked on turns. Max had learned to hit the brakes hard before the turn, ease off when he hit the curve, and accelerate out of the turn. Something about the wheels. The more the car’s wheels turned, the less you used the steering wheel. The words came back to him: apex, turn-in point, exit. It was his instinct, anyway—he knew about centrifugal force—it came naturally to him. With turns like these, you tried to bend the turn rather than kink it—make as flat an arc from point A to point B to point C as possible.

  In a town like this, where turns were tight, it could buy him a few yards. He hoped.

  They followed the crooked street past mining shacks and old brick structures, the buildings sweeping by in the night like pickets on a fence, the mist coming off the pavement. The rain had stopped. It was a Saturday night, and the revelers were out in force, wandering down the uneven sidewalks and off high curbs, stepping back in horror as the two vehicles, like coupled rail cars, hurtled past.

  He saw another offshoot ahead, just before a hard right-angle turn, and made for it. At the last minute, three people broke from the curb and started across it, and this time Max overcorrected, and he hit the brakes, the tail end fishtailing, the truck behind him hitting him another glancing blow. But the smack in the back fender actually helped him make the corner, and he hit the gas coming out of the turn. He glanced in his rearview and saw the truck stopped in the middle of the road. Saw it back and fill, and start back after him. By that time, he was coming up on another right-angle turn and a stop sign. He rolled through it, looking for a place to hide.

  Keep going. He pressed on, cataloging every possible escape, even though he knew he was going too fast. Looking for a garage or another side road or…

  As he rounded a curve, he saw a building in the middle of the road. It took him a moment to remember this was the split he’d encountered before—the road was a one-way street to the right of the narrow building, and ran the other way to the left.

  Instinctively, he hit the gas and went left. No place to turn in—it was all town buildings close together. A car came at him, horn blaring. He missed it. Some people started to cross, saw him, horror on their faces, and jumped backward, the spray of his passing soaking them.

  Shower Cap was banging his arm on the side of the car, the spray and wet air blowing through the open window of the LeBaron at him.

  Max made it to the next bend. Turn left. Most people turn right, so you turn left. He did. Flatten the arc. He did, and realized he was now almost out of town. He could find some place to go to ground.

  Suddenly, he felt headlights pin him from behind. The woman had come the same way down the wrong-way street. He looked in his rearview mirror and there she was, coming up and coming fast. She’d be up his tailpipe in a minute.

  Another tight turn ahead. He barely made it.

  He saw her overshoot into a small side street diagonal to the road. She’d have to back up to get turned around.

  Max hit the gas, for the first time feeling joy. He felt exhilarated. Free.

  No place to turn around, but he kept looking. Glancing in the rearview mirror. Only darkness behind him in the road, and lights from the houses on either side. She seemed to be gone. It gave him a breather, a small relief.

  But he didn’t trust it. She was like a nightmare. She would be back.

  He peered into the rearview mirror, into the side mirrors, and saw he’d been wrong—she was still there. He saw a streetlight’s reflection slide over a big vehicle, white light bouncing off it. She must be going sixty miles an hour.

  And then he saw flames.

  They licked up between the slats of the monster Silverado’s grille.

  He could almost hear the water hiss as spray from the puddles hit.

  Reflections scrolled off the windshield. She was almost to him now, her face like a Halloween mask, the rictus of her teeth and the crazy glint in her eyes. And now, in the wavering orange reflection of the flames, he could see the kid’s corpse as it lolled in the shoulder harness, arms jiggling, head flopping. Madness.
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  More curves coming up. It was terrifying, this bat out of hell on his tail, screeching around corners, moving up, bumper pushing into the old Chrysler LeBaron, but Max knew what the flames meant, and he permitted himself a tight smile.

  He mostly worked on motorcycles, but he was a pretty good car mechanic too.

  “I can wait you out, bitch,” he muttered at the rearview mirror as he avoided another group of pedestrians.

  Then they really were out of town. The road straightened out a little, and she was speeding up on him again. Her grille on fire, her face likewise alight with obsession and hatred and need.

  The LeBaron’s tires reeled the road in. The burning truck remained on his bumper. Max muttered, “Now, now, now!”

  But nothing happened; the truck remained pinned to his tail.

  It had to blow sometime.

  Didn’t it?

  Had to.

  But the damn thing kept coming.

  He drove through a series of serpentine curves, knowing he could make them, even though the rain had started up again and made the road slick.

  The land dropped precipitously to his left. If he went over, he’d be dead. The LeBaron’s tires screeched as he braked slightly going into the corners, hit the accelerator coming out, the truck right on him. Up ahead he saw a hairpin turn. Mine tailings loomed up across the broken riverbed on the left. Weedy trees whipping by like snakes. Too fast! The gorge was less steep on the left, but he guessed it was at least a one hundred feet down.

  Then he heard it.

  A terrible grinding noise, the loud bang-bang-bang in rapid succession, like a washing machine full of rocks.

  She’d thrown a rod.

  The engine block had cracked, and now everything was going to hell—including the steering and the brakes. He watched with deep satisfaction as the truck missed the curve and hit the guardrail, launching out over the canyon below, the fire still streaking behind it like a Starsky & Hutch rerun.

  Chapter Thirty-Six