by Diana Stone
He drags me out the double door, then slides it shut, behind his dead friends. “You’re gonna pay for this,” he growls, and digs his wrist into my voice box.
The car is right there—and he has the keys. He opens the door with his gun hand and for a moment he is still, deciding what to do. He sits down first, pulling me in with him. To get over the center console, he moves his gun hand to the other seat to brace himself to slide over.
He’s a big guy and not particularly agile. His arm around my neck loosens. It may be my only chance to get away. I ram my elbow up into his throat area. I’m aiming for a direct hit to his Adam’s apple.
He drops his chin just in time to stop my delivery. I see his fist coming toward my head. I duck a couple of inches, but still, the blow is awful. I’m fading in and out of consciousness. I can feel him shoving me to the passenger seat, but I’m not aware of anything else.
Sometime later I come around a little and know I’m in the car. My head is on the seat, but I’m hunkered down in the foot area. My head is pounding and my thinking is foggy. I drift off again. I guess I must have grunted because he notices I’m awake.
“Good, you’re alive. I’ll have another chance to kill you.”
“It was self-defense,” I force the words out. My eyes are closed. I can’t tell if he’s listening to me.
He doesn’t answer.
I feel myself drifting away.
* * *
A man is speaking fervently. He sounds far away. Slowly, I come around. I’m still crumpled on the floor of the passenger seat. My head hurts, but I’m awake. I crack one eye open. He’s driving. As I look up, I see we’re passing under a bridge. We’re going fast, I can tell by the way it flies by.
He’s listening to someone. I can’t hear the other voice, but I do hear sirens. He speaks again. “Yes sir, I understand. Yes sir. Goodbye, sir.”
“Shit.” That’s a different tone. He sounds frustrated. He must have hung up.
I’m trying to move my legs, but they won’t respond. I can’t feel them. I hope it means they’ve gone to sleep, rather than brain damage making me paralyzed. I hurt down my hips, so I think that means they’re alright.
I decide to be proactive. “May I lighten your load by getting out of the car?”
I’m not sure where that came from. I’m letting my inner voice take over, like I’m channeling a wise, unafraid spirit.
“Shut up!” he rants.
But he doesn’t hit me. That’s a plus.
“I hear sirens, I assume we’re being followed?” I’m being logical, not acting like a victim.
“Every police car in the state is behind me,” he is almost speaking to himself.
I give him time before my next comment. I don’t want to piss him off. I mean, he already wants to kill me, so I shouldn’t make it worse.
I feel a little less foggy as the miles pass. “If you let me go, it will go easier for you.”
“You sure are a stupid broad. You’re the reason they haven’t rammed me.”
“Huh, so I do have a purpose.”
I don’t know what else to say. I have to wait for my brilliance to build.
“Would you like me to call them?”
“What?” His head spins to look at me.
“I have a bunch of numbers in my phone, I’m sure I can reach someone.” Like hostage negotiators.
He doesn’t answer. I’ve planted the seed. Let’s hope it grows.
Mile after mile pass. I don’t push myself on him.
“Who would you call?” The question comes at last.
“I don’t know. Do you want to work a deal, or something else?” I have an interested tone of voice, like I’m the messenger, not the hostage.
“Get someone on the line and see what they offer.”
I wonder how much gas he has in the tank. That may be part of his willingness to negotiate.
“Is it Ok if I try to get into the seat—my legs are numb?”
“Fine.”
I leverage myself off the floor by pulling at the seat back, and clawing my way over the center console toward the back. Then I twist around and flop down into the seat. It takes a minute or more, but the blood begins to work its way into my legs.
“So what was the point of trying to get me?” I carefully ask.
“We weren’t trying to get you.”
Oh.
Finally he says. “We were sent to bring the other two guys in. It went wrong.”
“So the other two wanted me?”
“They considered it justice.”
I was only defending myself. “I consider it justice, too.”
I’m sitting upright. I see we’re going over 80 MPH, he’s passing cars which are getting out of our way because of the flashing red and blue lights behind us. He’s leading a procession.
“What are you waiting for—call someone,” he snaps.
“Ok.” I don’t know who. I’ll call Quinn.
The phone rings through to voice mail. I leave a message, “Hi, it’s Jessica. He’s allowing me to make a call. He’s interested in speaking with someone about,” I pause, and look at him, but he doesn’t reply. “I’ll call dispatch, bye.” I hang up because there’s no help with a voice mail.
“Shall I call the dispatcher?”
“Sure.”
I punch in Solvang PD dispatch from my favorites. “Operator 19 what are you reporting?”
“This is Jessica Wilcox. I’m in the pursuit on the 101 freeway. The man allowed me to call and he wants to discuss it with someone in authority.”
“I’ll put you through to Lt Hughes,” she tells me.
“I’m on hold.” I tell him.
He reaches for the phone. I have no choice, so I put it in his open palm.
The Lt must have come on, because the man next to me acknowledges him. “Good evening Lieutenant. This is my only warning. Either back off my tail, or I’ll break every finger on your little friend’s left hand.” He grabs my hand and wrenches my forefinger back until I shriek. He clicks the phone off and throws it over his shoulder into the back.
The pain is intense. I can’t move. I can’t think. I’m cradling my hand in my lap, hunched over. A roaring sound takes over my hearing, it feels like I have water in my ears. My vision is glittering, flashing lights.
He drives on in silence. I can’t hear if the sirens have backed off his tail. A long while later, I look up and see we’re on the back highway of Piru. There’s nothing but a road, in the middle of nowhere, between Ventura and Santa Clarita. There are orchards interspersed with barren land. It’s boiling hot on summer days, and beautiful in the winter with snow on the mountains above the valley. Now, there are only a few cars ahead.
“Get your phone.”
I don’t move. My brain is slowly computing what he said, where my phone is, and how to get it somewhere in the back seat.
He flings his fist out, smashing me in the chest. “GET YOUR PHONE,” he says harshly.
I force myself to move a few inches toward the back. There are headlights behind us, but no flashing police lights. I know they’re still there, because I see the wig-wag of their high-beams.
I cough and gulp in oxygen. I sprawl over the console and reach around on the seats. I don’t see or feel it. It has to be on the floor. It isn’t behind his. I check behind mine and reach far under the seat. There’s the phone.
44
The Finale
It’s right beside a gun. It’s a .38—my .38. I’d forgotten all about it. It had been in my pocket when he shoved me onto the passenger floor. I was down there for a while. It must have worked its way out, and slid around while I was moving.
“Hurry up,” he elbows me in the ribs.
Ugh, I cough and bend in two. “I found it.” I wheeze.
I transfer the phone to my right hand and reach forward to hand it to him. I’m sprawled across the console into the back. My left arm is braced on the floor holding myself up. It’s also clutching my .38.
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“Unlock it,” he holds it over to my side.
I’m still sprawled flat and wondering what to do. He’s still holding it, so all I do is reach over and press my thumb against the button. He goes to recent calls and gets the dispatcher. I know that because he says “Get me Lt. Hughes.”
I have no way to hide the gun. I can’t get it into my right hand. I slowly move to push myself back into the front seat. I don’t want to leave it back there if he’s going to be breaking my fingers. He won’t stop until I’m destroyed. But we’re going at least 80 MPH, so I’m reluctant to shoot him.
“Your men are still back there. They’re too close. Give me your hand,” he holds his right hand out, and starts driving with his knees under the steering wheel.
There’s no way in hell he’s going to break another finger—not while my hand is on my gun.
I hold myself with my right hand and bring up my left, with my middle finger on the trigger. I’m surprised, but my grip is good. My forefinger is along the frame and out of the way.
The Lieutenant shouts, “Don’t hurt her!”
I lean up, shove the gun into his side and squeeze the trigger once. The recoil twists the gun in my hand, but I shoot again, somewhere into him.
The car swerves, but I’d already planned on grabbing the wheel. As long as he is incapacitated he won’t be able to shoot me with his own gun, but if he punches me, I’ll be in trouble. I manage to jerk off a third round. He isn’t thinking about shooting me. He’s hunched over, but his foot rams down on the gas pedal. The car surges forward on the dark road.
He reaches for the wheel with both hands, smashing my right hand under his. I’m trying to shove him off with my left elbow, but he’s still alive and trying to steer. He elbows me in the chest, time and time again. I’m locked close to him with my hand trapped. I twist my body to face his and put my fourth bullet in him. It isn’t a good aim, since I’m afraid he’ll knock the gun from of my hand.
His grip loosens, and his foot lightens up on the gas. I look forward and see we’re in the opposite lane of travel.
I wrestle the wheel back to the right, into the correct lane.
His left hand comes up from somewhere, it’s wobbling and slow. I see a silhouette of a gun. It must have been down by his leg.
I have one more bullet. There’s only one way to instantly stop what he plans on doing. That’s a bullet to the head. I let go of the wheel, transfer my gun to my right hand and take the shot. He drops his weapon and lets up on the gas.
He slumps sideways against his door. Now I need to get my left foot on the brake and this will be over.
Out of habit, I pull to the right. Once stopped, I shove the gear into park.
The inside of the car is lit with police spotlights and high-beams.
The police don’t know what’s happening. No one runs up. They may have heard the gunshots. I’m not getting out and risking my life to an officer who has a boatload of adrenaline. I have a phobia of walking toward officers with their guns drawn.
I reach across his body to open the driver’s door, but it doesn’t swing open enough. So I lean back against my door, put both feet on his torso and shove him out, using brute strength. He flops out, mostly on his head.
At least they can see he isn’t a threat.
I open mine and shove it all the open with my foot. Then I slowly step out with my hands reaching up as high as they go. I’m not casually bending my elbows. They’re ‘reaching for the sky’ in every sense of the word.
“Is anyone else in the vehicle?” An officer yells.
“No.”
Another police car slides past the group conducting the felony car pull-over. It swings up on the left side. He can clearly see the suspect has been tipped out of the car onto his head. He can see me with my hands up, illuminated by the spotlights.
The driver leaps out and immediately goes to the suspect and clears the interior of additional suspects. The driver is from the Solvang Police Department—it’s Deputy Ken. He shouts to the others that I’m the victim.
He walks me toward the lights. “I didn’t clear the trunk. Is anyone in there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Your boyfriend is here,” he nods to his vehicle. Quinn is standing beside it.
The passenger is Quinn. He is smart. He isn’t in uniform, so he didn’t run in front of six Highway Patrol officers with their weapons drawn.
I stumble over there, while the CHP check the trunk for another suspect who may jump out with guns blazing. One of them pops the trunk while the other looks in, “Clear.”
Quinn looks ragged. Like he’s been rolling in the dirt. His shirt is torn, and he still has that awful beard, and his hair is a ratty mess. He runs to me and wraps me in a careful embrace.
“I didn’t think I’d see you alive,” he whispers, barely holding it together.
I close my eyes and grunt, but I squeeze him for my reply.
He leans back to look at me.
“I tore through the boards, but you’d gone. The shooting had begun,” he’s silent, then continues. “I couldn’t do anything. When I got in the barn, he was taking you away,” he has a haunted look. “The Lt. relayed what was happening. Is your finger broken?” He reaches down to lift my hand.
We both look and reply at the same time. “Yes.”
Ken and the others gather around. “An ambulance is enroute. How are you doing?”
“My finger is broken, I think my ribs are alright, but it could have been a lot worse.”
What I want to do is collapse. No, what I really want to do is cry—but I’m digging deep for strength. I can’t let myself fall apart—not after five years working as a patrol officer. No, I will stay strong, and collapse later.
The ambulance arrives fast. It’s a local company, they don’t have far to drive. They look at me first. I won’t let anyone jiggle my finger, so they visually examine it and advise me it needs to be looked at by a doctor. My ribs? I can breathe, so they’ll heal. Um hum, I figured, but thanks for caring enough to look.
Then they examine the suspect. They don’t even try to start his heart. I guess it’s apparent he doesn’t need a doctor. I’m glad about that. He was a freak, just like his friends—now there is one less horrible person in this world.
The road is blocked and the eastbound traffic is sent into the opposite lanes. This investigation will take a while. The Ventura County coroner arrives, the crime scene techs, and later the tow truck will come. I’ll be interviewed by the Santa Barbara county detective. I wonder if it’s Detective Kay. At least I know him.
My adrenaline has returned to wherever it lives. I’m sitting in the back seat of Ken’s unit. Quinn is next to me. I’ve taken two aspirin for the pain and swelling. I’ve had a broken hand before, so I know I’ll live. The last time I even drove myself to the doctor. That one was a horse injury. Actually, this will be my third broken hand, or finger. Yes, it hurts, but I’m handling the pain. I’m heaping it onto the rest of my trauma—the invisible, mental stuff to deal with later.
Quinn is sitting beside me. His whole right side, and my left side are touching. He’s holding my good hand. I’ve been keeping quiet until he says, “Let it out. Don’t hold in your pain.”
“I felt helpless. Like he was a cat playing with a mouse; he was toying with me. It’s awful not having a way out.”
“You did great. You are brave, smart and I’ll have to say—lucky. We weren’t expecting it to turn out this well.”
“Yeah. Me neither. My little pea-shooter came to my rescue again.”
“I swear I won’t nag you about that gun.”
“How did you get a ride with Ken?”
“After the suspect grabbed you and took off, cops were running to their cars. I ran along and recognized him. I told him I was coming. He didn’t argue, which is good, because I would have taken his keys.”
“You know, he’s the deputy who wanted to know who you are.”
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p; “Yeah, I got that after a while. As soon as the CHP took over the pursuit, he didn’t have to concentrate as much on driving. He grilled me. I get the feeling he has a thing for you.”
“Did he actually say that?”
Please distract me with gossip. I need a mental break.
“He said you and he are taking a breather, but have a thing going.”
I actually look at him. It pulls me out of my sorry state. “A thing? We could have, but he was distracted by his father, his brother and finally, his other woman. We have no thing.”
“So you’re interested?”
“No. I haven’t been interested since you came around—but not as Harold or Freddie. Oh my goodness, you and I have a long history.”
He leans in and kisses me—a sweet, caring kiss. Yes, I need to get my mind away from the trauma, and onto something nice.
A few minutes later, Ken comes over with Lt. Hughes. The watch commander followed the pursuit at a slower pace. He says he wants to make sure everything is going right, since his deputies are involved. He introduces himself to me.
“I was on the phone when your scream jolted me to my bones. I’ll never forget it,” he reaches out and carefully squeezes my shoulder.
“Thank you. I’m glad to put a face to your voice. Thank you for coming.”
“Detective Kay is on vacation. His fill-in is someone more approachable.”
“Oh yes, he can be abrasive.”
Here he comes now. We’ve met before. He’s a nice man, this will make the process easier.
I’ve heard that it’s important to have an attorney whenever you speak with the police. Words can be taken out of context and used against you in court. Damn it, I don’t want to believe that. And I don’t have wads of money to throw at an attorney when I acted in self-defense.
I’ll take a reasonably safe chance. Except I’m not happy that he’s separating me and Quinn. He’s a bit more thorough than Det. Kay.
I go through the summary. At least there is the Lt. as a witness to my broken finger and almost the second. The suspect was going to make things unpleasant before killing me.
