by Rachel Caine
“Call 911,” I tell him. “We’re just past five miles out on the main road. We’re being followed by a pickup, and a man with a rifle is in the bed shooting—”
Another shot shatters more glass. He has a backup gun. I can barely see the road ahead, but I can crouch and look through a clear patch. Keep us on the road. I don’t dare slow down. Fairweather’s saying something, but I can’t understand him. My attention is fixed on the problem behind me. I finally realize he’s saying license number, description. Yelling it, actually.
“I can’t see it,” I tell him. “There’s no light out here! Pickup, definitely. One shooter in the bed of the truck, Jesus, my kids are here . . .”
I can hear him repeating what I’ve said. He must have two phones going. “Okay, dispatch is sending a county sheriff cruiser your way; he’ll be coming from the opposite direction. They want you to pull over when you see it coming at you; do you understand?”
“I’m not stopping until the pickup does!” I tell him. “Ben, my kids . . .” I take a deep breath. “The driver’s a white male, clean shaven, looks thin, maybe thirty . . .”
More shots ring out. I look back and see the shooter is up again, a bearded asshole in an old camo jacket and trucker hat. He doesn’t have his rifle anymore, but he’s got a semiautomatic handgun, and he’s pumping off shots as fast as he can. There’s a curve, and I have to slow down or risk a wreck, and multiple shots land in the metal of the car. I hear it, and feel the impact. But at least he’s not as good a shot with the handgun as he was with a rifle. I accelerate again once we’re grooved into the curve. My SUV has better running power.
I can’t see any cars coming. We’re completely alone.
“How long until the damn cruiser gets here?” I shout it at Fairweather.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Hold on, Gwen. They’re coming.”
In five minutes we’re going to be dead if the shooter manages to hit a tire, which is what he’s trying to do. “Kids? Are you okay?” My voice is shaking. I’m not sure if that’s from rage or terror or both.
There’s a second of silence, and I feel a sick drop of horror, but then Connor says, from somewhere near the floorboard in the back, “I’m okay, Mom.”
“I’m okay,” Lanny says. She’s in the footwell of the passenger side, curled up in a protective ball, but she looks up at me with a clear question on her face. Why is this happening to us?
I honestly don’t know, and I try to swallow my fear, but my mouth is as dry as Death Valley. I try to focus completely on the road ahead, the truck behind. My kids are all right, we’re going to be all right, we have to be all right.
I see the curve coming. It’s not as sharp as the others. It’s perfect.
“Hold on,” I tell Fairweather, who’s trying to talk to me. “I have to try something.” I drop the phone on the seat next to me.
Then I swerve wide, and the truck follows me over the double yellow line. The firing had paused for reloading, but now it resumes, a staccato pop-pop-pop as fast as the man can pull the trigger. I ease off the gas and let the truck roar up fast.
Then I floor it and veer off sharply around the curve.
They don’t see it coming. The driver is fixated on me, and he’s accelerating too hard to easily change course, and as I pull away to the side, he finds he’s headed straight for the ditch. When he tries to correct, his back tires lose traction. I see the whole vehicle shimmy violently, and then the spin begins as the lighter truck bed torques and flings the cab sideways.
The man in the back is thrown clear, and I see him flying through the air in the sweep of the truck’s headlights as it spins before I hear a short, panicked cry. He vanishes from view. I hear him land; it sounds unforgiving. I keep driving, gaze riveted on the rearview mirror and the truck that has ended up stopped in the wrong lane, facing the wrong way. After a long second or two, the truck suddenly accelerates, straightens into the correct lane, and screeches off in the opposite direction. Back toward Wolfhunter.
They don’t stop for their friend.
I look ahead, but I still don’t see flashing lights or hear the reassuring sound of sirens. The truck could turn around. They could come back. I don’t think they will, though. They’ve lost a rifle, a handgun, and at least one of their buddies on this road, and they can’t know if they’ve wounded one of us, but they do know we can keep on running.
I ease off the gas, alert for any sign of headlights coming for us from behind. Nothing. The darkness here is breathless. Oppressive. And I know I should keep moving. The asshole who was shooting at me is back there. He might even still have his gun.
But he also might be bleeding out on the road, praying for help. I’m a paranoid asshole when it comes to the survival of my family, but I’m also human. I don’t want to leave someone to die alone. Not even someone who tried to kill us.
Especially not if he can answer questions about why.
“Mom?”
I look down at my daughter.
“Are they gone?” She sounds tough and calm. I see tear tracks on her face gleaming in the dashboard light.
“Yeah, baby, they ran away. It’s okay. Connor? Sweetie? Are you all right?”
He’s already scrambling up in the backseat and staring out the cracked back window. I’m looking at the side mirror. I see no movement at all. “Yeah,” he says. Nothing else. I think it’s so I don’t hear how frightened he really is. My son’s already been shot at once today. My temporary wave of empathy recedes, and I want to kill these assholes, including the one lying in the road.
“Both of you, strap in.” I check the speed. We’re still doing half again the posted rate, but I don’t give a shit. I want the police. And finally I see the red-and-blue flashers bleeding through gaps in the trees. The road must curve again up ahead.
I finally remember Fairweather was on the phone, but when I look for the device, it’s gone. Thrown into the well between the passenger door and seat, most likely, but definitely out of reach.
I slow down and pull over. I have to wait for a few seconds after I switch off the engine to try to get control of myself. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the keys when I hand them to Lanny. “Find my phone; it should be somewhere over on your side. Detective Fairweather’s on the line, hopefully; if not, call him back. Tell him what happened and is happening. Lock these doors and stay alert. If I get arrested or something happens to me, you get Connor out of here immediately; just drive. Understand? Call Javier and Kez for help, and get somewhere safe. Do not stop unless you think you’re safe, I don’t care what else happens.”
She nods. I’m asking a lot of her, but I know Lanny. I know she can do it, and will.
“Mom?” she says as I start to close the door. Our eyes meet and hold. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Both of you, so much. Connor, please listen to your sister until I get back.”
“I will,” he says, which is rare. “I love you, too, Mom.”
I shut the door. I feel the locks engage as I lean against the SUV and hold up both hands. The county sheriff’s cruiser comes hard around the corner and immediately slows, pulls over, and brakes. There’s a short delay—reporting their position and my license plate, I assume—and then the lone deputy gets out and slowly comes toward me, taking in the SUV, the two kids in the car, and that my hands are up. He has his hand on his gun. “What’s your name, ma’am?” he asks. Not “Are you the one who called for assistance?” That’s actually smart.
“Gwen Proctor,” I say, and I see him physically relax, but he still asks to see ID. I provide it. He’s a potbellied man of middle age, African American, with a shaved head and close-trimmed beard. “I don’t know what happened, but we were chased and shot at with a rifle, and then with a handgun.”
“Is anyone injured?”
“No. We’re all right.”
“Can you ask the children to exit the vehicle, please?”
I don’t want the kids out of the car. Not yet. “I
’d rather leave them inside until you’ve secured the area.”
He frowns. “Ma’am—”
“The man shooting was thrown from the bed of the truck toward the end of the chase, but I don’t know if he’s still capable of firing. Until I know he’s disarmed, they need to stay safe.”
He accepts that, and says, “Where was he thrown?”
“Back there at the curve.” I point. “I’ll go with you. It looked like he was tossed to the northbound side.”
“No, ma’am, I want you to stay here with your vehicle and do not move. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There should be a second response vehicle coming in another couple of minutes; you wait for him.” With that, he’s off into the dark, only the jerky motion of his flashlight beam marking his position.
I knock on the window. Lanny, now in the driver’s seat, rolls it down. “Phone,” I tell her. She hands it over. “Thanks, sweetie. Close this now.”
I check for a signal and find two bars, thank God. And even better, Fairweather’s somehow still on the line. “Gwen? Christ almighty, you scared me.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, which is just reflex. I’m not sorry. I’m happy as hell that luck made him a witness to all this. “I had to make some defensive moves. The truck’s gone now, headed toward Wolfhunter. We’re okay; the first cruiser is here. The deputy’s looking for the shooter who was thrown clear.”
“You ever get a clear look at the make and model?”
“I did, when it spun out. Red Ford F-150, I’m pretty sure. It can’t be too hard to find; it looked new-ish.”
“How are the kids?”
“Scared to death,” I say. “And my kids have been through enough without this on top of things. If they want evidence, my SUV is full of bullet holes, and maybe there’s an actual bullet they’ll be able to salvage and match. This wasn’t just some random country harassment. They wanted me dead, Detective. And I want to know who, and why.” I think I already do know, but I’m not completely sure about Fairweather. Not enough to tip my hand to him, anyway.
I realize that my voice is rising, and I’m shaking hard. The adrenaline is being flushed out of my system now that I know things are calming down. My head is full of horrible visions of my children wounded, bleeding, dead. And where I was calm before, I can’t control the rage that’s rising. I want to kill these men for threatening my kids.
Detective Fairweather is talking, and I try to catch up on what he’s been saying. “—license plate?”
“No,” I tell him. “Like I told you . . . it’s dark out here on the roads. And I had headlights in my rearview most of the time.”
“Did the truck wreck? Any body damage?”
“No. Spun out, got straight. It headed back toward Wolfhunter.”
He covers the phone and talks to someone, probably the dispatcher again; I can hear the voices but not the message. “Right,” he says. “The BOLO is going out now for the truck. Anything distinctive about it that you noticed? Bumper stickers, dents, rust?”
“It’s got some mud on it, but it’s in good shape,” I say. “American-flag sticker in the back window, I think. But I didn’t have a lot of time to study it. I was trying to stay alive.”
The second county cruiser’s flashing lights are starting to strobe the trees, so I finish with Fairweather and put the phone away. I repeat the ritual of holding up my hands as the second deputy steps out. He seems more aggressive than the first. “Keep those hands up!” he shouts. His halogen headlights are washing harshly over me, the SUV, and the road. “Higher!”
If I go any higher, I’ll dislocate a shoulder, but I try. I stand perfectly still, since he seems like the type who’ll kill me for a twitch, and he spins me and plants me against the hood of the SUV.
I’m instantly somewhere else, my palms against the searing-hot metal of the old Gina Royal mommy van, my vulnerable young children staring wide-eyed through the windshield. The demolished garage wall of our old house. A dead woman swaying at the end of a wire noose inside the broken wall.
It’s a flashback. A bad one. The urge to slam backward against the invasive hands of this deputy is almost overwhelming. Breathe, I tell myself. This is different. This is now. You’re safe. You’re safe.
It doesn’t feel different.
He finally steps back, but keeps one hand against my back. “Don’t move,” he orders. “Get those kids—”
. . . out of the vehicle, he’s about to say, but he doesn’t get that far. The other deputy calls to him, and he emphasizes staying in place with a last shove to my spine before I hear him moving off with heavy footsteps. I turn and watch as he clicks on his flashlight and directs the beam on his African American colleague.
I realize the two of them are standing over a man who’s lying crumpled off to the side of the road, his top half dangling down into a ditch. He must be dead or deeply unconscious, because he’s not moving at all, even to recover from an unnatural position. The two men silently look down on the body. Finally, one deputy crouches down and leans into the ditch, with the other holding his belt for stability, and I presume he checks for signs of life. It’s obviously futile from the shake of his head when he’s pulled upright again.
Then both men are headed back toward me. This time I don’t raise my hands. I cross my arms.
“Check her car for front-end damage,” the white deputy orders, and I see the black one give him a long side-eye, but he decides this isn’t worth it and goes to look.
“Nothing,” he says. “No sign of any damage here.”
They’re looking for evidence that I ran the guy down, I realize. “He was thrown from the bed of the truck when it spun out. I didn’t hit him or the truck,” I say. “I guess you can call it an accident in commission of attempted murder.”
The deputy sent to check for front damage proceeds around the car toward the back, and says, “Jesus, come look at this. Must be five shots that hit here, not counting the window damage.”
The white deputy joins him, and I see the flashlight playing over the cracked and broken glass. “Huh,” he says. “Don’t know that those weren’t there already.” I hear the resentful mistrust.
That’s when it becomes clear to me that this man knows exactly who I am. Unlike the first deputy, he didn’t ask for my ID, didn’t ask what happened. He’s already made up his mind that I’m somehow to blame just for existing. And I feel a sick, metallic taste forming in the back of my throat.
Gwen Proctor. Gina Royal. Whoever I might be, there will always be someone who thinks the worst of me and tries in petty ways to make my life more difficult.
“Look, there are shell casings all over the road back there,” the black deputy says, and I can tell he’s growing impatient now. “She was on the phone with Detective Fairweather the whole time. I could hear the shots when I was hooked up on the call. Couldn’t you?”
“We can have this discussion later. I’m calling out the detectives. Let them sort this mess out.”
On the one hand, that’s good news; I’d been afraid he’d send the first deputy on his way, and then claim I’d gone for his gun and shoot me dead somewhere out of sight of the kids. Paranoid? Sure. But then, someone’s clearly out to get me.
On the other hand, having detectives in the mix can mean anything. They won’t necessarily be on my side either.
I can only hope that Fairweather will show up for me.
Fairweather does, in fact, show up. The detective takes me and the kids to the county sheriff’s station, which is about half an hour away. My SUV’s towed in for evidence processing.
I know I’m in for long, dark hours of saying the same things over and over again. And so are my kids. I don’t tell them what to say. They know to tell the truth.
I look up at the black sky on the way inside. Sam, I think.
Please be okay.
I’m not wrong about the long hours, or the exhaustion that takes hold; after my statement I catch a catnap with my head down on my crossed arms on the table,
and when I wake up, I find that the kids are camping out on a fold-out couch, sound asleep. “They’re okay,” Fairweather tells me. “A couple of minor scratches from the broken glass. You?”
“Sore,” I tell him. “But that’s from stress and lack of sleep. I’m sure you feel that way too.”
He silently offers me a bottle of ibuprofen, and I take two with a swig of not-great coffee. “How’s Sam?” he asks me, and for a second I wonder when, exactly, our guarded relationship progressed to first names. It was Ms. Proctor and Mr. Cade with him, but now it’s Gwen and Sam. I suppose around the time he had to listen to me being shot at, which was a vivid demonstration of just how far people will go to actually get me. I’ve been moved to a category of persons he actually cares about.
“Mike texted me,” I tell him. “Peaceful night, seems like.”
“Mike’s the FBI agent you talked about?”
“Yeah. Mike Lustig.”
“He’s the one broke the Absalom case,” Fairweather says. I raise my eyebrows. “I follow the news, time to time. He got some kind of commendation too.”
“That’s him,” I say. “Big Man on Federal Campus right now, at least. That must have registered with Chief Weldon.”
“Yeah. About Weldon.” Fairweather stirs his coffee. “He was a pretty straight shooter when he started five years back in the office, but lately he’s been . . .”
“Shady,” I say.
“Let’s just say that there are some people in town who can do no wrong, as far as the locals are concerned.”
“But not Vee Crockett.”
“No. Nor Marlene.”
I take a risk. “She worked at the garage, right? For Mr. Carr? You know anything about him?”
“Carr’s a weird old duck. He’s got a place out of town. A compound.”
Compound is a telling choice of words. “I’m guessing visitors aren’t welcome.”
“He’s got a wall,” Fairweather agrees. “It’s topped by cameras and floodlights. I don’t think he likes visitors much. I’ve never had any cause to go inside.” But I get the idea that he’d like to nose around in there.
