Followed

by Mark Lukens

  “Shit!” Phil yelled. “He just pulled right out in front of us!”

  Cathy didn’t say anything, still trying to catch her breath.

  Phil laid on the horn and flashed his bright lights at the truck. In the glow of their headlights, it was hard to tell if the pickup was a dirty white or a dull gray. It was an older truck, maybe from the late eighties or the early nineties, with the Chevrolet emblem on the tailgate. The back end was jacked up slightly, with big tires on the back. Worn-out stickers cluttered up the bumper and tailgate, some of them scratched almost all the way off. A faded and bent Florida license plate was barely lit up by the tag lights. The driver was the only person in the cab, and he was just a shadow in the glow of their headlights. An empty gun rack hung in the back window behind him.

  “Hello?” Phil yelled, flashing his brights again at the truck. “You didn’t see us?”

  “Phil,” Cathy said. “It’s okay.”

  “No,” Phil yelled at her, shocking her a little. He didn’t usually get this angry so quickly. “That guy could’ve killed us. It’s just so . . . so irresponsible.”

  Phil backed off a little. The truck was gaining speed, but still driving well below the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit.

  “He pulls out in front of us just to go slow,” Phil grumbled. “It was so urgent that he had to get in front of us.”

  “He’s probably drunk,” Cathy said as if that was enough to excuse the man’s bad driving.

  Phil glanced at the rearview mirror, slapped the turn signal handle down, and then punched the gas, speeding around the pickup truck to pass it.

  Cathy held on. “Phil . . .”

  She hated it when he passed other vehicles, but there was no one else within sight on this road.

  As Phil passed the truck, Cathy looked at it, trying to get a better look at the driver. But the windows were tinted, and it looked so dark inside the cab, like the interior lights weren’t even on.

  Phil darted in front of the pickup truck (a little too closely, Cathy thought) and then sped up, leaving the rumbling old truck in the distance.

  “Feel better?” Cathy asked him.

  “A little.”

  They drove in silence for a moment.

  “Wow, you really kind of lost your temper back there,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry,” Phil finally said.

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “I guess even psychologists are allowed to get angry sometimes.”

  “Oh?” Phil asked, smiling now. “Are we?”

  She was going to respond, but she noticed Phil eyeing the rearview mirror.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

  “That truck, it’s catching up to us.”

  Just as Cathy turned around in the passenger seat to look out the rear window of their Lexus, the truck shined its high beams at them, illuminating the interior of their car. The driver flashed his bright lights a few times and then blared his horn as he followed them closely now.

  “Shit,” Phil mumbled and sped up to sixty miles an hour.

  The truck sped up, still right on their rear.

  “Let him pass you,” Cathy said as she turned back around in her seat.

  “I don’t think he wants to pass.”

  “Well, slow down a little so he can. You’re speeding up.”

  Phil slowed down to fifty miles an hour, but the pickup stayed right on their tail. Phil sped up again, and the truck kept right up with them.

  “He’s drunk,” Cathy said again. “He’s just trying to scare you. He’s probably mad because you shined your brights at him and honked your horn.”

  “Well, he did pull out in front of us,” Phil reminded her, that sudden anger back again.

  Cathy didn’t say anything.

  “What? This is my fault?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she told him.

  Phil sped up to sixty-five miles an hour.

  The truck stayed right with them.

  Seventy miles an hour.

  The truck was still there.

  “Phil, slow down.” Cathy grabbed at the armrest and center console, gripping them hard. She saw the intersection up ahead. The traffic light was green, but there was a line of cars waiting at the side roads—the light was going to change soon. Phil sped towards the intersection at seventy-five miles an hour.

  “Phil . . .”

  “Hold on, Cathy.”

  The traffic light turned yellow.

  They were still so far away.

  Phil sped up to eighty miles an hour … eighty-five.

  “Phil, the light!”

  They were still ten yards away from the intersection when the traffic light turned red. Phil punched the gas. Their car’s engine roared with power, and they darted into the intersection.

  There’s at least a second or two of delay before the other lights turn green, Cathy told herself. We can make this.

  They sped through the intersection. Cathy was sure that the truck would skid to a stop at the last second, but it didn’t—it followed them right through, amid blaring horns and screeching tires.

  “This guy’s following us,” Phil said. “He’s really following us.”

  “He’s just trying to scare us,” Cathy said.

  “Well, he’s doing a great job.”

  Phil’s attention was on something farther up the road—the entrance to a housing development off to the left.

  “What is it?” Cathy asked.

  “Hold on.”

  “Phil, what are you—”

  Phil slammed on the brakes and turned left at the same time, cutting right in front of a line of oncoming cars. Headlights bathed them with bright light for a few long, drawn-out seconds. She felt the back end of their Lexus actually sliding as Phil turned, and for that moment it didn’t feel like her husband had control of their vehicle anymore. For that moment she thought Phil might’ve miscalculated the speed of the oncoming traffic, and the impact with another car was coming. But Phil wrestled with the steering wheel, punched the gas, and they shot right into the subdivision entrance, leaving behind the sound of a fading horn.

  Phil took the first right, speeding down the neighborhood street. Cathy was yelling at him, cursing at him, not even realizing what she was saying. Her voice sounded so far away to her own ears right now. Phil ignored her, focusing on the twists and turns of the neighborhood streets, focusing on getting away from that pickup truck.

  “You’re going to kill us!” Cathy yelled at him.

  They sped past the dark houses with cozy lights on inside, families bedding down for the night or relaxing in front of the flickering glow of their TVs.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Cathy yelled. “Slow down.”

  Phil stopped at a stop sign and looked up and down the cross street—he didn’t see any headlights or taillights anywhere. “You see him?”

  Cathy turned around and looked out the back window. She didn’t see any headlights behind them. She turned back around in her seat, still trembling from shock. “He’s not coming after us now. He was just messing around with you.”

  “No. He was following us.”

  Phil turned left and drove down the road as it meandered through the neighborhood. Mature oak trees towered in the front yards, their sprawling branches reaching out into the darkness, creating a canopy over the street in some places. They made a rough circle through the large neighborhood and eventually found their way back to the entrance. He slowed down as they got closer to the entrance. “If you see that truck, call 911,” he told her.

  “Phil, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”

  “Not if that truck’s waiting for us,” he said.

  Cathy didn’t say anything, she only sighed in protest. But she picked up the cell phone to have it ready in her hand. She had to admit that it had been scary when the truck was following them, the way it had run that red light to keep up with them.

  The pickup truck wasn’t waiting at the entrance f
or them. Cathy exhaled a long breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  Phil pulled out onto the road and continued on home, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror constantly as he drove.

  “You could’ve killed us,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he drove, not looking at her.

  Cathy just sighed in aggravation. She didn’t want to argue. It was over and she just wanted to go home. She thought about Megan, their fourteen-year-old daughter (she would be fifteen in a few days). She was home alone. Megan had begged them to let her stay at home rather than dragging her to some “boring old dinner.” They’d given in, Phil suggesting that they needed to let their daughter have some more responsibility. And so far she’d proven to be very responsible for her age. They had a security system at their house, and she’d promised to keep all of the windows and doors locked, and not to go out back by the pool. Cathy just wanted to get home and make sure Megan was okay. She wasn’t sure why she was suddenly worried about Megan, but she had the creeps now after that truck had followed them.

  “I’m sorry,” Phil said again as he took her hand gently, like he’d done fifteen minutes earlier before the pickup truck had pulled out in front of them and they’d gone on their wild ride.

  “It’s okay,” she said and gave him a smile.

  Phil pulled into their sub-division, past “THE OAKS” sign with its little waterfall, the water pouring down the tumbled stones amid the lush landscaping—part of where their outrageous HOA fees went to. Right now she wished those fees had gone towards an electric gate at the entrance. She thought she might suggest it at the next HOA meeting.

  This was an older neighborhood, a lot of the homes had been built in the late eighties and early nineties, but a large area of land had been cleared near the back of the neighborhood in the mid-2000’s, during the housing boom. Houses started going up everywhere in these new sections, but when the market crashed construction came to a screeching stop. Some of the houses stood half-finished when the money dried up. These homes were now just shells of stucco walls and tiled roofs, empty inside and bank-owned until they could be sold. The banks were sitting on thousands and thousands of these homes all over the state, waiting until the market perked back up, which it seemed like it was getting ready to do.

  At least Cathy hoped so. She and Phil bought their home at precisely the wrong time, six months before the market crashed. Their house had been built out in the newest section—Phase something or another—and now it stood among countless empty lots that had been cleared for building. Now their home, and only one other, stood among the sea of empty lots out in this farthest section. Some of the lots already had the raw plumbing and sewer lines installed, little PVC pipes sticking up out of the ground like periscopes among the weeds that choked them now. It had been a little strange at first, and even a little eerie, with no other houses around them. But they’d gotten used to it. Tonight, though, that eerie feeling of being alone out here came rushing back to Cathy. It felt like their home was in the middle of a vast prairie.

  Phil turned onto their empty street: Winding Oak Way (even though there wasn’t an oak tree in sight), and their home was halfway down the road on the left. The front porch and landscaping lights were on, providing a safe little bubble of light far off in the darkness.

  They were almost to their house when bright lights from behind their car tore Cathy away from her thoughts. She turned around and saw the high beams from the pickup truck right behind them.

  TWO

  Phil

  “Shit,” Phil breathed out.

  “It’s him,” Cathy practically screeched.

  Their car was still rolling towards their home. Phil had slowed the Lexus down now that they were almost to the corner of their front yard.

  He knows where we live now.

  Phil grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911—he wasn’t messing around with this guy anymore. He had come to a complete stop now at the corner of their property, where their manicured St. Augustine lawn butted up against the sand and weeds of the empty lot next to it. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror as the phone rang in his ear, but all he could see was the blinding light of the truck’s high beams.

  “911,” a woman’s voice said on the phone. “What’s your emergency?”

  “Someone has followed us home. Right to our house.”

  “Who am I speaking to, sir?” the woman asked in a slightly bored voice.

  “My name’s Phil Stanton.”

  “Your address?”

  Phil’s eyes flicked to the headlights shining in the rearview mirror. He made sure the car doors were still locked, but he could imagine the man getting out of his truck and coming towards them, materializing out of the bright glow of the headlights. Cathy was turned around in the passenger seat, shielding her eyes from the lights. “912 Winding Oak Way,” Phil told the 911 operator. “It’s in The Oaks sub-division off of Highway 301.”

  “And you said someone has followed you to your home?”

  “Yes,” Phil snapped. “We were driving home, and this pickup truck followed us all the way to our house.”

  “Is the person there right now?”

  “Yes. He’s right behind us. We’re parked in front of our house, and he’s right behind us in his truck with his bright lights on.”

  “Okay, sir. I’m sending an officer out to you right now. Please don’t get out of your vehicle.”

  “Megan!” Cathy shouted.

  Phil’s heart lurched in his chest. He looked at the front porch. Their daughter had come outside. She stood at the edge of the porch by the steps. The porch lights bathed her in a yellowish glow, and Phil could see the confused look on her face all the way from where he sat. He rolled down the window. “Megan! Get back inside the house!”

  “Sir,” the 911 operator squawked from the phone. But the phone was in Phil’s lap now. The operator sounded so far away. “Sir, is everything okay?”

  No, everything’s not okay, he wanted to yell at her. Do people call 911 when everything’s okay?

  Phil heard Cathy opening the passenger door. The interior lights came on.

  “What are you doing?” He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Stay here. I’ll go.”

  Phil opened his door and got out before Cathy could argue.

  Megan stood at the edge of the porch, frozen like prey spotting a predator, like a deer deciding whether to bolt or not.

  Phil looked at the pickup truck parked behind them as he stood beside his car. He braced himself for the sound of gunshots, or for some maniac to get out of the pickup truck with some kind of long and sharp weapon.

  But the man didn’t get out.

  The clunk of the transmission echoed in the night air, and then the truck backed up quickly. It turned around in the middle of the road, the tires squealing, all of its lights switching off, making it just a black bulky shape now. The truck drove away, becoming part of the darkness.

  Phil felt like he could breathe again. He looked back at Megan, but she wasn’t there. She must’ve gone back into the house. He jumped back into his car and closed the door. He shifted into drive and sped to their driveway, fumbling with the remote control clipped to the sun visor to open the garage door.

  Cathy had Phil’s cell phone up to her ear, speaking into it. “He left. Yes, he turned around and left.” She looked at him. “She wants to know if we still want an officer to come out.”

  “Yes,” Phil said. “That guy might come back. He knows where we live now.”

  Phil pulled into the garage and parked. He pushed the button on the remote control to close the garage door. He got out of the car and stared at the dark road as the garage door rumbled down, almost expecting to see the white pickup truck drive by again, or even pull up into their driveway, splashing them with bright lights. Even though the truck was gone, he couldn’t help feeling that this wasn’t over. He stood by their car and watched until the g
arage door came down all the way.

  Megan was in the kitchen, waiting for them when they went inside. She looked more confused than scared. “Why were you guys parked out in the street?”

  “How many times have I told you not to open the front door at night when you’re here alone?” Phil snapped at her.

  Megan looked stunned. “Who was in that truck behind you?”

  “That’s not the point,” Phil said. “I thought you were more responsible than this. Maybe letting you stay home by yourself was a bad idea. You’re obviously not mature enough yet.”

  Cathy jumped in between Phil and Megan. “Phil, that’s enough,” she said in a soft voice, but she shot him a warning look.

  Phil sighed and took a deep breath. He knew he was overreacting, letting the stress get to him, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to walk away. He paced to the cabinets, and then back. He looked at Cathy, and then at Megan; she looked like she was about to cry. “I’m sorry,” he told Megan. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just a little rattled, that’s all.”

  Megan looked at her mother. “What happened? Who was that guy in the truck?”

  Phil let Cathy take it from there. He walked back to the cabinets and got a tumbler. He opened another cabinet and saw the bottle of whiskey sitting on the top shelf. He hesitated for just a moment, and then he took the bottle out of the cabinet. He grabbed an ice tray from the freezer and poured himself a straight shot.

  He could feel Cathy’s eyes on him.

  “You’re drinking?” she asked.

  “I need to relax,” he told her without turning around to look at her.

  “It’s just . . . just been so long since you’ve had one.”

  “It’s just one, Cathy.”

  “Who was that guy out there?” Megan asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Cathy answered Megan as Phil drained half of his drink down. “He followed us home.”

  Megan inhaled a sharp breath. “Oh my God. Followed you home? Why?”