“Funny, Rosencrans. Just do what I tell you.”
“Get your foot off the gas!”
He ignored her. The van rocketed toward the intersection at what felt like warp speed. When she made no immediate move to send them into a death-defying skid, he grabbed for the wheel. Summer batted away his hand—and got mad. Reaching down, she pinched the bare, bruised, hairy thigh closest to her so viciously that he screamed.
And jerked his leg to safety. With his foot removed from the gas, the van immediately began to slow.
“What the hell was that for?” He rubbed his thigh and glared at her.
“I told you to get your foot off the gas. I’m driving, remember?” Summer’s foot was already firmly in possession of the pedal. Her glance dared him to try to do anything about it.
“Vicious bitch.” He rubbed his thigh some more. “Jesus, that hurt. Hang a left!”
“I’m going to!” She did, applying the brakes judiciously until they were safely through the intersection. Then, with a wary eye on his lead foot, she accelerated northwest on 41.
Rolling fields of crops separated by wire-and-post fences and the occasional stand of leafy trees flashed past. Warm air spiced with insects peppered her face. The smell of manure was strong. Propelled by the wind, a large bug went splat against her cheek. Summer swiped at its slimy corpse with an expression of loathing.
“You do realize that there are bad men with guns chasing us, don’t you? If we don’t go real fast, they’re going to catch up.”
“Oh, shut up.” But Summer pressed a little harder on the gas, and watched the needle creep toward ninety. Squinting against the wind and the bugs, she strained to see the blacktop as it wound its way into the equally black night.
“There’s a gravel road up here somewhere that we need to find. On the right. As dark as it is, it’s going to be easy to miss.”
“Maybe we should turn on the lights.”
“Jesus, Rosencrans, you still don’t get it, do you? We are trying our damnedest to hide from men who want to kill us. That helicopter didn’t just vanish into thin air, you know. Something made it back off—maybe it saw the semi coming, or maybe there was something else. But you can bet your bippy that it’s looking for us now. No telling how many cars are swarming out of Murfreesboro, and maybe from Nashville too, and God knows where else, after us. We don’t have much time before they’re all over this area like ants at a picnic. And you want to turn on the lights?” He shook his head. “Not smart.”
“What did you do?” Summer asked in a hushed voice.
Frankenstein snorted. “Let’s just say I got the wrong people totally pissed off, okay?”
“Who?”
“Look, does it make any difference? All you need to know is that whoever is after me is after you too, and they aren’t real nice folks.”
Oh, God. She’d already had ample evidence of that. “As soon as I get home, I’m going to fire some people,” Summer muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Damn it, Rosencrans, I think you just passed the turn-off! Do you have to talk every blasted second?”
A distant sound could have been helicopter blades. They both strained to identify it over the rushing wind. Any reply Summer might have made vanished from her consciousness in that instant. Remembering the recent fusillade of bullets with which the helicopter had savaged the van sent a tingle of fear zooming along Summer’s spine. With a single scared glance at the man beside her, Summer stood on the brakes, turned the van in a wide, bumpy circle that flattened grass on the far side of the pavement, and headed back the other way. Only slower. Where was that road?
“There! See?” He pointed.
Summer saw what looked like tire tracks cutting through knee-high grass to a wire fence, where they ended at a wide black ditch. In the dark it was difficult to be certain, but if this was his escape route, it sure was a short one.
“Are you sure?” Skepticism underlay the question.
“Pull off, will ya?”
From the sound of it, the helicopter, if helicopter indeed it was, was getting closer. With an inward prayer, Summer turned off the road onto the tire tracks. The van lurched over ruts and bumps.
Of necessity, she stopped the van about fifteen feet in, at the edge of the ditch, which now appeared more like a yawning gulley.
“What are you stopping for?”
“Possibly it’s escaped your notice, but there’s a ditch in front of us. Now what?”
“It’s a cow-crossing, Rosencrans.”
“Would you stop calling me that? My name is Summer McAfee.”
Summer peered through the open windshield as she spoke. Now that she looked closer, she saw that the moonlight gleamed dully off black, evenly spaced iron bars that formed a ground level bridge over the chasm. As a born and bred country girl, she should have guessed. With fencing on either side, without the cattle guard there would have been a gate. Feeling foolish, she drove over it without a word.
Once across, the road surface did not improve. The van dipped and shuddered, following the scarcely visible trail to the far edge of the field, which was marked by more fencing that separated the pasture from what appeared to be dense woods.
The helicopter, if indeed it had been a helicopter, was very far in the distance now. Summer could barely hear it.
“Where are we going?”
“To a place I know.”
“What kind of place?”
“Just drive, would you? Jesus. Do you yammer like this all the time?”
“Screw you, Frankenstein.”
“Maybe later. When we have more time.”
“In your wildest dreams.”
“Rosencrans, believe me, my wildest dreams don’t include you. More like naked blond triplets with forty-inch chests.”
“I believe it.”
“You should. It’s true. Look out! That’s a cow!”
Summer hit the brakes. There was, indeed, a cow, lying right smack in the middle of the path, placidly chewing its cud. A Black Angus, to be precise, which was a valuable beef animal the color of night. Only its moist eyes reflecting the moonlight revealed its presence. If Frankenstein hadn’t seen it, she would have run right over it. Or into it. Somehow she didn’t think the van would have made it past that cow. It was a very large cow.
“Drive around it.” He spoke impatiently.
“What if we get stuck? Who knows what kind of condition this field’s in? Get out and shoo the thing off the track.”
“And give you the chance to drive off and leave me here? Uh-uh. No way.”
Since that was precisely the thought that had niggled, just momentarily, at the edge of Summer’s mind, she didn’t say anything. Instead she honked the horn. The cow didn’t budge. Frankenstein grabbed her wrist.
“Jesus, Rosencrans! Why don’t you just send up smoke signals to tell them where we are while you’re at it?”
“The name’s McAfee. And I didn’t think of that.” She had been too busy pondering the pros and cons of abandoning him.
“I believe it.” The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. Summer yanked her wrist from his grasp.
A car whizzed past on Highway 41, headed for Nashville, its headlights slicing through the night. It was going way too fast. Summer tensed, and glanced over at the man beside her.
“Drive around it,” he said again. Her suspicion as to the car’s mission was reflected in his voice.
Without another word she drove around the cow, dodged a Grand Canyon-size rut and two of the cow’s fellows lounging nearby, and bumped back onto the track. Another cattle grate marked the boundary between the pasture and the woods. As the van rocked across it, the sound that might have been a helicopter grew louder again. By the time they were under the leafy canopy, there was no longer any room for doubt. Their pursuer was back, almost directly overhead.
“Stop. It’s more likely to see us if we move.”
Summer stepped on the bra
ke. The helicopter dropped low, its searchlight raking the field through which they had just passed. Summer turned in her seat just in time to see the cow they had dodged caught in its beam. The helicopter had more success than the van. With a spooked moo, the creature got to its feet and galloped toward the opposite end of the pasture. The searchlight followed it, flashing on a wave of heaving black hides as panic infected the rest of the herd. For a moment the helicopter hovered. The searchlight panned the field, illuminating grass and milling, mooing animals. As suddenly as it had arrived the helicopter rose, turned, and headed north.
“That was close,” Summer said. Sweat beaded her back, making the cheap nylon blouse cling uncomfortably to her skin.
“Too close.” He sounded a whole heck of a lot cooler than she felt. “Come on, let’s go.”
Summer drove on, hands clenched around the wheel as the van bumped and rocked down the rutted track. Highway 41 was left miles behind, and the woods thinned out. Another cattle crossing, another field, and they pulled out onto blacktop. Against the background of starry sky, slumbering farmhouses dotted the landscape.
Call her paranoid, but the mere act of emerging from beneath the shelter of the trees onto a real road made Summer start to sweat again. Fortunately the road appeared deserted, and, strain though she would, she could detect no trace of sound to indicate that the helicopter was nearby.
“Left,” he directed.
Summer obeyed, then took a deep breath. A moth flew in her mouth. She gagged and spat, finally succeeding in getting it out.
“Bugs are an acquired taste, I believe,” he said.
“Like them, do you?” Disgusted, she wiped the moth-parts-laden spittle from her chin.
“De-licious. Especially panfried …” He smacked his swollen lips appreciatively.
“You’re gross, do you know that?”
“I try.” This was said with suitable modesty.
Summer didn’t deign to reply. A few minutes later, she spoke again.
“Don’t you think we ought to stop somewhere and call the police?”
He laughed.
“We could even stop at one of these farmhouses. I’m sure if we knocked, they’d let us use the phone.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Rosencrans, but who do you think is chasing us?”
“What?”
“Yep.”
Summer sputtered. “That’s not possible. They shot at us. They were trying to kill us.”
“See why honest citizens are always bitching about police brutality?”
That wasn’t funny. “You’re joking, right?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Oh, my God!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
Summer cast him a wild-eyed glance. “There’s got to be some mistake. Sammy may have a prick for a son, but he wouldn’t let his men shoot at innocent people!” A thought occurred to her. “All right, so maybe you’re not so innocent. He still wouldn’t let them just kill you!”
“Old Rosey may not know.”
“You mean they’re doing this without the proper authority? Then all we have to do is go straight to Sammy—I know where he lives—he’ll put a stop to—”
“Whoa, Rosencrans!” This was said as Summer looked for a place to turn around. “Not so fast. It’s not that easy. The problem is, at this point we can’t trust anybody. Not even your esteemed father-in-law. Somebody—lots of somebodies—want me real dead. I’m just not entirely sure who, or why. But one thing I am sure of is this: Whoever it is won’t twitch a whisker at killing you, too.”
“You don’t even know why they’re shooting at you?” Summer was aghast.
Frankenstein shook his head. “Not—exactly.” He hesitated, and shot her a glance. “A few years ago I stumbled onto something—something big. Then—everything happened, and detective work was suddenly the last thing on my mind. But I’ve had a lot of time to think since—hell, I haven’t done much of anything else lately—and I came back to check something out. Tonight I got a little careless, and they caught me at it. And they did their level best to kill me.”
“Who?” It was almost a moan.
“I told you, I don’t know. Not for sure. It might not be the police, exactly. Maybe just one or two rogue cops are involved. But there’s something going on, some kind of very large criminal operation. I was watching some kind of deal go down in the cemetery beside the funeral home just before I got hit over the head.”
“Oh, my God!” Summer pictured herself scrubbing on, all unknowing, while mayhem and murder took place just yards away. Ghosts would have been preferable.
“Pull in here.” The van had just topped a rise, and traveled about a quarter of a mile past a squat white clapboard farmhouse. The “here” Frankenstein indicated was another rutted track, but this time Summer turned onto it with alacrity. Visions of hostile cars swarming like army ants across the region’s roadways took firm possession of her imagination. The helicopter had appeared to be following the highways, too. Under those conditions, the farm track they were bumping over suddenly seemed like a positive haven. When they once again pulled out onto blacktop, she felt her stomach clench.
“Turn left.”
They topped another rise. On the other side, down in a bowl-like valley, tall pines swayed and smooth dark water gleamed in the moonlight.
“Where are we?” It was the first thing she had said for at least ten minutes.
He glanced at her. “Cedar Lake. Take a right at the next intersection.”
Summer did, and found herself confronting seedy civilization: a motel advertising rooms for twenty-four dollars a night, a McDonald’s, closed at this hour, another motel enticing travelers with “Free Cable!,” a run-down outlet mall. A gas station/mini-mart at an intersection appeared to be the only establishment that was open. A single car waited in its parking lot. Next door, a grassy area with uprooted trees and idle heavy equipment spoke of ongoing construction. After that the road curved, following the contours of the lake.
“Turn in here.” He indicated a wide, paved driveway that led up to a fenced enclosure. A double row of long, one-story warehouses made of corrugated metal was enclosed by the fence, which was at least nine feet tall and topped by a triple strand of barbed wire. The gate at the top of the driveway was equally tall and equally buttressed, and, unless he was a better climber than she was, impregnable.
“Punch in nine-one-two-eight.”
The van had stopped at the gate. At Frankenstein’s instruction, Summer glanced in the direction he pointed, to discover a black metal box on a pole. The box vaguely resembled a telephone without a receiver. Like a telephone, it had a number pad.
Rolling down her window—it seemed ridiculous to have to roll down a window when the rest of the van was open to the night, but hers was the sole survivor—Summer punched in the four digits. Faint beeps sounded as she touched each number. When she was done, she stared at the box expectantly. Nothing happened.
“What are you waiting for?”
At Frankenstein’s impatient question, Summer glanced around to discover that the seemingly impregnable gate was swinging open.
9
The boatyard hadn’t changed. As far as Steve could tell, not so much as a tossed Coke can had been moved in three years. The rusted-out pickup loaded with odds and ends parked alongside the aged Winnebago that its owner still hadn’t found time to restore, the oceans of old rubber tires that somebody meant to use someday for something, the seen-better-days boats with hopeful FOR SALE signs in the windows were the same, or the originals’ twins. As always, a few cars belonging to weekend boaters were parked beside the warehouses. Acres of rusty barrels still stood sentinel along the fence. As the van rolled through the gates and up the incline toward where the ground leveled off at the back, Steve was struck by such a strong sense of déjà vu that he was dizzy.
It was as if the world had suddenly spun many revolutions backward, and everything was as it had been before. Before Deedee had kil
led herself, and pretty much ended his life, too. When Deedee died, he lost not only her but his job, his wife, his daughter, and his best friend all in one dreadful stroke. He broke his parents’ hearts; his father died of a heart attack six months later. He lost the respect of nearly everyone who knew him. He lost his own self-respect. Then, in trying to eradicate the pain with booze, he almost lost himself.
Deedee had been blond and pretty and about as big as a mosquito, and he had known her since she was thirteen. He and Mitch had met her at the same time, at the Dairy Queen where all the kids hung out. Since the place was crowded, choice of seating had been limited. He and Mitch had spotted a couple of empty stools at the counter, and he had sat down with scarcely a glance at the frizzy-haired blonde on the next stool. Her ice-cream sundae—hot fudge, his favorite—was served just as he sat, and that was what caught his attention. He must have been eyeing the confection hungrily, because she glanced up at him, smiled, and offered him a bite on a spoon. Surprised to find himself staring into a pretty elfin face with cerulean eyes and a wicked smile, he barely was able to summon the presence of mind to open his mouth. Deedee popped the ice cream in—and looked past him at Mitch. In that instant he lost her to his best friend.
Not that it was any big surprise. Every girl they ever met immediately looked past him at Mitch. Mitch was taller, leaner, smoother, handsomer. Girls were bowled over by him. Steve had gotten used to that by the end of first grade.
But there’d been something about Deedee—he’d minded, sort of, about Deedee. He never had been able to figure out why. There’d been prettier girls. And a whole heck of a lot of “nicer” ones. Deedee had liked to party, and when she drank she got even wilder than she was by nature. Maybe that was what had appealed to him so about her: her wildness. Fear was as foreign as Shanghai to Deedee, while his own natural disposition was about as far from wild as it was possible to get.
“Good old Steve,” Mitch had always called him, with a clap on the shoulder and a hint of affectionate contempt. Good old Steve: that was him, all right. Always keeping doggedly to the path, always doing what was right and expected, always uncomplainingly pulling Mitch out of the frequent peccadilloes he fell into. Who had almost gotten caught replacing the American flag Mitch had stolen from atop the high school when they were teenagers? Good old Steve. Who had spent countless Sundays completing due-on-Monday assignments for both of them when Mitch had been too hung over from partying the night before to get out of bed? Good old Steve. Who had covered for Mitch with Deedee when Mitch had sneaked out with other girls behind her back, even after Mitch and Deedee were married? Good old Steve.
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