But the law wouldn’t care. Not enough to keep her out of prison.
She’d gone about four miles when she first noticed the headlights in her rearview mirror. At first, she thought it was Miles, heading back to the paper earlier than he’d expected. He always drove so fast.
The next time she looked up, the lights were much closer. As she watched them she felt the first stirrings of unease.
The vehicle was too big to be Miles’s Mustang. It looked more like an SUV. Perhaps it was a police car, she told herself, or an ambulance. Nobody else was out in this weather.
Whoever it was, they were moving fast. The golden glow of the headlights soon filled the mirror.
Nervously, she sped up, but the lights continued to approach at the same relentless rate. She considered slowing down and motioning for it to pass, but couldn’t make herself do it. Every instinct told her to get away.
Swearing under her breath, she pressed the accelerator to the floor. Almost immediately, the low-slung Camaro hydroplaned, its tail swinging sickeningly left-right, left-right, until she eased up again.
Sweat beaded her forehead. There were no turnoffs out here. No side roads. No one to help. Just the flat, empty marshes, invisible in the darkness around her.
She stared at the headlights in the rectangle of glass, willing it to back off. To go around.
Instead, with an animal-like roar, it accelerated, slamming into her car.
The jolt sent the Camaro skidding wildly.
Gasping, Harper gripped the wheel so hard her arms hurt as she wrestled the car straight again. Desperately, she shoved the accelerator down, fighting the hydroplane. Her hands white-knuckled the wheel.
But the SUV had more weight than the Camaro. It could get a grip on the road as it roared up at her again, slamming into her again, harder this time.
In an instant, everything turned into a nightmare.
The steering wheel spun beneath Harper’s hands as if some invisible, powerful creature had taken control of it.
The car seemed to float in dizzying circles, and then there wasn’t asphalt beneath the tires but grass and mud, and the Camaro was juddering and whirling and she was slammed against the door.
She could hear herself sobbing, as if from far away.
With awful silence, the car tilted on its side and then flipped over. The top became the bottom. The sky became the floor. Again. And again.
And then there was nothing.
34
The first thing Harper knew was pain. She didn’t know where she was. All she was certain of was that she was cold and everything hurt.
With effort, she opened her eyes, but it made no difference. She saw only blackness.
Someone whimpered and it took her a second to realize it was her.
Her thoughts were hazy as the previous moments slowly took shape. I’ve been in an accident, she told herself. I’m alive.
Something cold dripped down the side of her face; she wondered distantly whether it was water or blood.
Gradually, the fog of shock lifted and she remembered it all.
Martin Dowell. It had to be him. He’d found her. And he was out there somewhere. Waiting for her.
The realization was like a slap. Her thinking cleared.
The airbag had deflated and she shoved the delicate fabric away from her face. All the windows had shattered, and rainwater was pouring in, drenching her.
Everything seemed to work but something was wrong with her left arm. She kept trying to move it but it wouldn’t cooperate. When she shifted it with her right hand, the stab of pain made her breath hiss between her teeth.
She reached out for her phone but it wasn’t on the central console anymore. The console, the passenger seat—everything was covered in broken glass and mud. Her bag, her phone—she had no idea where anything was.
And it was so dark.
Twisting her body, she fumbled for the door handle with her right hand. The handle gave but the door opened only an inch before jamming in the mud.
Harper sat back in her seat, panting from the effort. She couldn’t stay here, not if Dowell was looking for her. She had to get out. She had to run.
Gritting her teeth against a pain so intense it made her sweat, she swung herself sideways, hanging on to the wheel with her good hand and kicking the door, forcing it open another inch. And again. And again.
But it wouldn’t open far enough. The mud was too high, and the car was too low.
She’d have to find another way.
Pulling her jacket sleeve down around her good hand, she swept jagged shards of glass from the window frame. Using her right hand to lift herself up, she slowly, painfully, swung her legs out the window.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to jump away from the car, but she was too weak to make it and instead landed in an ungainly pile in the ice-cold water. The pain was so excruciating she cried out.
She lay on her back, rain lashing her face like thousands of tiny stones. Her breathing was raspy and labored. Every single breath hurt. She thought she might have broken a rib. She knew she had to move, but she was so tired.
She couldn’t do this. She was done.
Hot tears burned her eyes, and she took in a painful, shaky breath.
I never thought it would end like this, she thought, hopelessly. In the mud. In the rain. Alone.
Through a blur of tears, she saw a single beam of light cutting through the darkness. For a split second, she thought someone was coming to save her. But then she realized it wasn’t a helicopter or a police car.
It was one of the Camaro’s headlights, glowing like a beacon.
The car was crushed on all sides, axle deep in mud, and shining.
A gunshot cracked across the marsh, as loud as cannon fire.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Harper rolled over, dragging herself up onto her knees.
“Where you hiding, girl?” The voice came from the darkness. It was oddly familiar. Southern and comfortable, like family.
And it was close.
The rush of adrenaline gave her strength. She had to move. That light couldn’t give him better directions. She had to get away from the car if she wanted to live.
Groaning under her breath, she lumbered to her feet like a beaten boxer, punch-drunk and stumbling. Her left arm swung loose, as if it belonged to someone else. It didn’t hurt anymore but it felt wrong, hanging like that.
Clutching it with her right hand, she stumbled away from the voice, away from the car, away from the light.
Instantly, another gunshot crackled through the black night.
She ducked but kept going, wondering if she’d even feel it if the bullet hit, she was already in so much pain. Her feet splashed through the water.
A few yards away, a flashlight swung around the marshes, seeking her.
“I don’t want to kill you.” The voice echoed above the rain. “I didn’t want to kill your mama. But I’ve got to do this. I made your daddy a promise, and I gotta keep it.”
Gritting her teeth, Harper kept moving, more cautiously now, trying to be quiet.
“He betrayed me,” the voice continued, as the light searched the flat landscape. “And there’s a price for that.”
The water was getting deeper. It was up to her knees. But Harper kept moving in a slow, limping run, clearing the rain and mud out of her eyes with her fist, then grabbing on to her arm to stop it flopping like a dead thing at her side.
She knew enough about shock to know she needed to get warm and dry soon, or that alone could kill her, but before she could think about it much, another gunshot split the night—this one sounded closer.
She ducked and lost her balance, tripping over something solid and low, and went sprawling.
For a second, her head was underwater. Panicking, she thrashed until she realized the water wasn’t deep and pulled herself up, spitting mud and fighting the urge to cough.
She knew she couldn’t go much farther. Her breathing was getting worse and s
he’d begun to shiver violently.
When she looked around, she found this wasn’t a bad place to hide. She was surrounded by high grass, which shielded her. From this location, she could see the Camaro, about thirty yards away, resting at an unnatural angle, its lone working headlight pointed mournfully at nothing. Beyond that, she could just make out the shadowy shape of an SUV, parked on the highway, about a hundred yards from her hiding place.
Between her and the battered Camaro, a flashlight moved unsteadily as Dowell picked his way through the deep mud.
Harper peered into the distance on all sides but there were no other signs of life. There was no indication that his son was with him.
It was just the two of them, alone, in the dark.
Maybe she could wait him out? But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t likely.
If there was one thing she’d learned about Martin Dowell, it was that he was a patient man. Only one of them was walking out of this marsh alive.
Something brushed her leg and she scrambled back, nearly landing on her back in the water again. Her heart hammered against her ribs. There were alligators out here.
If Dowell didn’t get her, they might.
Somehow, she had to get away. But, how? Every time she moved, he fired.
It didn’t matter, she decided. She had to try. If she could get far enough away from him, she could get through the marsh to the road and find help.
It was the only option.
She waited until the flashlight was pointed away from her. Then, cautiously, she stumbled to her feet and began to limp away from the car. She moved slowly but each step seemed to echo as loudly as a shout.
She’d only gone a few feet when she heard that grating voice again. “I know you’re there, girl. I can hear you splashing. Come on, now. Let’s talk this through.”
Harper bit her tongue. The one thing she absolutely couldn’t do was say a word. She might as well pin a bull’s-eye on her forehead. When a moment of silence had passed, she stumbled on, her feet sinking into the mud. Her lungs weren’t working right, and pulling her feet out of the muck took all her strength. In a few minutes she was winded.
Her left arm had begun to ache fiercely and she reached over to hold it steady. As she did, her hand brushed the hard lump against her side. It took her a second to realize what she was feeling.
The Glock.
In her panic, she’d forgotten all about it. Of course, she couldn’t be certain it would work. She’d been in water—it must have gotten wet.
Still, what if it did?
Reaching inside her jacket, she carefully unsnapped the clasp holding the gun in place and pulled it out.
Thanking whatever gods had seen to it that she broke her left arm instead of her right, she held the pistol steady.
“Come out, girl,” Dowell cajoled from somewhere near the car. “I’ve waited long enough. Every second I spent in that prison, I thought of this moment. Seventeen years I waited in that cell. It’s time.”
Harper was warmed by a surge of hatred. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. So many angry, true things.
But she stayed silent, the gun in her hand, and angled herself toward his voice.
If he came for her, she’d get him first.
As she waited, beneath the steady rush of rain, she noticed a new sound. It was far away, but getting closer.
She turned toward the road. A car—its headlights like long golden blades—appeared from the Savannah end of the highway, far away but moving straight toward them. Harper’s heart leaped.
If she could get to the road she could flag it down. Get help. Live.
But as she calculated her chances, her hope ebbed. She was too far away. She’d never make it. Dowell would see her.
She watched with bitter longing as the car swept down the road toward Tybee. It was going to pass right by them, never even realizing what was happening.
Just as she was beginning to despair, the car slowed. The driver must have noticed the SUV. Maybe seen the Camaro’s headlights. Whoever it was, they must have realized there’d been an accident.
By the time it reached the SUV, it was barely moving.
Then, miraculously, the car stopped.
Harper held her breath. Dowell had gone quiet. Had he seen it, too?
For a long moment, nothing happened. The headlights stayed on. The car didn’t move.
Finally, the engine switched off.
The wind had died down. Across the acre of marshland, she heard the sound of car doors opening and then closing hard.
Dowell must have heard it, too, because she heard him mutter, “Goddammit.”
His flashlight went out.
Hope rushed through Harper like heat. She longed to scream for help but he was too close. He could shoot her and have plenty of time left over to shoot whoever just got out of that car. So, she said nothing. And waited.
Above the sound of the rain, she heard Dowell stumbling through the water. He seemed to be heading toward the wreckage of the Camaro.
Harper strained her ears. What was he up to?
Near the road, the cold, white beams of two flashlights flickered on, moving steadily toward the wreckage of the Camaro.
“Harper?” a voice called out across the marshes.
Her heart stopped.
It was Luke and Daltrey, looking for her. Joy quickly turned to fear, however. They had no idea what they were walking into.
As she studied the terrain, she realized with horror what Dowell was planning. By moving closer to the Camaro he’d positioned himself right where they were heading.
If she called out to them, he’d kill her. If she didn’t, he’d kill them.
It was a trap.
Swiping the rain and mud from her eyes, she watched the flashlights moving toward the damaged car in tormented silence.
She couldn’t let them get hurt.
She drew a breath and shouted, “Luke! Dowell’s out here. Be careful—”
The sound of a gunshot cut off the last word. Dowell was a hell of a shot. He missed her by inches. She thought she felt the heat of the bullet as it passed.
She dropped down low, holding the gun above her head to keep it dry.
Another shot cracked through the night.
Both flashlights blinked out.
A beat passed.
“Martin Dowell.” It was Daltrey’s voice, dripping with authority and contempt. “We are Savannah police officers. Give yourself up. It’s over.”
From somewhere in the dark, Dowell laughed, an awful, unfunny sound. “I’ve got an idea—how about you come and get me, girl? I’ll show you how that FBI agent died. I know you’ve been wondering.”
“Dowell, there’s nowhere to go.” Luke acted like Dowell hadn’t spoken. “There’s nothing out here but alligators and mud.”
“Now, that simply ain’t true,” Dowell replied gleefully. “There’s also Harper McClain out here. Isn’t that true, Miss McClain?”
Harper leveled her gun in the direction of his voice and said nothing.
“Just walk out of here now, with your hands where we can see them, and you get to live,” Daltrey said. “I assure you that’s the best option you have right now.”
There was a long silence, and then, without warning, Dowell let loose a spray of bullets in the direction of the detectives’ voices.
He was shouting something but Harper couldn’t make out the words above the deafening sound of gunfire.
In the silence that followed, she heard the distinctive metallic sound of a clip being ejected and a new one being inserted.
Fifteen more bullets, she thought. Fifteen more chances to kill.
He would get them eventually. They would try to catch him off guard and they would fail and he’d kill them.
She couldn’t let that happen. She had to act. He was close enough to her that she could hear his labored breathing. She had the best chance to bring him down.
Besides, it was her he
wanted.
“Dowell,” she called without moving, letting him gauge her voice. “Stop shooting. I’ll come with you if you let them go.”
There was a pause.
“You had a change of heart? What’s caused that now?” His voice was suspicious.
She thought fast. “I can’t stay out here any longer,” she said, making her voice weak. “I’ve pierced a lung. I need help.”
“Come over here, then.” His voice held lazy interest. “Let’s finish this thing.”
Harper moved in the water, just enough to attract his attention, but remained on her knees, the gun held steadily in her good hand.
“I’ve got a broken leg,” she said. “I can’t walk anymore.”
For a second, he didn’t reply. Then, the sound of splashing as he began wading toward her.
Her pulse began to race.
“Where the hell are you?” His voice was closer.
She could see his shadow now, no more than twenty feet away. Short and sturdy, silhouetted against the Camaro’s fading headlight.
One last time that car was trying to help her.
In one smooth move, she raised the gun, using all her strength to hold it steady with one hand. She pressed her finger firmly on the trigger to release the safety. Felt the mechanism shift.
She exhaled. And pulled the trigger.
The noise was deafening. With no strength and no left hand to brace her, the recoil knocked her over. She landed flat on her back in waist-deep water. The gun slipped from her fingers.
She fought to get up, scrambling frantically to find it in the mud with her one good hand. When she looked up, Dowell was stumbling toward her, holding his own gun.
Sobbing, Harper fought to get away, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. The deep mud clung to her knees, pulling her down.
Dowell stood over her. His eyes were glazed. The gun wavered in his hand. Harper flinched, waiting for the shot.
Instead, his knees buckled and he toppled forward, landing heavily on top of her, pushing her down under the dark water. Caught off guard, she fought to push him off, but he held on tenaciously, holding her down, his fingers like snakes against her body.
Revolver Road Page 27