Road and Beyond: The Expanded Book-Club Edition of The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  That and the hair color.

  The facial features and the build, too.

  The lack of a southern accent.

  And, of course, the choice of profession.

  This time, when I got close enough to Sebastian, I focused all of my attention on his badge. I could make out his number—729—but it took me a few moments of solid concentration to finally read his nameplate. When I did, I almost gasped.

  JAMES.

  Sebastian James. His name was on Treak’s list of bad guys.

  The Amarillo cop was grinning again, standing shoulder to shoulder with Donovan, his hands on his hips, with the right one fingering the top of his gun’s holster.

  I tried to catch Donovan’s gaze, but he’d slipped into that military-like hierarchy of respect that men often do. Sizing up each other and falling into rank accordingly.

  Donovan, who was so willing to defy authority in a host of mundane ways—driving way over the speed limit, providing alcohol to a minor, buying illegal fireworks—and whose notion of personal security usually rivaled that of a presidential bodyguard, had failed to question the motivations of a potentially very dangerous man, all because Donovan saw him donning a badge and wearing a uniform he trusted.

  To me, that nameplate offered the final bit of convincing evidence that this new cop was not only someone Treak had been worried about, but that Sebastian and William James were somehow related. They weren’t merely “buddies.”

  But I couldn’t pull Donovan aside to tell him this. Not with Sebastian leading him around by the elbow, pointing out the exact location of the truck explosion and sharing what he said he saw when the police arrived at the scene two years ago.

  “It was a fiery mess,” the cop told Donovan. “Quite a sight.”

  “Did you ever figure out what caused the accident?” I asked in an attempt to pull the two of them apart just a little. “Or even what the truck was doing out here on this deserted road? I’d think the driver would have wanted to stay on Route 66 or have taken I-40.”

  The cop glanced my way in surprise. “Maybe he needed a rest stop.”

  “Wouldn’t there have been more options available for him along either of those two main roads?” I replied, but I wasn’t thinking it through before I spoke. I wasn’t prepared for Sebastian to look at me with such interest after I’d said that. The first male stranger in a long time not to discount me just because I was a girl.

  Suddenly, that didn’t seem remotely like the triumph I’d hoped.

  “Why, that’s a very curious question, miss. Where are the documents that brother of yours collected for you, by the way?” he asked. “I’d like to take a look at them.”

  “Back at the motel,” I lied.

  He smiled at me—a cold, bloodless smile—and I could now see something I’d missed before: The barely suppressed contempt he held for people in general and, in particular, for anyone who got in the way of something he wanted.

  “Now, we both know that ain’t true.” In one smooth motion, Sebastian pulled the gun out of his holster, cocked it and pointed it at Donovan’s heart. “You’ll tell me, won’t you, son? Where are those papers?”

  Donovan sent me a look of distress mingled with disbelief. “We…we put them somewhere safe…” He paused as Sebastian raised the gun to Donovan’s forehead. “But we’ll get them for you.”

  “Yes, you will,” the cop said with chilling confidence. “I already checked your motel room. Last night and this morning.” He shot an assessing glance at the Trans Am. “They’re not on the seats or on the floor of your car either, so that leaves the glove compartment or the trunk.”

  “Why are they so important?” I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice and distract Sebastian long enough to give Donovan a moment’s breather. “The papers were mostly newspaper clippings that anyone could collect,” I said, hoping I sounded reasonable and not on the verge of hysteria, which was how I felt. “And, as the chief, you could’ve easily gotten those two police reports yourself. What’s so special about the copies we were given?”

  Sebastian continued to stare at me with a combination of amusement and mystification. First he chuckled, and then he full out laughed. “Nothing at all, little lady. It’s the people carrying them that’s the problem. You two.”

  He waved his gun in a reckless arc between Donovan and me. “I want them out of your car before I burn the both of you inside of it. Don’t want the investigators who’ll arrive on the scene later today to find any document fragments that might connect the two of you with what happened in August of ’76.” He waved his gun again, and I held my breath.

  “Thought we had that story put to bed once and for all. Can’t have it all resurrected again now, can we?” He glanced at each of us and then answered his own question. “No. You would’ve done better to mind your own damn business and not come poking around like your fool brothers did. Couldn’t believe it when Willie called me yesterday afternoon and told me the two of you were on your way here,” he muttered.

  So, Sebastian had known our brothers and, from the way he described what he planned to do to us, I more than suspected the truck explosion had been no accident, and he’d been right at the center of it.

  Officer James had called Sebastian yesterday, not this morning, which meant our hometown cop had lied to us for sure about what he said he was going to do. He’d promised he wouldn’t contact his “friend” until after he checked out the storage facility in Crescent Cove and talked to us again. I found myself wondering if he’d even gone to Wisconsin and how deeply he’d been involved in what had happened to our brothers two years ago…

  I saw these same alarming realizations wash over Donovan’s face, too, along with a look of regret.

  “So, how are you and Officer James related?” I asked, hoping I’d throw him off guard a little. “Brothers?”

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. He didn’t stop pointing his gun at Donovan, but he did at least take a small step away from him so he could turn and get a better look at me. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t ya?” he said.

  Donovan blinked and mouthed, “What?” at the same time that Sebastian added, “First cousins. And best friends as kids.” He sent me a sneering look. “Blood, you know, is very thick.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  At this, Donovan cleared his throat. “So, are we correct in understanding that your, uh, cousin didn’t try to call us at all last night? That he’s in on all of this?”

  “Willie got your call and, then, immediately called me. Just like he was supposed to. Told me where you were staying and when you’d be there. Helpful having relatives who know how to follow directions.” He grinned, but it was like ice cracking. “Isn’t it?”

  My mind raced as I tried to reinterpret this new information in light of everything that had happened. Andy Reggio had said that Gideon had said that we could trust William James. Which one of them had been lying to us? Or, was it possible that they, too, had been fooled and were each passing along what they thought was the truth?

  Donovan was looking a little less than relaxed with a gun so close to his left temple. Even so, I could tell his brain was whirling as well, trying to reframe all of the events given what we’d just heard.

  “You two, stand over here,” Sebastian commanded, pointing us toward the side of his squad car with the tip of his gun. He opened one of the back doors and pulled out a large red five-gallon gasoline can. “You’re about to have a little car accident,” he said sarcastically, setting the red can down between our two cars and unscrewing the cap. “Perhaps an exploding gas tank after you run into that big telephone pole.”

  He glanced at the thick wooden pole nearest us and shrugged. “It happens.” He prodded us again with his gun. “Now get me those papers, and I do mean now.”

  When it came right down to it, everyone probably thought they were too young to die. Even if they’d already lived sixty, seventy or eighty years. But I wasn’t even eighteen yet. I�
��d never traveled abroad, not even to Canada or Mexico. I hadn’t tasted champagne or caviar—and I’d probably hate them both, but I wanted to know for sure. And I was a virgin.

  I really was too young to die.

  My gut twisted in terror and, for all of my natural perception and logic, I had no idea if there was any reason to hope we’d get out of this alive. But there was one thing I was positive about. I was going to fight Sebastian with every ounce of strength I had.

  Sebastian marched us over to the Trans Am and told Donovan to unlock the glove compartment. I noticed that, while Donovan appeared to be complying immediately, he actually took his time with this task. I’d seen him move twenty times faster before, but he was a clever guy, and I sensed he was trying to give us a few extra seconds to think.

  I hoped I could do my part with a different kind of delay tactic. “Is this what happened before?” I asked the cop, working hard to come across as respectfully afraid of him and a touch impressed. “Two years ago? Were you the one who set up the explosion?”

  “I was.” He smiled like he was proud of it. Like it was one of his life’s crowning achievements. Good. That meant this was probably the best strategy under the circumstances. Knowledge was power.

  I bobbed my head contemplatively. “But why?”

  He threw an annoyed glance in Donovan’s direction, who had just unlocked the box and was sifting through the old insurance cards and a few car-related papers stuffed inside, pulling each item out and laying it on the dash, one at a time.

  “Because that little prick was gonna talk,” he told me. “Hal Chaney. The driver. He wanted more money. He’d done jobs for us in Chicago and St. Louis, but this was the farthest south he’d gone for a delivery. He was starting to understand the scope of our operation. And when your brothers got ahold of him, they just inflated his already enormous and greedy ego. Made him think he was owed more than he was getting for the tiny job he was doing.”

  “So, you destroyed his truck and killed him before he could rat you out,” I said. “Right?”

  “Right.” He shoved me aside, reaching into the car and grabbing a handful of papers off the dash. “What the hell is this? A receipt for a new tire?” He crumpled the thin yellow sheet and tossed it onto the pavement.

  “But the driver’s body wasn’t found,” I said, watching in desperation as the cop threw more of Donovan’s papers on the ground. We were running out of time. “Did you bury him out here?”

  Sebastian grunted in anger and frustration and smacked Donovan’s bicep with the side of his gun. “Those documents damned well better be in the trunk,” he threatened. Then, to me, “You ask too many questions, little girl, but you know what? There are a few things it pleases me to tell you before you die. Number one, you can stall all you want, ain’t nobody gonna find you out here until it’s too late.” He sent me a villainous look.

  “Number two, I put that bastard’s body in the trunk and took it back with me to Chicago. It’s where I lived at the time. Getting promoted to chief out here was my prize for a job well done.” He patted his badge. There was that unmistakable pride again.

  “And number three,” he said, pulling me in front of him so I was standing next to Donovan behind the Trans Am. He pointed the gun at both of us and motioned for Donovan to unlock the trunk. “I’m gonna enjoy seeing the life drain out of your bodies, the way it did with Hal and with that stupid fuck, Jeremy.”

  Next to me, Donovan’s motions stilled. He turned slowly to face Sebastian, betraying no particular emotion, but his silence all but screamed the pain he was feeling.

  The cop laughed. “Oh, now you’re taking me seriously, huh, big guy?”

  “You? You killed my brother?” Donovan whispered.

  Sebastian grinned. “Sure did. My buddy Rick wrestled him to the ground right about there.” He pointed to a patch of pavement seven or eight yards away. “And I shot him in the head. Dead and gone in under a second.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate just how fast.

  I fought to keep my knees from buckling under me. Sadness, regret and a tidal wave of anger swept across my body and left me gasping for air. Damn that evil bastard! How can hateful people like this exist in the world? How can Jeremy be gone?

  All of those feelings of helplessness I’d felt before the trip came rushing back. I wished I could believe Sebastian was lying about killing my brother’s best friend, but none of his nonverbal tells indicated that. I glanced at Donovan to see how he was handling this news, my heart reaching out to him, even though I was too afraid to make a move and touch him.

  Donovan swallowed several times before he spoke again. “Where’s his body? You take him back to Chicago, too?”

  “Nope.” Sebastian nodded once in my direction. “Her brother did a number on Rick, snatched Jeremy and took him somewhere.” He shrugged. “Never did get that sonovabitch Gideon. He drove away with a few cracked ribs, a bullet in his side and two tires that were going flat by the second. But, by the time I could get up off the gravel and get into my car to chase him, he was already gone.”

  “Off the gravel? Did Gideon punch you?” I asked.

  “Aw, now don’t you go getting any bright ideas, missy. You ain’t gonna take me by surprise like that. Not this time.” He shot one bullet into the air and I jumped half out of my skin. “Now, both of you turn around and open the goddamn trunk.”

  Scared as I was, I understood something critical in that second. Sebastian didn’t want to shoot us.

  Not because he had a soft spot of humanity anywhere in his cold, evil body, but because if there was any proof our deaths were caused by anything other than internal injuries from a car crash and burns from an explosion, there was no way the incident could possibly be ruled as “accidental” by the handful of investigators and evidence technicians that would come later.

  Someone honest—at some point—would notice gunshot wounds on our bodies. The paramedics, the trustworthy members of the fire department or the police force, certainly the coroner wouldn’t miss those, even if we were badly burned.

  And Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of just removing our bodies from the scene because, after what had happened in this exact spot two years ago, it would be viewed as too coincidental. Draw too much notice in Amarillo. As would a second mysterious disappearance of two siblings from the same two families back in Chameleon Lake.

  So, because he had to be careful about how he killed us and because he needed us to be alive and relatively unharmed before he trapped us in our car…we had at least one small temporary advantage.

  Before I could in some way signal this realization to Donovan, he opened the trunk and motioned to where the last five of the Crescent Cove fireworks were carefully wrapped and stashed in that box. Grabbing my tote, he pulled out the package Andy Reggio had left for us and handed it to me to hold up to show Sebastian, then I saw him unwrap and stuff all but one of the leftover firecrackers into my bag.

  “We’ve got your papers,” he called to the cop. Then, to me, “Here, I’ll give them to him, Aurora.” He snatched the envelope out of my hands and thrust the tote at me. “Get in the car.”

  I took my bag, surprised Sebastian wasn’t objecting but, even though his gun was still trained on us, he was several feet away, listening to something. A buzzing sound in the distance that took me a few seconds to identify.

  Motorcycles.

  “Get in the car,” Donovan said again, his voice low and urgent. He pushed me toward the open passenger-side door.

  Sebastian glanced over at us, fury washing over his face when he saw that I’d moved from the spot he’d placed me, but we could all tell that the motorcycles were fast approaching.

  This distracted Sebastian. He instinctively lowered his gun and, for a moment, hid it from view. No doubt contemplating the consequences of being seen out on a deserted road with two people who’d likely be reported dead fairly soon.

  It wasn’t a long reprieve, but it was long enough for Donovan to jump in the
Trans Am—trunk still wide open—and start the engine.

  We heard Sebastian swear and shoot at our car, bullets hitting the open trunk door and one smashing through a side window as the cop came sprinting toward us.

  Donovan hit drive, spinning gravel and running into the red gasoline can, knocking it over.

  “Here, take this!” he shouted at Sebastian, flinging the envelope out his window toward the cop but holding it upside down so most of the papers escaped into the safety of Donovan’s lap instead of leaving the car.

  Sebastian reflexively grabbed for the envelope, but it took him only a split second to realize it was empty. Before he could react, though, the motorcyclists—the same two guys we’d seen back by the Cadillac Ranch—buzzed by on their bikes.

  Wearing bandanas, helmets and lots of leather, their features weren’t easy to distinguish, but I could tell that one biker was white and the other black. They both lifted their hands in a friendly wave to all of us as they drove slowly past.

  Sebastian apparently ceased to care anymore if anyone heard his gunshots. As Donovan tried to get his car back to the road, Sebastian tossed the envelope to the ground and fired again at us, this time managing to get a shot through the front windshield.

  I saw Donovan wince, blood leaking through the sleeve of his shirt. His left shoulder. The one closest to the window. Even so, before I could blink, he had his lighter out and he lit the cherry bomb in his hand, lobbing it at the cop, and getting close enough to make Sebastian stumble backward when the powerful firecracker exploded. He pressed the lighter into my hand. “Light one and throw it near the gas spill.”

  I pulled out the first firework I touched from inside my tote—a very illegal quarter stick—and did just what Donovan told me. The gasoline fumes made it detonate even before it hit the pavement and, boy, was that explosion impressive.

  From my side window, I could see that the motorcyclists had stopped their bikes and were turning them around.