Helius Legacy

by S Alexander O'keefe

  The door to the office was partially open. Caine knocked lightly, pushed the door open, and walked into a small waiting room. A yellow vinyl couch and a Formica table occupied one side of the room, and a rack of motor oil cans occupied the other. The top half of the Dutch door at the other end of the room was open, allowing Caine to see into the back office area.

  He walked up to the door and looked into the next room. An old desk and several filing cabinets, with stacks of papers on top, filled up most of the narrow room. The walls were decorated with yellowed NASCAR posters. In the midst of this clutter, a man in a worn green mechanic’s uniform was leaning back in a wooden swivel chair, reading the newspaper. A steaming cup of coffee was parked on the edge of the old desk.

  Caine knocked on the wall and said, “Good morning.” The paper lowered several inches, revealing a full head of white hair and pair of blue eyes.

  “I know I’m a little early, but I’m in a bit of fix,” Caine said, with a wry grin.

  The blue eyes just looked at him for a second longer and then the paper lowered another six inches, revealing a pleasantly lined and worn face, with a white mustache.

  “How can I help you?” the man said in a voice that wasn’t quite friendly, but wasn’t unfriendly either. Caine had thought about his response to this question before he entered the garage. He had two choices: He could tell the truth about the last eight hours, or he could lie. Caine lied.

  “Well, this is somewhat embarrassing, but the short version is my girlfriend and I had … a disagreement this morning, and she took off with my car. That’s bad, but it gets worse. I need to catch a flight out of John Wayne Airport at 11:30 a.m., and it’s not something I can miss. Unfortunately, the car rental place in Big Bear doesn’t have anything available, and the bus down to San Bernardino doesn’t show up for another couple of hours. That’s too late, I’ll miss my flight.”

  The old man lowered the paper and shook his head regretfully. “I’d like to help you out, but we fix cars here. We don’t rent them.”

  Caine nodded his head. “I guessed that was probably the case. On the other hand, you’ve got a whole parking lot of old clunkers in the back. As long as one of those cars will run long enough to get me down the hill, I’d be willing to buy one for a reasonable price.”

  The old man considered this option for a good twenty seconds, and then he smiled, “Hell, boy, those cars out back aren’t old clunkers. Those are bona fide classics.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Austin, Texas

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 10:15 a.m.

  After hanging up the phone, Andrea walked into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. She tried not to think about the call until she had her first couple of sips. Maybe this guy Caine was just a nut, or maybe he had the wrong guy and Richie was perfectly fine. She had to know. She picked up the phone again, dialed information, and asked for the Statesman.

  “Austin American-Statesman.”

  “Richard Steinman, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Yes, Andrea Marenna. I’m a friend of Mr. Steinman.”

  “One minute, please.”

  There was a short delay, and then another voice came on the line.

  “Hello, this is Stan Mitchell. Ms. Marenna, what is your relationship to Mr. Steinman?”

  “I’m a friend. Is there a problem?”

  There was brief hesitation. “Ms. Marenna, Mr. Steinman was in an automobile accident Friday night. He was pronounced dead at the scene. We were only recently able to contact his family, and I was concerned that you might be a family member who had not yet received word.”

  Although Andrea had braced herself for this, the confirmation of Richie’s death shocked her. “I understand. Thank you.”

  She started to hang up, but then she remembered something that the caller, John Caine, had said.

  “Wait, can you tell what happened?”

  “Our information is that the accident occurred at about 9:00 p.m. Friday night, and that Mr. Steinman was killed instantly. The police are still investigating the incident.”

  “The police? Does that mean that it wasn’t an accident? Who was driving the other car?”

  “I don’t know. The police are still investigating. Mr. Steinman’s car apparently rolled over, and he was killed.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  San Bernardino County, California

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 9:00 a.m.

  Caine looked over his new “classic” car, a 1968 Pontiac GTO. This trophy had cost him $1,200, which was about $900 too much. The lower body of the car had gaping rust holes and the maroon leather in the rear seat looked as if it had been in an extended cat fight. Although the GTO’s big engine started up without a problem, it ran rough, and the roar from under the car suggested there wasn’t much left of the muffler. Still, Caine couldn’t help smiling when he looked at the old machine. It brought back a lot of memories.

  The ’68 Pontiac GTO, or “Goat” to the muscle car crowd, had been a hot car in its day, with its muscular styling, big eight-cylinder engine, and explosive performance. If he’d been sixteen, and about to take a spin through downtown Waco in his three-year-old GTO, life would have been good, but he wasn’t sixteen, and he wasn’t taking a joyride. He was forty-four, and he was attempting to escape a team of killers in a thirty-year-old car that looked and sounded like it wouldn’t get him more than five miles. Jake smiled as he looked over at him from the front of the open repair bay and said, “Don’t worry, she’ll get you there.”

  Caine waved to the old man, climbed into the car, and turned the ignition key. He was impressed when the big eight-cylinder roared to life on the first turn. After letting the car idle for several minutes, he slowly pressed the gas pedal down and eased the clutch into first gear. Despite his care, the engine gave off a muted roar that would have been more at home at the Indy 500. The engine noise bothered Caine more than anything else about the car. The sound was loud enough to draw a look from both the good guys, as in the local cops, and the bad guys.

  The danger zone was the next five-mile stretch. Although Jake had let him keep the old license plates, the vehicle wasn’t registered. If the cops were feeling energetic this morning, they might pull him over on the basis of the car’s condition, and demand his license and registration. If that happened, his little escape plan was out the window.

  Even if he avoided the police, things would get real exciting if his pursuers spotted him during the next couple of miles. Once he hit Route 330, the winding road that led down the mountain, his odds would improve. There was no room to set up an ambush, and the endless switchbacks would make it difficult for them to take him from behind.

  The cell phone in the windbreaker rang as he pulled onto Route 18, but Caine ignored it. He needed to keep his mind on the road. He tried to minimize the engine noise from the GTO by staying light on the gas pedal as he eased the car into the still sparse, but growing, morning traffic. Although his effort muted the engine’s throaty growl, the sound was still loud enough to be an attention magnet.

  About a mile and a half from the station, Caine passed a side street on his right, and saw a dark-colored SUV parked by the side of the road. He thought he saw two men in the front seat, but the reflection of the morning sun off the GTO’s dirty windshield prevented him from confirming the sighting without drawing attention. When he turned his eyes back to the road ahead, a group of teenagers in a car coming in the opposite direction cut in front of the Honda immediately ahead of him, in order to get to a McDonald’s on the opposite side of the road. The driver of the Honda overreacted, jamming on his brakes.

  Caine hit the GTO’s brakes to avoid hitting the Honda in the rear, but the response was sluggish. There was no way the GTO was going to stop in time. Caine glanced to the left and saw an opening in the oncoming traffic flow. He swerved across the center line, just missing the rear of the Honda, downshifted into second gear, an
d hit the gas. The GTO shot past the Honda and Caine pulled back over to the right. The GTO’s acceleration surprised Caine. Unfortunately, the roar from the engine had been equally impressive.

  Caine slowed to a more sedate pace and moved to the right lane, but when he glanced in the mirror, it looked like the damage was already done. The black SUV from the side street he’d passed a block earlier was pulling into the flow of traffic behind him.

  Caine avoided staring into the rearview mirror, but he monitored the SUV as he drove along with the flow of traffic. A male Hispanic in the front passenger seat made a call on a cell phone, never taking his eyes off the GTO. Caine’s adrenaline level started to climb. The men in the SUV might just be on their way to the ski slopes, but Caine somehow knew that wasn’t the case. If his suspicions were right, the passenger in the SUV had just called ahead to alert another car further down the road to his approach.

  Caine knew he had to prevent the two cars from forcing him into a box. Once his mobility was limited, they could take him out with a well-placed shot. In a worst-case scenario, they could force a crash and take him out in a firefight. It would be messy, but after last night’s failed assault, Caine had an idea that these folks wouldn’t have a problem with that.

  Caine knew the roads in the area, but he’d still taken another look at the map before he left the gas station. There was only one road down the mountain within the next ten miles. That was Route 330. The road he was traveling on, State Route 18, was the only road that intersected Route 330 from this direction. That didn’t leave him with a lot of options, but there might be one that would give a better chance of escape. A smaller access road ran parallel to Route 18 for about four miles and then merged back into the main road, just before the intersection with Route 330.

  Caine looked to the right and could see the access road in the distance. The next side street was two hundred yards ahead. It ran all the way out to the other road. If he timed it right and the GTO held together, he might be able to escape the box and beat the lead car to Route 330.

  Caine started to accelerate, but slowed when a second SUV pulled out of a parking lot and cut in front of the Toyota Camry two cars ahead. Instead of speeding up to stay with the flow of traffic, the SUV began to slow down. The frustrated driver of the Toyota passed the SUV on the left. The SUV in front of him was now separated from Caine by a red pickup truck. There were three men in the SUV ahead of him. It had to be the lead car. The game had begun.

  Caine glanced in the rearview mirror. The rear SUV was now directly behind him. The side street was now about eighty yards distant. The driver of the SUV in front moved to the extreme left side of the lane and turned his left blinker on, as if he intended to execute a left turn across the opposite traffic lane. The Chevy pickup truck took advantage of the opening and moved to pass on the inside right. The move gave Caine three choices. He could try to shoot through the gap after the pickup. He could allow himself to be boxed in and hope that his pursuers didn’t take any action before he reached the side street. Or he could try to pass the lead SUV on the left, assuming he could find an opening in the oncoming traffic flow, and then cut back over in time to turn down the side street, on his right.

  Caine weighed the options and reached a decision. If he tried to pass on the right, the bigger vehicle would have no problem forcing him into the curb. Once he was stationary, they could put two bullets in his head and drive away. Caine didn’t like the second option any better. Whoever was in the SUV would know the side street represented an escape route. There was a good chance they’d make their move before he reached it. His best option was to feint to the right and then try to make the pass on the left, but to do that he needed to find a break in the oncoming traffic flow.

  Caine looked down the road to the left as he began to feint to the right and follow the pickup truck that was moving to pass the lead

  SUV on the inside. Ahead he saw a forty-yard gap in the opposite traffic flow. Unwilling to wait for another chance, Caine punched the accelerator and raced toward the gap to the right of the lead SUV. Both SUV drivers reacted as he anticipated. The driver of the lead SUV gunned his engine and turned sharply to the right in order to cut off the gap. The driver of the rear vehicle punched the accelerator and raced after Caine.

  Caine shot for the gap on the right just long enough to make sure that the two big SUVs committed themselves, and then he made his move. He popped the clutch, downshifted into second gear, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Simultaneously he whipped the steering wheel to the left into the oncoming flow of traffic. The GTO left two strips of black rubber and a pall of blue smoke in the road as it roared over the center line and rocketed by the lead SUV on the left. The driver of the lead SUV tried to swerve back to the left, but the move was too late. Caine was already past the lead car, and the move almost wiped out the second SUV that was right on his tail. Both drivers saw the danger at the same instant and slammed on their brakes, giving Caine an additional lead. When Caine looked in the mirror, the driver of the lead SUV was frantically waving the trailing car ahead.

  Caine held the car in second gear as long as possible to get the maximum acceleration from the old machine. The GTO raced past the red pickup truck and cut across its path, making a hard right down the side street. The GTO crossed in front of the pickup so fast that the car was down the side street before the other driver hit the brakes and blew his horn.

  The black SUV on Caine’s tail tried to repeat Caine’s maneuver. Although the SUV made it past the red pickup truck, at the last second the driver realized that he was going way too fast to make the turn. He skidded past the entrance to the street into an empty parking lot. Once he had the vehicle under control, the driver did a U-turn and raced back to the side street. The SUV bounced over the curb, fishtailed, and then roared down the road after the GTO. The trailing SUV continued to race down Route 18.

  Caine could see the alternate road in the distance and kept the accelerator buried to get the most out of the straightaway. The SUV in the rear was about two hundred yards back. Based on the GTO’s performance, Caine believed the car could easily beat the two big SUVs in an acceleration contest. A top speed contest would be a different matter. The GTO had more power, but the front wheels were so far out of alignment that the vibration from the wheels would pound the car to pieces at high speed.

  As he approached the intersection with the access road, Caine downshifted and tapped the brakes in anticipation of the turn. The wheels howled in protest and Caine had to use up the entire road to make the turn. As soon as the car straightened out, Caine punched the accelerator, and the old machine raced down the road.

  Caine glanced to his rear as the speedometer ratcheted to the right. Only one of the SUVs was on his trail. The other car was almost certainly trying to beat him to the point where the road merged back into Route 18. Caine did not intend to let that happen. He reached over and pulled the Sig Sauer out of the black backpack that was sitting on the front passenger seat, flipped off the safety, and chambered a round. Then he laid it on the seat. The standard magazine for a P226 held ten nine-millimeter rounds. Caine’s gun was a special law enforcement model that held fifteen rounds.

  The access road reconnected with Route 18 about three miles ahead. Caine was hoping that the morning traffic on Route 18 would slow the lead SUV’s progress enough to give him the edge in the race. With a little luck, he would intersect the road well ahead of the second SUV and still have a decent lead on the car in his rear. That would get him to the relative safety of Route 330.

  Caine glanced at the speedometer. The GTO was closing in on 115 miles per hour. He could see the convergence of the two roads in the distance. Caine looked in the rear mirror. The SUV in the rear was visibly gaining on him. This was going to be tight. Caine looked over to the left in order to get a fix on the location of the second SUV coming down on Route 18. For a second, the forest line between the two roads was too dense for him to see anything, but then it started to thin
out and he saw the other chase car. The second SUV was parallel to his position on the interstate and there was only one car in front of it. After that, the road was clear all the way to the intersection point.

  Caine took the only course open to him and pushed the gas pedal down even further. The speedometer needle climbed to 125 miles per hour. As he suspected, the GTO’s wheels couldn’t take the higher speed. The front-end started to vibrate like a machine gun. The pounding shattered the glass pane covering the speedometer and popped the glove compartment door open. Caine looked over at the SUV on Route 18. The driver was racing past the car in front of him in order to beat Caine to the point where the roads merged. Caine had a slight lead on the SUV, but the other vehicle had a shorter distance to cover and more speed. It would be close, but the GTO would arrive in second place.

  The SUV behind him was now within forty yards. The SUV racing parallel to him on Route 18 was about the same distance away. Caine decided that he’d played the passive quarry long enough. He reached over with his left hand, grabbed the P226, and extended his arm out the window. He fired five rounds at the SUV across from him on Route 18. Then he pulled the wheel sharply to the right, giving him a clear view of the SUV to the rear, and fired six rounds at the front of the vehicle, leaving four rounds remaining in the magazine.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN