Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  When the road straightened, she looked at the phone again, found Billy’s cell number.

  Last chance, Billy. Tell me what’s going on.

  She pressed SEND, listened to it ring. Five times and then his voice mail kicked in.

  “It’s Sara. You need to call me. And you need to do it right away.”

  She hit END, closed the phone, and put it on the seat beside her. If she didn’t hear from him by the time she reached the SO, her next call would be to the sheriff. It would be his decision what to do next. Then it would be out of her hands.

  Ahead, a glow in the fog, the fast blink of hazard lights. She slowed, saw the shape of a vehicle, not moving, slewed half onto the shoulder, half on the road, its rear end in the right lane. Headlights pointed out into the woods.

  She could guess what had happened. They’d been going too fast and skidded on the wet road, or veered to avoid a deer or some other animal that had popped out of the fog in front of them. Any faster and they would have ended up in the trees.

  She let the Blazer coast to a stop on the shoulder and switched her high beams on. It was the vehicle that had passed her earlier. The windows were tinted dark, so she couldn’t see inside. She got the emergency light from under the seat, stuck it to the dashboard, plugged it in, and hit the switch. It began to strobe red and blue, flashing off the side of the vehicle ahead, coloring the fog.

  She opened her cell and called the main number for the SO.

  “St. Charles County Sheriff’s.”

  “Angie, it’s Sara Cross. I’m out on Cypress Creek, about . . . a mile north of the Artesia turnoff. There’s a vehicle out here, looks like it spun off the road.”

  “Any injuries?”

  “Don’t know yet. Can’t see anyone. Better send a wrecker, too, get this thing out of the road before someone hits it. It’s blocking a lane.”

  “Tag number?”

  “Can’t tell from here. I’m going to go out and have a look. Send a unit out, will you? I’ll call back if I need an ambo.”

  “Everyone’s pretty busy out there tonight, with this fog and all. Lots of accidents.”

  “I know that.”

  “Not sure how quick I can get someone out to your ten-twenty.”

  Sara breathed out. “Just send someone as soon as you can.” And drop the attitude.

  “Where was that again?”

  “Cypress Creek Road, north of Artesia. I’ve got my emergency flasher on. They can’t miss me.”

  She ended the call, set the phone on the dash, cracked the door. Still no movement in the vehicle. She wondered if they’d walked on to look for help, gotten lost in the fog.

  She switched her hazards on and got the spare Maglite from the glove box. When she stepped out onto the road, she adjusted the waistpack so the breakaway tab was in easy reach.

  “Sheriff’s deputy,” she called. “Is anybody hurt?”

  No response. The only sound was the slow swish of her wipers, the ticking of the hazards. She thumbed the Maglite button, sending the beam out into the fog. It played along the side of the vehicle, over the tinted windows. The air was heavy, the metallic smell of the fog mixing with the underscent of swamp. The vehicle’s hazards pulsed yellow, lit the wet blacktop.

  “Hello? Sheriff’s deputy. Is there anyone in that vehicle?”

  Silence. She considered getting back in the Blazer, waiting for the unit to arrive. Wondered if Angie would put the call out right away or leave her to sweat here for awhile.

  Somebody might be hurt over there. You can’t just wait.

  With the Maglite in her left hand, she circled the vehicle, giving it a wide berth. It was a Range Rover, late model from the looks of it. She shone the light on the rear bumper, saw the New Jersey plates, and then a shape came from behind her, silent in the fog. She saw the gun, heard the hammer click back. Cold metal touched her behind the left ear.

  “Go ahead and make a move,” a low voice said. “You’ll die right here.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She froze. The steady click of the hazards seemed to grow louder.

  Stupid. How did I let this happen?

  “Put your hands on that window.” The voice a rough whisper.

  She thought about turning the Maglite to blind him, pulling at the tab until the Glock was in her hand.

  The muzzle touched the base of her skull.

  “I’ll do you right now. I don’t give a fuck.”

  The driver’s door opened, and another man got out. He wore a denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, his face in shadow. She wondered if one of them had been the driver of the gray Toyota.

  The one behind her reached around and slapped the Maglite from her hand. It hit the blacktop, went out. He pushed her into the side of the Range Rover, pressing on the gun so her cheek touched window glass. His other hand came around, brushed across her stomach and down to the waistpack. He found the buckle and tugged at it until the weight fell away from her. It thunked on the ground.

  The gun left her head.

  “Open the door.” His voice husky as if from a throat injury.

  Remember that detail. Remember everything.

  “I’m not getting in there.”

  The muzzle again, at the nape of her neck.

  “I’m not,” she said.

  “No? Then maybe we’ll go back to where you dropped that boy off. Do our talking there. Your choice.”

  She closed her eyes. Don’t panic. Think.

  “We need to hurry up,” the driver said.

  “I called it in when I saw your vehicle,” she said. “There’ll be deputies here any minute.”

  “Not soon enough for you.”

  He caught the collar of her sweatshirt, pulled her away, and kicked her left leg out from under her. She went down onto her side, grunting with the impact, her leg twisted beneath her.

  “DeWayne, what the fuck?” the driver said.

  Silence. Then the man behind her said “You stupid, you know that?” and she knew he was talking to the driver. Now they would kill her for sure.

  “Get up.” He hauled up on her sweatshirt and she stood, her left leg threatening to buckle under her. He pulled at the door latch until it opened, the interior light showing a bench seat within, tan leather upholstery. He pushed her in.

  “Get down on the floor,” he said. Then to the driver, “Get her ride. Pull it off the road. Kill those lights.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t leave it sitting out there. Just do it.”

  DeWayne crowded in behind her, pushed her down. The muzzle returned to the back of her skull. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Be cool. We just want to holler at you a little. Don’t do nothing stupid, make me put one in your dome.”

  She heard the Blazer backup, crunch against tree branches. The headlights and emergency flashers went off, the inside of the Range Rover going dark.

  She lay with her right cheek pressed into the carpet, DeWayne’s weight on her. Her left leg throbbed.

  Pain is good. Pain means you’re alive.

  The driver got behind the wheel.

  “We need to get out of here, man,” he said.

  He started the engine, shut the hazards off, backed up into the road.

  DeWayne took the gun from her head.

  “Just stay there,” he said. “Nothing gonna happen to you.”

  He reached into the front, pressed a switch that reclined the passenger seat enough that he could squeeze past her and into it. She looked up at him for the first time. He was half-turned to face her, a chromed automatic in his left hand, her waistpack in his lap. He wore a hooded black sweatshirt, had a lazy left eye.

  Another detail. Remember it.

  He pushed the hood back, looked down at her. He was heavier than the driver, but there was a similarity in their features.

  “Where we going?” the driver said. “Where we taking her?”

  “Just drive. We’ll do our talking right here.”

&nb
sp; She tried to sit up.

  “Stay down there,” DeWayne said. “We cool like this.”

  They picked up speed. She wondered how long Angie had waited to put the call out, if there was a cruiser behind them somewhere now.

  Too late.

  DeWayne pulled the tab on the waistpack. The front flap fell away, exposing the Glock.

  “Check this shit out,” he said. He tugged it free. “Sweet.”

  He opened the big glove box, put the Glock inside, shut it.

  “We gonna make this brief,” he said to her. “Where it at?” He moved the gun to his right hand.

  “I don’t know what you—” she said, and he leaned forward and slapped her hard in the face. It snapped her head to the side, stung her cheek. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Gonna be a long night, you keep that shit up,” he said.

  “We should go back to her house,” the driver said. “Nobody there now.”

  “Nah,” DeWayne said. “They find her car, they might go there looking for her. We cool where we are.”

  “I don’t like this fog, man. I can’t see shit.”

  “Just take it slow. We be all right.” He looked back at her. “I’ll say it again. Where it at?”

  “I don’t understand.” The fear strong inside her now. They wanted something she couldn’t give them. When they realized that, she’d be no more use to them.

  “What, your boyfriend cut you out of the deal? Didn’t give you a slice of that nice pie? Three hundred and fifty gees. Should be enough to go around. He keep all that shit himself?”

  Three hundred and fifty thousand.

  She thought about the empty compartment in the Honda.

  Oh Christ, Billy, what did you do?

  The Blazer was gone from the woman’s driveway, only one light on in the house. Morgan cruised by slow. No movement inside. If the twins had been here, they were gone.

  Flynn had said he’d needed time to get the money, would call tomorrow and name the place. It might be a setup, or maybe he’d realized Morgan was right, that the only way clear of this was to deal.

  The only loose end was the twins. Running around out there, muddying the waters. Making things complicated that should have been simple. He headed back toward the county road, the fog thick now, no other cars out. The Range Rover would be hard to miss. If they were out there, he would find them.

  “Must be a greedy motherfucker,” DeWayne said. “Leave you out, not even give you a taste.”

  Tell him something. Anything. Keep him talking. Play for time.

  “I don’t know where the money’s at,” she said.

  “But you know who do, right?”

  Wondering how much they knew, how far she could bluff them.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “We got all night,” he said. “So maybe we go back, get that little one, take him for a ride with us, improve your memory. What you think?”

  “That won’t help.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Headlights in the rearview, far back but moving fast. Finally.

  “Yo,” the driver said.

  DeWayne looked out the back window.

  “Maybe she was telling the truth,” the driver said. “About calling it in.”

  The headlights grew.

  “Slow down,” DeWayne said. “If it’s just some car, it’ll pass. If it’s police, he’ll try to get up on us. If he does, pull over. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You need to stop this vehicle and let me out,” she said. “That’s your only chance to get away.”

  “Quiet, bitch.”

  The Range Rover slowed. The headlights held steady behind them.

  “I don’t like this shit,” the driver said.

  “Just chill. Watch the road.”

  The headlights larger.

  “DeWayne,” the driver said.

  Sara looked at the door, the latch in easy reach. If they pulled over, she’d grab for it, try to get out, warn the deputy if she could.

  And get shot in the back maybe. But what other choices are there? Better to take the chance running than stay in here.

  “Be cool,” DeWayne said. “If it were police, he would’ve lit us up already.”

  Behind them, the car’s turn signal blinked.

  The driver let out his breath. “It’s all right. He’s passing.”

  The car swung out behind them, came abreast, and then pulled ahead fast.

  “What’s up with that fool?” the driver said.

  Then he was standing up on the brakes, the tires screeching. He jerked the wheel to the right, and the momentum threw her forward into the seats. When she looked up, she saw the car had cut them off, swung into their lane. They thumped up onto the shoulder, back onto the road as the driver corrected, then rolled to a stop. The headlights dimmed as the engine sputtered and stalled.

  “Motherfucker,” the driver said.

  She could see over the dashboard now. Saw the car ahead of them pull over, almost out of sight, taillights glowing in the fog.

  “That motherfucker blind?” the driver said.

  “Don’t stop,” DeWayne said. “Keep going. Pull around him.”

  She saw a shape coming through the fog. The driver of the other car coming back to see if they were all right. She looked at the doorlatch.

  “Just sit right there,” DeWayne said to her. “Don’t move.”

  “Motherfucker come back to apologize, I’m gonna beat his ass,” the driver said.

  “Pull out,” DeWayne said.

  The driver cranked the ignition, and as the engine fired up she heard a flat crack like a board breaking. The windshield on the driver’s side starred. His head snapped back, and something wet and warm spattered her face.

  DeWayne made no sound. He popped the door open, slid out. More shots, glass imploding. She ducked down, saw the driver slumped over the wheel, blood all over the seatback. She lunged across the console and passenger seat, staying low, and got the glove box open, her hand on the Glock.

  Morgan put the first shot through the Range Rover’s windshield, saw it hit, and then the passenger door was open, DeWayne moving fast. Morgan steadied the Beretta with both hands, tracked him, fired three times. The first shot blew out the door window, the second went high, and the third caught him in the hip, spun him but didn’t drop him. Morgan heard him grunt in pain, and then he was away from the Range Rover and gone in the fog.

  Morgan moved out of the headlights, put two shots through the grille, steam hissing out. The engine coughed and died. He looked into the fog-shrouded woods, waiting for DeWayne to show himself. Then the Range Rover’s left rear door opened, and someone spilled out. He swiveled to take aim, saw it was the woman deputy. She hit the ground and came up fast, using the door for cover, a gun in her hand.

  He backed away into the fog.

  Sara moved to the rear of the Range Rover, trying to get it between her and whoever else was out there. It had come to rest at an angle, front tires in the right lane, rear still on the shoulder. She crouched, listening. To her right, where DeWayne had gone, a solid wall of fog, the phantom shapes of trees. She heard something move there, a dragging footstep.

  She raised up, but the tint on the rear windows was too dark to see through. To see ahead she’d have to look around the corner of the Range Rover, expose herself. She thought of her cell phone, left on the Blazer’s dashboard. How stupid was that?

  More noises from the trees. She’d heard DeWayne cry out, guessed he was hit, but had no idea how bad. The driver had taken a head shot. He was out of the play. But where was the other shooter?

  Stay calm. Watch, listen, and think. Survive this.

  “Yo, Morgan,” DeWayne called. “You hear me, man?”

  The voice off to her right, hard to tell how far. Then more dragging footsteps, closer to the Range Rover. He was being smart, moving away from where he’d called out.

  No answer from the fog.

  “Cops be here any minute,
” DeWayne said. “It don’t have to play out like this. Just be on your way.” More movement.

  She gripped the Glock with both hands, looked around the left rear corner, saw the taillights ahead in the fog. The shooter’s car. She pulled back.

  You’ve got cover. Stay there. Don’t take any chances. Think about Danny.

  A slight thump against the right side of the Range Rover. DeWayne using it for cover.

  No sound. The fog seemed to close in around her.

  “Yo, Morgan, we know where the money at, man. Let’s talk this out.”

  If DeWayne was moving toward the back of the Range Rover, he’d find her. Or worse, she’d end up in the field of fire between him and the other shooter, wherever he was.

  “Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapons! Both of you!”

  Silence.

  “Sheriff’s Office! Units are on their way. Put your weapons down.”

  A faint sound to her left. DeWayne’s breathing, low but labored. Closer now, maybe four feet away. She could wait for him to find her, or she could swing around, get her weapon on him, hope she was faster.

  She thought of Danny, sleeping soundly, trusting her to be there when he woke up. To tell him everything was okay.

  The breathing inched closer. She gripped the Glock tighter, finger on the trigger. Now was the time.

  Danny, forgive me.

  She turned the corner, gun out, arms extended, yelled, “Police!” and DeWayne was right there, closer than she’d thought, and he caught the barrel of the Glock and wrenched it to the side, his own gun at her face. She threw herself to the left, saw the muzzle flash, felt the heat, knew he’d missed. He hammered a shoulder into her, his weight behind it, and as she hit the side of the Range Rover he twisted the Glock out of her hands. She lunged for it, missed, caught a knee that knocked her back onto the blacktop.

  He stepped back, tossed the Glock away, pointed his gun down at her. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger, heard the crack of the shot and then pink mist filled the air. He fell away from her, onto his side, and lay still.

  A figure came out of the fog behind him. A tall black man, gray hair, wearing a dark windbreaker, pointing an automatic at her.