Savannah Law

by William Eleazer

  Jennifer was annoyed; she needed to get to the hospital. Despite her earlier problem with her gas pedal, she decided to press down hard and pass, but when she did, the vehicle ahead increased its speed, and she was not able to pass. Then, for the first time, she noticed: it was a Toyota, a black Camry. Fear now displaced her worry. Could it be him? Was that him back at Marvin’s Garage... in the far stall, listening to her conversation with the mechanic? She recalled that she told Don she had to get to Hilton Head. In fact, she recalled saying it twice. He was a tow-truck operator. He would know the area well and the exact route she would take.

  It was him. She now knew that for sure. But as long as she could keep traveling, she was safe. At the same time, she thought it best to get her cell phone ready. She already had it programmed to dial 911 with the push of a single button. Her handbag was beside her on the passenger side, and she opened it to get her phone. Then she remembered: it was on her bedside table being charged. She never went anywhere in her car without her cell phone, but in her rush to leave, she simply forgot it.

  The black Camry was now traveling only thirty miles per hour, and Jennifer was staying a safe distance back. She wondered just what he was planning—just how much danger was she in? What sort of evil was he contemplating as he drove? But as long as she kept driving, she was safe. It was now almost eleven o’clock, and few cars had passed—none going in her direction. She wanted to see lights approaching from the rear, but she saw none.

  Jennifer had traveled this road many times but never late at night. She knew there was a small “quick stop” food and gas station on the road, but she could not remember exactly where or how far. If she could just get to that station. But would it be open this late? Her engine had skipped twice as they drove at the slower speed, but it quickly recovered. She maintained her distance of five or six car lengths, and the vehicle ahead continued at the same thirty miles an hour.

  Then she saw it: the lights of the “quick stop” station just ahead at a cross road. She had made it!

  Jennifer was greatly relieved to see the black Camry proceed past the station. She turned in and stopped in front of the last gas pump. She could feel her hands shaking as she turned off the engine. Through a large glass window in the storefront, she could see a man and woman inside. They looked to be in their sixties or early seventies. One was sweeping, and the other was behind the cash register, apparently counting cash and making notes.

  Jennifer wasn’t sure what she would do next or who she should call. The sheriff? The South Carolina Highway Patrol? Who covered this rural area? She was opening her car door to go into the store when she saw the lights of another vehicle pull up and stop at the gas pump behind her. It was the black Camry. And yes, it was him.

  She ran from her car to the store, opened the door, and shouted, “Please, help me!” Her eyes were darting from the man to the woman and back again.

  “What is it, child?” asked the woman, looking up from behind the cash register.

  The man put down his broom, and walked over to where Jennifer was standing. “Yes, what is it?” he repeated.

  “That man there! That man out there! He once took me... kidnapped me... in Savannah... in his tow truck, and I’m sure... I’m sure he will do it again. Please, the sheriff, the highway patrol, someone. Please. Please.” Jennifer knew her outburst sounded like the confused rambling of a crazed person, and she wished she could have been more in control and coherent. She was on the verge of tears, but she was trying hard to compose herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, in a much calmer voice. In the store, she now felt safe. “It is a complicated story, but this man knows me and has followed me from Savannah. I’m on my way to Hilton Head. He tailgated me for a while and then passed in front of me and would not let me pass. He works for a tow-truck company in Savannah. He has been stalking me. Tonight he saw me and followed me. I’m afraid. Could you please use your phone, or let me use your phone, to call someone?”

  The man went to the door and opened it. Only Jennifer’s car was parked at the pumps. He then turned to face Jennifer.

  “There’s no man out there—just one car. Is that your car?”

  Jennifer looked. Only her car was visible. “Yes, that’s my car, but he must be close by. Maybe he moved to the parking area behind the store.”

  Without further conversation, the man walked out of the store and disappeared. He was back soon. “There is no car anywhere around, except your car and my car, so I don’t know what the sheriff could do. My wife and I have to close up now. We were closing as you drove up. Do you need gas? We can wait for that, I suppose. I really don’t know how long it would take one of the sheriff’s cars to get here. We’ve had to call them a couple of times. They usually arrive in fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe a bit longer at night. I have the number if you want to call. You are free to wait there by the pump until they get here, but we have to close up and go. My boss says our insurance policy requires us to close up at eleven every night.”

  “I understand,” Jennifer said. But she needed some time to think about her options. “And, yes, I would like to get some gas.”

  “We’ll wait ’til you finish,” the man said.

  However, he immediately began turning off some of the lights inside and the big outside sign with the gas prices. Outside, only the lights on the pumps were now on.

  Jennifer walked to her car, began filling her tank, and considered the situation. Her options were quite limited. She could either proceed to Hilton Head, hoping she had seen the last of him, or call the sheriff and wait in the dark. Assuming a deputy eventually arrived, what could he do? Her stalker was nowhere around.

  It took less than ten dollars to fill her gas tank. She removed twelve dollars from her wallet, walked back to the now darkened store, and handed the money to the lady, who was standing by the counter, waiting. “Thank you for your trouble, ma’am.”

  “You be careful, young lady,” said the man.

  And with that, he turned off the last light, and all three walked out of the store together. Jennifer got into her car, fastened her seat belt, and started the engine. The engine sounded good, and there were no warning lights. She saw the man and woman get into their car and drive away.

  The rain had completely stopped, and the sky was clearing. A few low clouds were moving swiftly across the quarter moon. Except for her recent experience, and the relentless worry and fear that it was now causing, it was a perfect night for driving. If all went as expected, she would be at the emergency room at the hospital in less than an hour. Finding one’s way around Hilton Head Island was not easy for an outsider, but Jennifer had lived there during most of her recent summers, and she knew the area well. Just last June, she had her ankle x-rayed at the hospital after twisting it in a ladder accident. She would have no trouble finding her way to the emergency room. Even though it would be after midnight, she knew her mother would still be there. She started her car and drove onto the narrow blacktop road.

  She had driven only a few miles when she got a wake-up call to remind her that she was a long way from a safe haven at Hilton Head. Her car sputtered. She pressed the gas pedal. It hesitated, then quickly caught up to run smoothly, then hesitated again. She pressed hard. But the engine stopped completely. She was now coasting and losing speed rapidly. No matter how hard she pumped, the engine refused to cooperate. She pulled onto the small confining shoulder of the narrow asphalt road. There was not enough room to completely pull off the road without going into a grassy ditch. The car came to a complete stop.

  The cloud cover had receded, and from the light of the quarter moon and her headlights, she could see scrub palmetto, fetterbush, and pond pines lining both sides of the highway, extending as far as the car lights carried. There were no houses, no open fields—not even a sign or a fence—anywhere in her sight. And there was no traffic. She had not passed a single vehicle since leaving the store.

  Jennifer was at once frustrated, frightened, and angry. Ex
cept for the recent problem with the starter, her Camry had never given her a single problem. It was still under warranty, and she had carefully attended to its maintenance. And now, in the middle of a desolate stretch of the South Carolina low country in the middle of the night, it stops. Completely. In her frustration, she pounded the steering wheel with both hands. Her mind was completely void of anything she could do to end what was turning into a nightmare. She had no cell phone. She had no knowledge of automobile mechanics or what could be wrong with her car. And even if she did, she had no tools, no spare parts. She did not even have a flashlight. She needed a tow truck but had no means to call for one. And the very thought of a tow truck rekindled the fear that really had never left.

  Jennifer’s fear and frustration were mixed with worry and concern for her father. She needed to be there with her mother. She tried to start her car again. She heard the starter grind, but the engine would not catch. Never had she experienced such a complete state of helplessness. She turned off her radio; it was a distraction, and she needed to think. She turned on her emergency flashers and checked to see that her doors were locked. Her mind was engulfed in fear, both from what she knew and from what she did not know.

  With her car lights off, the outside view revealed only a vague outline of the dark road. The pine trees and palmettos were no longer visible, but every now and then, she could see a faint flash from a firefly. She rolled down her window, and the eerie, lifeless silence outside increased her fright. She rolled up the window and checked again to ensure that the doors were locked. Then, with a sigh of complete frustration, she sat back forcibly in her seat and placed her hands against her cheeks. “Think,” she said to herself. She tried but nothing changed.

  She glanced up and into her rear-view mirror. What first seemed to be only a few flashes from distant fireflies was quickly morphing into car headlights. With luck, it could be a sheriff’s deputy or highway patrolman. Perhaps a trucker. More likely a motorist returning from a night in Savannah. And, hopefully, sober. But would the vehicle stop? Her emergency lights were blinking. It should be clear that assistance was needed. But, again she wondered, would it stop?

  As the vehicle got closer, she could see that it was not a truck. It was a car. A small car, obviously not a patrol car. It pulled up slowly behind Jennifer’s Camry and stopped about fifteen feet back. Jennifer turned her head toward the stopped car. Its bright lights made it difficult to see clearly, but someone was getting out. As the person moved toward the front and into the headlights, she could finally see who it was: it was him!

  The lights from his car illuminated his features. He was wearing a head scarf, similar in shape to the one he was wearing when she first saw him, but this one was black with multiple white Iron Cross images. She noted the dark blue T-shirt, perhaps the same one he was wearing the previous Friday night, and the multicolored armbands of Xs tattooed into his skin in the midportion of his biceps. He was just as she remembered him.

  He walked up to the driver’s door and looked in. The headlights from his car clearly outlined Jennifer’s features.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the closed windows.

  Jennifer did not respond. She did not even look at him. She looked straight into the darkness ahead, every muscle in her body tightening with fear.

  “I said, I’ve been looking for you,” he repeated.

  Jennifer maintained her view and again disregarded him.

  “Look, I come to help. I’m trying to be your friend. Are you afraid of me?”

  The only sound inside the car was the pounding of Jennifer’s heart. She could actually hear it. She wasn’t sure of her next move, but she knew she would not respond to anything he said. Not now, not ever.

  “OK, I understand. I did scare you last week. But I would never hurt you. I want to help you. I think I know the problem. It’s a wire under your dashboard. I know these Camrys inside out. Mine had the same problem a few months ago. Open up. I’ll fix it and you can be on your way.”

  Again, there was no response. But Jennifer, in her heightened state of pure panic, for just a fleeting moment thought that maybe the only safe way out of this was to cooperate.

  “I said, I come to help!” He was now shouting. “Open the damn door! I’ll drive you to Hilton Head.” There was no response.

  “Better yet, let’s just drive off to a motel in Ridgeland. You would like that. Sure you would. I know you would.” He was now slapping the glass of the door. “Are you hearing me? Are you hearing me?” he shouted.

  Still the only sound Jennifer made was her heart pounding.

  “Do I need to break this window to knock some sense into your fucking head? Do you hear me? Do you hear me? I want to help. You need help. You got no lawyer-boy now to help. You think he’s going to drive up and rescue you again? Hell, no! You got me! And I’m gonna break this fucking window if you don’t open up!” He continued to slap the window and rattle the door handle.

  Jennifer’s terror had reached its apogee, and her thoughts, which so far had been paralyzed by fear, were gradually returning. She knew he meant what he said. He would break the window, and he would eventually open the door. But she was determined that she would not be carried off or assaulted without a fight. She reached for the only defensive weapon available, the umbrella that Scott had used in helping her load for her trip. It was resting against the passenger door. It had a steel tip and she would use it. She would stab for the face. She knew she would likely lose in the end, but she would make him pay.

  “I’m going to get a hammer. And when I get back, you better have this door open.” He slapped the glass once and turned back to his car.

  Jennifer turned to watch him go, and as she did, she noticed a car coming toward her from the rear. It was a few hundred yards away. Her mind was now working again, in self-preservation mode. She realized that her tormentor would now have to wait to let the car pass before returning to her car, which was parked with its left tires a foot or two onto the road. The approaching vehicle would surely see her car and veer to the left to avoid a collision. And this would give her a chance. She would open her door just before the car reached her and lean her body out, facing the approaching vehicle. Anyone seeing her face would know this was an emergency—indeed, a desperate plea for help.

  As the moment for action approached, she opened the door. Holding on with one hand and waving frantically with the other, she faced the car and yelled with an exaggerated facial expression: “Help meeeee!”

  She watched for the car to slow. It did not. And there were no brake lights. It quickly disappeared into the darkness.

  She then saw him approaching. He was almost at her open door. She reached with both hands to close the door, and with all the strength she could muster, she slammed it.

  She heard an anguished cry. His left hand had been caught between the closing door and the door jam. From the light still coming from his car’s headlights, she could see his wide eyes and the pain on his face. As he held his left hand limp, at shoulder level, she saw the blood oozing from the tips of his fingers. With his right fist, he pounded the window.

  “You bitch! You bitch! You fucking bitch! You gonna pay!”

  He shook his left hand at the window, and the blood splattered across it. He moved to the front of her car and shook his hand at the windshield. Blood splattered again over the glass. He shook it again, and more blood splashed on the windshield. He was bleeding profusely from the tips of his fingers, and he obviously wanted her to see the blood he was spilling. She did, and it had the effect he wanted: total, unmitigated terror.

  She watched as he removed the black scarf from his head and carefully wrapped his bleeding hand. Then he walked back towards his car. The blinding headlights kept her from seeing him open his door or enter his car, but she knew without a doubt that he would return. And he would have a tool to break her window. She clutched the umbrella in both hands, the steel end pointing at her door. />
  He walked slowly from his car toward hers with a long, heavy metal object in his right hand, his wrapped left hand hanging limply at his side. Instead of stopping at her door as she expected, he moved to the front of her car and menacingly held up the object for her to see.

  “I’m going to count to three, and you better by damn have that door open,” he yelled.

  With that, Jennifer dropped the umbrella, turned the ignition key, which had remained inserted, and the engine came alive immediately. She pressed the gas pedal, and the engine responded as if it knew its role in this drama. Jennifer heard the thud as the front left side of her car hit him. She saw him fall to the asphalt, and she heard a series of expletives hurled at her as she drove away. She knew, from the incessant roar of his voice, that he was not gravely injured and, undoubtedly, would follow. But as long as her engine continued to respond, she would be safe.

  Jennifer looked frequently into the rear-view mirror for car lights but saw none. She was familiar with the highway and its fifty-five and, at times, forty-five miles-per-hour speed limit, and at any other time, she would have obeyed it to avoid a speeding ticket. Tonight she was traveling seventy or more, hoping she would receive one. She would have welcomed the sight of flashing blue lights behind her, but she traveled without interruption. Only when she turned onto US 298 did she slow. There were cars and trucks traveling in both directions on the four-lane highway and houses, communities, and gas stations along the way. Her car was running fine; she was going to make it.

  It wasn’t until she pulled into the parking lot at the hospital that she gave any thought to why she decided to make that final, successful attempt to start her car. And, in fact, she could not recall actually making the decision. Surely, it was survival instinct.

  She found a parking spot close to the emergency entrance to the hospital. It was well after midnight. She walked into the emergency waiting room and found it almost empty. The admissions clerk told her that her mother was with her father and she would inform her that Jennifer had arrived.