Peter smiled grimly. "Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid. It's rather complicated." He gave them a brief and necessarily-condensed version of their story. Mrs. Martin looked so excited, they might as well have been international spies.
"This isn't a television show," Peter warned her. "The man chasing us is a professional killer, ruthless as they come, and he has reason to want to take Cathy alive and make sure Danny isn't." Mrs. Martin looked impressed, but not in the way Peter intended.
Cathy found the air conditioning in the van a blessed relief from the heat of the day, but Danny was shivering. The windbreaker was wrapped around his waist and knotted by the sleeves; Cathy pulled it off and put it back around his shoulders.
The camper wasn't one of the larger models. It had been built for two and three extra people in the back consumed all available space. Danny sat in the middle, his back against the cabinet under the sink unit, legs stretched out in front of him. Cathy sat cross-legged beside him and Peter was in one of two chairs that flanked a small table behind the driver's seat.
Mrs. Martin watched them all, fascinated. "There's a blanket up there if you want it," she said, pointing to a shelf above Cathy's head. Cathy looked at Danny. The boy shook his head. "There're drinks in the fridge, too," the woman added. "You all look like you could do with something."
"Could we ever," Cathy said, peering into the small icebox unit. A couple of six-packs of Pepsi took up half the space. She pulled two cans out of the plastic rings, opened one and handed it to Danny. "Drink it slowly," she warned him. He took it, sipped, then seemed to lapse into a semi-catatonic state.
Both Martins refused the can she offered, saying they'd recently had a drink. Peter hesitated and Cathy started marshaling her arguments, but hunger and thirst won out over distaste; he grinned and took the can from her. "No warnings or admonitions?" he asked.
"You're not half-starved," Cathy answered. "If Danny drinks too fast in his condition, he'll be sick."
Mrs. Martin overheard the remark. "Half-starved?" she asked.
"He's had practically nothing to eat for four days now," Cathy explained.
"Good heavens." Mrs. Martin possessed a soft heart as well as relentless curiosity. She watched Danny, plainly distressed; Cathy wondered what she'd say if she knew the whole of his condition. "There's stuff to make sandwiches in the icebox," she suggested.
Cathy waited for Danny's reaction. There was none. He sipped his drink, slowly as he'd been told, and his eyes were open, but his mind wasn't with them.
"Thanks, but let's see if he keeps the Pepsi down before we try anything more," Cathy suggested. Mrs. Martin still stared at Danny. Something about him puzzled her. Finally she motioned Cathy to come closer. "Mr. Lowell called him a boy," she said, her voice low and curious. "How old is he?"
Looking at Danny, who stared abstractly into space, Cathy realized that the hollow gauntness of his face and the dark beard added years to his apparent age. "He's eighteen," she answered, and watched Mrs. Martin's puzzlement change to surprise, momentary disbelief, then shocked compassion.
Whatever she was going to say next was forestalled by Fred. "Didn't you say something about watching out for a Bronco?"
"Yes," Peter answered.
"There's one following us."
-32-
Tuesday
Peter was off the chair, crouching on the floor next to Danny before the words were completely out of Fred's mouth. Cathy, too, had instinctively ducked; Danny was already low enough to be hidden. She inched her way to the back and peered out the small window.
It was indeed a Bronco, about eight car-lengths behind them. Sunlight glinting off the windshield hid the driver's identity, but she had no doubts. For the moment, the other vehicle hung back, content to follow. She nodded to Peter.
"How far are we from the Skyeville exit?" he asked.
"I don't know," Fred answered.
"Do you have a map?"
Mrs. Martin found one by the side of the seat and handed it to him. The map followed the course of the parkway, with exits and other points of interest marked. He spread it out over Danny's outstretched legs since there was no available floor space.
"Here's the Skyeville exit," he said, "it's at mile 156. Have you seen a mile marker lately?" he asked the two in the front. Neither had. After a moment, though, Mrs. Martin spotted one.
"It's 151," she told them.
"Five miles, more or less. That's a lot of road yet to cover." Peter sounded worried. "There's a scenic overlook here at 154."
"He's edging closer," Fred commented.
Peter crawled over Danny's legs and looked through the back window. "About forty feet behind now. I wonder what he's planning?"
Cathy glanced forward, through the windshield. The road ahead wound up in a gentle ascent through a series of shallow curves. The late afternoon sun threw sharp shadows across the pavement. On their side of the road, a grass verge still formed the border, but after a five-foot stretch, the land fell off. On the other side, a wall of dirt and rock lined the Parkway. Between the rocky wall and the edge of the road, masses of wild flowers grew in colorful profusion: tall red cardinal flowers, yellow trefoils, white and yellow daisy fleabane, and something purple and spiky whose name Cathy didn't know. A blue van, filled to bursting with children, suitcases, folding chairs, and cooler kits, passed, heading in the opposite direction. If there was any traffic ahead of them, it couldn't be seen on the curving road.
"He's getting closer," Fred remarked. The speed limit on this section of Parkway was 45, and Fred was doing just under that. The motor of the heavy camper strained with the ascent and the extra weight.
"Cathy, keep watch out the back," Peter instructed. "Try to see if there's anyone else in the Bronco with Hammond and if he's got a gun. This is going to be tricky. We can't outrun him, so we'll have to outmaneuver him."
"Hammond's smart," she warned.
"I know, but we've got five brains to his one." Peter looked at Danny and sighed. "Four currently functioning, at any rate."
The boy's eyes were closed, the drink can held loosely in his hand. Cathy took it from him and found it was more than half full. She put it back in the icebox, wedged between the side and the other cans so that it wouldn't tip over. Then she crawled to the back of the camper and looked out. "There's just Hammond in the Bronco," she reported. "I can't see a gun and it looks like he's got both hands on the wheel. But I know he has a pistol; it could be in his pocket."
"He'd have to be close for a pistol to be any use," Peter said. "I'm more worried about the rifle he used last night. If he's alone, though, it won't do him much good unless he stops."
"He's closer, there's only ten feet or so between." She gasped. "Peter! He's speeding up, it looks like he's going to ram us!"
"Hit the gas, Fred," Peter ordered. Cathy felt the increased throb of the camper's engine as it strained to put out more power. The camper leaped ahead, just as the Bronco was within a foot or two of hitting the back.
They rounded a curve at a speed she thought unwise. As the camper straightened out, the road leveled for a short way, then headed downhill. The camper picked up more speed. So did the Bronco.
In the first surprise, they'd gained a bit of lead on Hammond. On their right, the ground fell off sharply, and, peering down, she saw they were near the top of a ridge overlooking a pretty valley. Pretty, yes, and far below.
She felt like she was reading Hammond's mind when she saw the Bronco edge toward the middle of the road and start forward to cut the distance between them. "Damn it," she swore. "The son of a bitch is trying to run us off the road."
"She's right," Fred agreed, watching the Bronco edging toward his left rear tire. There was a thud, and a shudder ran through the camper as the Bronco's front fender nudged the corner. It wasn't hard, but the Bronco wasn't through yet, either.
"Hang on tight, Fred," Peter advised. "Is anything coming at us in the other lane?"
"No." Another thud and the camper r
ocked and swayed. Fred fought the steering but hung on, swinging the camper round a curve in the Parkway as well as holding it on the pavement.
"Pull over to the left," Peter said, "he'll have to back off or go into the wall."
Fred swung the van to the left. As Peter had predicted, Hammond started to move left also, then braked when he realized he'd have to go off the left side of the road. Fred swung suddenly and sharply to the right again. Cathy, taken by surprise, was knocked from her crouch by the back window and brought up sharp against the side wall. As she picked herself up, she saw Peter push himself off the icebox. He was partially on top of Danny, who was now lying doubled-up on the floor. Peter got off him and put a gentle hand on the boy's face before scrambling back to his knees. Whatever he'd felt reassured him.
"Sorry about that, folks," Fred apologized, "but we had company on the road."
"Step on it," Peter recommended. "He's trying to catch us again."
"The scenic overlook is coming up on the right," Emily Martin said.
"Then we're about a mile from the Skyeville exit," Peter returned. "Ignore the overlook, it isn't going to help us."
Fred sped up and the Bronco stayed close behind. A curve loomed ahead, though, and Fred had to slow down. The Bronco pulled closer. At the end of the curve, they saw the overlook, a half circle jutting to the right side of the road. On the curve itself, though, the land still fell off steeply on the right.
"He's coming up again," Cathy warned just before the Bronco butted them. Better prepared, they all hung to their positions this time. A pickup truck heading at them on the opposite side forced the Bronco back in line behind them, but, as soon as it had passed, it pulled out for another attempt. The knock was much harder this time, and the camper shuddered and groaned as metal crashed against metal. A sudden up and down jouncing warned that the right side wheels were off the pavement and bouncing along the shoulder.
"Hold on and pull into the overlook," Peter yelled, seeing Fred struggle with the wheel. The overlook probably saved their lives. The Bronco was poised for another assault on the camper before Fred had recovered, but the drive into the overlook gave him the extension of pavement he needed to regain control and get out of the Bronco's way.
"Brake. Quickly," Peter ordered. The Bronco ignored their turn and drove on, but Hammond hadn't given up. He slowed and stopped his vehicle, blocking the exit from the overlook at the other end. Peter grinned as though he'd guessed that was what Hammond would do.
"Trade places?" he asked Fred suddenly as they slowed in the overlook.
"Son, I thought you'd never ask," Fred responded with obvious relief. Cathy was relieved herself; she already knew something of Peter's driving ability.
"How tall are you?" Peter asked, and Fred answered, "Five ten."
"Good." In one fast movement that couldn't have been much smoother if they'd practiced, Peter and Fred switched places.
Ahead, Hammond was setting the brake on the Bronco, which was positioned across the other end of the drive. Peter threw the camper into reverse and backed onto the highway, as the driver's side door of the Bronco opened. Hammond got out.
"Cathy, shoot at him as we go by," Peter ordered. "Keep him down, don't give him a chance to take aim at us."
He put the camper into forward gear and Cathy opened the window on the right side and pushed out the screen. She stuck the rifle out. Hammond was reaching into the Bronco, pulling a rifle from behind the driver's seat. She took rough aim and fired.
Given the movement of the camper and lack of time for proper aiming, she hadn't expected to hit Hammond and she didn't. But the shot sent him diving behind the far side of his truck. As they raced by, she threw the bolt again and fired a second shot to pin him for another minute. The bullet exploded into the pavement about three feet from the Bronco. Hammond kept his head down.
They rounded another curve and pulled out of sight. Cathy pulled the gun back into the camper, shut the window, and sank, sweating. The sound of shots had roused Danny. He was trying to sit up, eyes open and staring around him. "Cathy? Where are we?"
"Not out of the woods yet," she answered.
"Cathy," Peter called. "We're less than a mile from the exit; can you tell which way it goes off?"
She found the map in the corner of the camper. "No. We want to go left, but I can't tell how the exit works."
"Never mind, there's a sign coming up."
It was a simple left turn onto a ramp. But, before they were even in sight of it, the Bronco was back on their tail. The hill still sloped up on the opposite side of the road, but the land no longer fell away sharply on the right. Trees now grew to within a few feet of the pavement and shaded the road.
He couldn't drive them over a hill, but Hammond was still trying to run them off the road. After another car whizzed by going in the opposite direction, he pulled out yet again to bump into them. Peter steered left to force him back, then they both were impelled back into the right lane by another oncoming vehicle.
They were moving downhill toward the exit. Peter let the camper pick up a little speed to forestall another assault from Hammond when Cathy heard exclamations of dismay from Peter and Mrs. Martin and turned to look toward the front. A flash of silver made her blink. Blocking the lane ahead, a bullet-shaped, metal-sided mobile home was being towed by a station wagon. It moved at a snail's pace and, on the curving road, there was no opportunity to pass. They were effectively sandwiched between the mobile home in front and the Bronco behind.
"There's a straighter area ahead," Mrs. Martin said, stretching her neck to see the road. "You might be able to pass the Airstream there."
Cathy sat straight up in shock. "Pass the what?" she all but yelled.
"The Airstream, honey," Mrs. Martin said. "That's what they call those kind of mobile homes."
"Oh hell!" She said it with such vehemence everyone in the camper turned to look at her. Even Peter took his eyes off the road a moment, and she saw the dawning comprehension in his face.
"Oh God, I can't believe I missed that," she said. "Danny!"
He looked at her with dark, curious, apprehensive eyes.
She didn't get a chance to say anything, though. Peter looked in the rearview mirror and realized the Bronco had pulled out on them again. "Brace yourselves," he warned, just before it thudded into the side of the camper. As the camper swerved and groaned metallically under the assault, she wondered how long the poor vehicle could take that kind of punishment. A second knock followed the first, but not as hard.
From the front, Peter swore loudly and fluently. Cathy looked ahead again; the mobile home still crept along, and a hundred yards or so beyond it, a road turned off to the left.
"That's our exit," Peter said grimly, "and Hammond has us cut off from it."
Cathy crawled to look out the other side window and saw what Peter meant. The Bronco was in the left lane, practically alongside them. For the moment, he made no attempt to force them off the road, being content to remain in the other lane as long as the lack of two-way traffic allowed and keep them from leaving the Parkway at this exit. Peter couldn't possibly make the left turn; the Bronco would smash into them broadside should he attempt it.
He tried his only remaining option. After yelling a warning to his passengers, he rode the brake as hard as he dared. The camper slowed, tires squealing and riders holding on to keep from being thrown forward. For a moment, it looked like it might work. The camper started to fall behind the Bronco. But Hammond was alert to the possibility, too, and his vehicle could brake faster. He slowed enough to draw precisely even with them as they crept past the turn.
-33-
Tuesday - Thursday
"Cathy, get out the map," Peter directed. "How far to the next exit?"
"It's a long way... Looks like eighteen miles."
"No good. Anything between here and there?"
"A couple more overlooks, that's all."
"How far are they?"
"One's about three
miles, the other's about twelve."
A camper traveling the other way, leading a parade of eight or nine cars behind, kept Hammond from trying to run them off, but also kept them from making any attempt to pass the mobile home. It was stalemate for a few minutes at least.
"Can you tell which side of the road the overlook is on?" Peter asked after a moment's thought.
"No."
"Mrs. Martin," Peter asked, "does the back window open?"
"It's hard, but yes, and there's a screen."
"Can we knock the screen out?"
"I think so," she answered.
"Good. Cathy, can you shoot at him again?" Peter asked. "Tires aren't that easy to take out, but maybe it'll at least discourage him."
"I'll try," she said. Fred helped her open the window and remove the screen. Air rushing in blew her hair in all directions. She stuck the gun out, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. "It's jammed," she said, examining the gun.
"Damn. Can you fix it?"
"Not quickly."
Peter thought over the situation while Fred shut the window. "Are there any large pieces of cloth in here, like sheets or a table cloth?"
"Sure," Mrs. Martin answered. "There's a blanket up there and some sheets." She pointed to the shelf and Fred reached up and pulled out several.
"Now we need something heavy to wrap them around," Peter added.
"How heavy?" Fred asked.
"Heavy enough to keep the cloth from floating away, but not so heavy you can't throw it," Peter answered. "Four or five pounds would be best."
The Martins considered, but they hadn't packed much that was heavy.
"The waste appalls me," Cathy said, "but the Pepsis might do the job."
"It's not ideal, but it'll have to do. Wrap up a couple of cans in each of the sheets. Cathy, can you throw home from second base?"
"Yes."
"With any accuracy?"
A Question of Fire Page 24