by Sean Black
She threw the Honda into Drive, and hit the gas, speeding up so that she kept eyes on the rear of the truck before it turned off and she lost it.
A voice came from her cell phone: “Drive for eight hundred yards, then turn left.”
She glanced down at the phone, and saw two solid bars of signal. She took it as an omen that she was doing the right thing.
Speeding up, she saw the tail-lights of the truck ahead. She reached down and switched off the Honda’s headlights before the driver of the pickup could realize she was following.
31
Mimsy checked the truck’s side mirror. She glanced at Lyle.
“You see that?” she asked him.
“See what?”
She smirked. Lyle was a terrible liar. Always had been. Ever since she’d known him.
“The car back there that just switched its headlights off so we wouldn’t know it was following us,” she said, indulging him.
He scoped out his mirror, narrowing his eyes, making a big show of looking for it. “Oh, yeah, there is someone back there, I guess.”
“It’s that reporter,” said Mimsy, watching Lyle’s reaction.
“You think? What do you want me to do?”
Mimsy straightened up in her seat. “She’s following us. We don’t have to do anything. Just keep driving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A thumping sound came from the bed of the truck as RJ stirred.
“You want me to stop?” Lyle asked.
“Not now. Just keep going.”
“You got it.”
That was the upside to Lyle, she thought. He might be dumb as a sack of rocks, a terrible liar, and not always capable of keeping his mouth shut when it should be, but he did what he was told. And, right now, that was all she needed.
32
The rule rarely varied. When confronted by a group, figure out who the leader is—usually, but not always, the largest man. You could discern the alpha male by how the others reacted to them.
When Ty called out the biggest of the three bikers, the other two sniggered, like they were in on a joke. That confirmed his suspicion. It was laughter that suggested Ty had messed up in a big way.
The big guy took his time getting to his feet. His slowness suggested that he didn’t anticipate much of a fight. He didn’t even get up at Ty’s first jibe asking what he was laughing at. Ty had to push out a few more verbal jabs before he finally rose from the bench. Even then, he didn’t rush over. He did some stretches, cracked his knuckles, exchanged a few words with his two cornermen.
Ty watched him, with a smile. He already knew exactly what the guy would do. He would mosey over. Then, when he was within the last few feet, he would either rush him or, more likely, throw a wild haymaker of a punch.
The big guy bumped fists with his two comrades. Ty noted he was right-handed. That meant he’d jab with his left, and his big shot would be his right. Assuming he moved into a boxing stance, which Ty doubted he would. It was more likely he would stand square on, and just throw from there.
As he ambled the short distance, Ty got to his feet. He rubbed at his chin with one hand, a gesture of nonchalance that was anything but. It was a way of keeping his hands high, ready to block, without it being obvious.
“Man, you made a big mistake,” the biker said to him.
“Yeah, I do that,” Ty said, still smiling. “It’s a character flaw.”
At the last second, Ty shifted his demeanor. His smile dropped. He brought up his other hand to his face, palms open, in a gesture of supplication. “Listen, dude, can we start again?” he said. “I’m sorry if I upset you or your buddies.”
“You believe him?” the big guy said, twisting his neck to look at his two fellow bikers.
Seizing his opportunity, Ty stepped off to one side, creating an angle. Rather than throw a punch, he leaped onto the biker’s back. One hand slipped under the biker’s throat, corkscrewing rapidly through until his elbow was in a line with the center of the throat. Ty’s biceps jammed in against the windpipe, while his other arm worked a pincer movement, the hand coming to the back of the biker’s head.
Ty grasped his biceps with his choking hand. In the same movement, he had sunk his heels against the front of the biker’s pelvis. He squeezed hard, moving his elbows towards each other to finish the choke as the biker’s two buddies scrambled from the bench and an alarm sounded. Outside the cell, boots scrambled towards the door.
Sneaking his face round from behind the biker’s ear, Ty watched as the big guy’s eyes began to roll back and his eyelids fluttered closed. Ty shifted his weight, sitting down, his heel hooks still in, taking his victim with him.
With his back to the cell wall, and holding the biker in front of him, the other two had no way of getting to him without risking delivering a kick or punch to their now unconscious comrade.
As the first trooper rounded the corner, Ty let go of the biker, shoving him down to the floor, and sitting back with his feet up on the bench, one arm out, ready to deflect any last-second punches.
The jail cell opened, and a trooper rushed in, pepper spray in hand. The two bikers put their hands up, and began to back off. Ty lowered himself down, making it look like he was tending the fallen man.
“I don’t know what happened,” said Ty. “I think he may have had a heart attack.” Kneeling down next to him, Ty sank his knee into the biker’s solar plexus.
“Okay,” shouted a trooper, as others crowded into the cell. “Move away.”
The biker groaned in pain as Ty gently cupped his face and ground his knee into his chest.
Ty held up a hand. “It’s okay. He’s coming round. It must have been low blood sugar or something.”
A hand reached down, and grabbed Ty under the armpit. “We’ll take care of it from here.”
Ty stood up, and backed into the corner. “I just hope he’s okay.”
The biker started to sit up, completely disoriented.
Ty looked at him and gave a gee-shucks shrug. “You had me worried for a second there, big fella.”
The biker growled and lunged towards him. An officer’s baton sliced through the air, catching the biker on the back of the head, and sending him back to the cell floor as Ty shrank further into the corner, a picture of complete innocence.
33
Mimsy could just about glimpse the front of the Honda following them down the narrow road at a respectful distance, its headlights turned off. Mimsy knew every square foot of this place. This was home turf for her.
She reached over, and jostled Lyle’s elbow. “When you get round this bend you can pull in. You know the place I’m talking about?”
Lyle did. Many of the roads around Darling were so narrow that passing places had been cut out so that if someone met a large vehicle coming in the opposite direction, they could squeeze in out of the way. There was one just around the bend.
“Turn off the lights when you pull in,” Mimsy added.
Lyle pressed a bit harder on the gas, going from a steady thirty-five miles an hour to over forty. Not so much that it would cause the Honda to speed up to close the gap, just enough to give him a little more distance around the bend.
He made the turn. As soon as the back of the truck was clear, he switched off the headlights, gently applied the parking brake, and pulled the wheel down hard, easing into the passing place.
The front of the truck nudged against some branches as he spun the wheel back around, ready to exit. He already had an idea of what Mimsy had in mind without her having to spell it out.
There was another thump from the truck bed.
Mimsy craned her neck around.
“Don’t worry, he ain’t going anywhere,” Lyle said.
“Best hope not.”
* * *
Cressida strained to see the road ahead of her. She had been using the truck’s headlights to map out the terrain. It must have turned, or gone around a corner, but she couldn’t risk using her headlights.
>
This section of the road was thick with trees. They were tall, maybe thirty feet, with long, looping branches that formed a thick, arching canopy that quelled the moonlight, leaving the road close to pitch black.
Her phone display lit up. She slowed to a crawl. She would let them get ahead a little more, and then she’d be able to use her headlights to navigate. She could switch them off again as soon as she caught a glimpse of the truck.
“Yes,” she said, picking up.
“It’s Ryan. Did you get to the motel, okay?”
She damped down her irritation. Here she was, out in the middle of nowhere, quite literally tracking down the story of her life, and she was fending off calls from a babysitter she hadn’t even met. She didn’t need this. Not now. “Yeah. I found it fine. It’s all good.”
She turned the switch, putting on the side lights. It was enough to illuminate the road ahead without being too obvious. She smiled at her own ingenuity as the car inched forward a few more feet.
“Okay. Ty will be with you in a few hours. Bail’s been arranged but there’s an eight-hour wait time for release in cases of DUI in Florida. Just sit tight until he gets there and then you can decide what you want to do next. Whatever that is, we’ll have your back.”
Cressida suppressed an eye roll as she hunched over the steering wheel and the Honda rolled forward, coming up on a bend in the road.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to get some sleep.”
“Of course,” said Lock. “Good night.”
Cressida ended the call and tossed her cell phone onto the passenger seat. The display faded slowly back to black.
Men. The way they carried on. Like she was a helpless damsel in distress who couldn’t handle some small-town rednecks.
Rounding the bend, she looked for the tail-lights of the truck. There was nothing. Only a dark country road.
She thought about turning her headlights on full and decided against it. Maybe they were just a little further ahead. The phone-call had slowed her down. For all she knew there was another bend or turn a few hundred yards further down the road and they were the other side of that.
Tapping down on the gas pedal, she picked up speed. Her hands tightened on the wheel as she tried to shake off the irritation of Lock’s phone call.
The lie didn’t even so much as flit across her mind. Or the thought that no one knew where she was right now.
From behind her came the roar of an engine and a dazzling blaze of light. It was so bright that when she looked up at her mirror to see what it was, she was blinded.
The truck’s throaty roar came again as the driver gunned the engine, and it lurched forward, bearing down on the rear of the Honda.
Cressida stomped on the gas pedal. The Honda lurched forward, its wheels spinning for a second as it struggled for traction on the loose, rutted road surface.
It kept coming, closing the gap, threatening to roll right over the top of her. Somehow she managed to keep control of the Honda on the narrow road. She pulled away, glancing back to see a gap emerge between the two vehicles.
When she looked ahead, all she could see was a thick wall of trees as she came up on a fresh bend. She spun the wheel, struggling to keep the car on the road as branches whipped against the windshield, and the pickup truck’s lights engulfed her.
34
Carmen was lying in the suite’s king-size bed as Lock padded in from the bathroom, cell phone in hand. She patted the mattress next to her. Lock smiled, laying the phone on the bedside table.
“Sorry, I know I promised no work.”
Carmen shot him a look that promised more than sleep. “Oh, I’m going to put you to work on this vacation, Mister. Don’t you worry about that.”
Lock rolled back the covers. He slid his hand under, feeling for the inside of her thigh, and letting his hand linger.
“Everything okay?” Carmen asked, with a nod to his phone.
“Nothing to worry about. She’s at the motel. No one knows she’s there. Ty’ll be released in a few more hours. I just left a message letting him know he can relax until he’s out. It’s all good.”
“So you can give me your full attention?” she said, her hand sliding down, taking his and moving it slowly up her body.
“One hundred percent.”
35
The Honda bounced along the narrow country road. It hit a bump and Cressida lurched in her seat, her head touching the cabin roof. The seatbelt cinched tight around her, cutting across her chest, and into her shoulder.
She kept her foot to the floor. Her hands were growing sore from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. She took a breath and peered out through the windshield into the cone of light.
A quick check of her side mirror revealed the truck. It had dropped back a little.
If she could just get off this road, and back onto some kind of a freeway, she was sure the little Honda could outpace the lumbering truck that was riding her rear bumper. It wasn’t suited to this kind of terrain. It was a vehicle designed for cities, not whatever this was.
The twists and turns in the road had made it hard to keep oriented. She wasn’t sure if she was heading into town, or away from it. At one point, as she had slowed coming into a bend, she had actually glimpsed the swamp a few feet beyond the trees. The water had folded in on either side of the road.
She looked down at the passenger seat and her cell phone. She thought about calling Ty’s partner, Lock. But what could he do apart from contact the authorities?
She’d call 911 herself. Even if she couldn’t tell them exactly where she was, they would know and be able to send someone out. She knew Mimsy was in the truck. She had seen her. She could give them that information too.
Taking one hand off the wheel, she reached over and grabbed her cell phone. From behind her came a fresh roar from the truck’s engine. It had closed the gap again. It reared up behind her.
She threw her phone back onto the passenger seat, the plan abandoned. It slid across and fell onto the floor.
Cressida cursed under her breath as the truck’s metal cow-catcher slammed into her rear bumper. She fought the wheel as she hit a fresh rut in the road.
With rising desperation she struggled to keep control of the car. The tires spun wildly as she hit a rise, and the Honda left the ground. It came down again with a bone-crunching lurch that juddered all the way up her spine.
Her head hit the roof. For a split second she lost her grip on the wheel. The Honda turned, leaving the blacktop, and finding the soft, wet verge.
Everything around her twisted and turned as the car launched off the road, tires slipping. There was a sickening crunch as the passenger side slammed into a tree.
The back of the Honda slung out wide as it kept moving forward, heading miraculously through a gap between two pop ash trees, then beyond them into the murky water.
Cressida was tossed around in her seat, like a rag doll. There was a small detonation as the airbag deployed, shoving her back hard into the seat. The car belly-flopped, side on, into the swamp. The engine died. The instrument panel flickered and went dark.
It took a second for Cressida to come to. She wasn’t sure if she had passed out, or just lost her bearings. The airbag filled her vision. She twisted her head. It was hard to see anything. There was only darkness, total and absolute, and the low gurgle of swamp water pushing into the cabin.
36
Lyle slammed the truck into reverse and backed up to where the Honda had spun off the road. Mimsy popped her door open and got out. Lyle followed. They stood there, taking in the twisted foliage and sheared-off branches where the car had carved its path off the road and into the swamp.
Seconds passed. Neither of them said anything. Mimsy listened. There were no screams of pain or calls for help. Not so much as a murmur.
In the back of the truck, RJ stirred, prompting Mimsy to speak. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said, with a nod towards the t
ruck bed. “You go take a look.”
Lyle opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. He opened the driver’s door, reached in, and reappeared a few moments later with a shotgun. He crunched a round into the chamber.
“Leave that here,” Mimsy told him.
“But—”
The look Mimsy gave him cut him off. “I said go look, not anything else,” she said.
He put his head down, like a scolded first-grader, and handed the gun to her. She hefted it up, resting the barrel against her shoulder, the muzzle aimed at the heavens.
Mimsy watched as Lyle turned up his pants legs and started down the slope towards the water. She walked to the rear of the truck to check that RJ hadn’t managed to free himself.
It was a miracle he hadn’t been flung from the back of the truck during the chase. The only thing that had saved him was a length of rope that Lyle must have used to secure one of the sacks to a cargo hook.
RJ lay there, trussed up like a turkey, his knees pulled into his chest. Blood ran down his face from a cut above one of his eyes. He stared at Mimsy, a thick piece of tape covering his mouth.
Mimsy’s free hand shot out, her index finger jabbing in the direction of the swamp. “You see? You see what you’ve done?” she said. “This, this here, it’s your fault.” She lowered the barrel of the shotgun, clasping it with both hands, tucking the stock into her shoulder and taking aim at him. He wiggled around like a fish, his eyes wild. “I wouldn’t waste good buckshot on you,” she said, lowering the shotgun. With a grunt, she hauled herself up onto the back of the truck.
RJ wriggled into the furthest corner, his eyes still on her.
“You know what you are,” said Mimsy, jabbing the shotgun hard into a kneecap, prompting a groan. “You’re an ingrate. Bet you don’t even know what that means. Well, I’ll tell you. It means someone who’s got no appreciation for what others have done for them. In this case for what I’ve done for you. You and everyone else in this town.”