It took precious seconds to turn around in the farmer’s front yard. At the end of the driveway, I glanced around. No one going east on St. Francis Road. I was afraid we’d lost him. Then I saw red taillights top a rise going north on Eightieth Avenue. I jammed the car into gear and rushed off after our pursuer.
Scott said, “Let me check this to make sure I’ve got it absolutely clear. We are racing at”—he eyed the speedometer—“at ninety miles per hour after someone who may be trying to kill us. This is the coldest winter in a hundred years. With the wind chill, it’s at least seventy below out. There are ice and snow patches everywhere on the roads, any one of which could hurtle us into oblivion.”
“You worry too much; besides, you’ve got your seat belt on.”
“That’s a comfort. I want you to realize I’m just checking, not criticizing. However, if this gets us killed, I may raise one or two objections.”
“We’re closer,” I whispered. I eased off the gas pedal. “It’s one guy, I think.” I settled down to follow him.
“Why are we whispering?” Scott whispered.
“I’ve never trailed someone who was trailing me. I’ve got goose bumps.”
“Or rocks in your head.”
“Maybe both.” He turned left on 191st Street. “I don’t want any dramatic confrontations. I want to see where he goes, maybe see who it is.”
“He could spot us. He may have a gun.”
“I’ll stop if you want. Seriously.” The other guy turned right, onto LaGrange Road.
Scott grumbled, “You’re sticking this on my shoulders.”
“This has to be by unanimous consent. It’s deadly and dangerous. I vote yes.”
He sighed. “You better watch the road. He’s turning onto the Interstate.”
The car ahead raced onto the ramp going west toward Joliet. We followed. He sped up to seventy-five and left it there to cruise. I dropped several cars behind, hiding behind a semi-truck or two. Enough cars broke the speed limit along with us to keep us hidden, I hoped. In one of winter’s oddities, the road remained remarkably clear of snow. The wind howled straight out of the west. North-south roads might be difficult to drive, but for now, the highway was clear. Our pursuer didn’t slow down through the 45-mph speed zone in Joliet. Then again, nobody else ever does, either. Through Joliet and past the interchange with 1-55, we sped into the night. Here fewer cars offered us protection from discovery. I feared we were too far behind. We could easily miss him if he turned off; but on he went and on we followed. Fifty minutes past I-55, he pulled off at the Ottowa exit. He sped south. The country roads slowed him. Even though the road had recently been plowed, drifts rapidly shifted back over it. We played cat and mouse through the sparse traffic into Grand Ridge, and then drove five more miles, until he turned onto a private drive. I drove past, then doubled back. I paused a half mile beyond the entrance.
“Now what?” Scott asked.
“We go exploring.”
“I don’t remember skulking about in the dark as being part of the agreement when we became lovers.”
“Shows what you know. It’s right there after who has to take out the garbage on winter weekends.”
“Is not.”
I whumped his shoulder. It couldn’t hurt through all that winter-coat padding. “I’ll show you when we get back; until then, we’ve come this far. We might as well see the whole show. I promise if it looks even slightly dangerous, we’ll go back, get in the car, and go home.”
He sighed. A bright half-moon and a star-filled sky above the wind-driven snow gave enough light to show the indecision in his rugged jaw.
“Come on, big guy.” He hesitated a little longer, then caught my eyes and held them. Finally, he nodded.
I drove the car as far off the shoulder as I dared, to keep it hidden. I had confidence in its front-wheel drive to get us out of any deep drifts. Gravel crunched under our feet as we walked the fifty yards to the opening of the driveway. No cars passed us. A cloudless sky loomed above, but at ground level, the wind whipped snow at a violent pace. Rivulets of drifts spread slowly across the road. Waves of white swept over our feet and disappeared down the road.
A thin sheet of ice covered the gravel driveway almost completely. Glassy ice from the last semithaw filled the potholes. From the road, we couldn’t see the farther end of the driveway, but we could make out lights in the distance.
Barren black trees, branches whipping in the wind, lined each side of the driveway. Even with the clear moonlight and starlight, we stumbled over ruts and bumps.
“They could at least have paved the damn thing for us,” Scott muttered. He was muffled from head to toe. I could barely see the slits where his eyes shone. At times, the wind blew the snow stinging into our eyes. By the time we got to the end of the driveway, my eyes had watered enough to form icicles on the scarf I had wrapped around my face. It took more than fifteen minutes, a sudden turn bringing us to within five feet of the back of the Trans Am that had been following us. Painted flat black, it radiated a sinister warmth. I could hear the faint clicking of the cooling engine. Having nothing to write with, I repeated the license number in my head five or six times.
We crouched behind the car and examined the vista in front of us. I lowered my scarf for a better view. Straight ahead, maybe twenty yards, stood a rambling old farmhouse, three stories tall, with numerous additions that had pushed the building far beyond its original shape. Lights shone in the house on the first floor only. I couldn’t see anyone moving inside. To our right, maybe thirty yards beyond the house, a haphazardly renovated old barn wheezed and groaned in the wind. A circular drive led past the house and around the barn. An unshoveled path led directly from the car to the house. Only one set of footprints disturbed the drifts toward the front door.
To our left, the woods made a wide circle and then drew within ten feet of the house. We inched in that direction. Our feet crunched frighteningly loudly in the darkness, but the noise of the wind would cover our passage, I hoped.
We crept past the car. I glanced inside. The dark interior told me nothing.
We inched along among the trees. Stealth in the Vietnam jungles was never like this, but the training then served me now. The woods provided enough cover for me to feel safe. I heard Scott’s low breathing behind me. He moved less than two feet away. The wind pulled away the sound of our feet crunching on the snow. Someone could have been following us at five feet and I wouldn’t have heard them. However, my jungle training —something I’d never lost, all those instincts I didn’t want to remember—came back. I was wary, alert, and I hoped a little dangerous. At the near point to the house, we stopped to reconnoiter. Two feet from the house, barren bushes made an ice-covered picket fence. A light shone through the first-floor window closest to the front. I put my lips next to where Scott’s ear most likely was inside his blue knit cap. “I want to get a closer look,” I said. “Stay here.”
I left before he could object. I rushed across the expanse of coverless darkness and stopped an inch from the house, almost slipping on the ice that pooled close to the foundation bricks. I slid-tiptoed closer to the window. Slowly, I raised my head, every sense alert to any possible movement. At the moment, the wind presented the largest problem. It whipped around this side of the house in a gale. Again, my eyes stung with the wind-driven snow. I feared that the constant watering might prevent me from seeing.
I crouched over. With one hand, I gripped the windowsill. I placed my other hand against the house, felt it slip, caught myself. I planted my feet as carefully as possible. I raised my head millimeter by millimeter toward the windowsill. My left eye appeared over the rim of the sill a minute before the other. I saw a wall covered with bookcases directly opposite me. In front of it sat a massive desk, the large wooden type they made for schoolteachers before they discovered cheap plastic or steel ones.
I turned my head left an inch. I glimpsed a barren wall with a doorway in the middle leading to the darkened room beyond.
I switched back to the right with painful slowness. Holding such a tight position began to strain my muscles. I’d have to leave in a few minutes. To the right, I saw Pete Montini standing on one side of a fireplace, head down, fists clenched. On the other side of the fireplace was a man I didn’t recognize. He towered to at least six foot nine. He wore baggy painter pants, a red-checked flannel shirt opened at the throat to reveal a long-sleeved winter T-shirt, the ends of which shown at his wrists. He shook his extended hand, finger pointing, an inch from Pete’s face. I couldn’t hear their words.
Between them on a rug in front of the fireplace lay a German shepherd puppy. His head lay on his paws, his eyes flicking to the two humans above. I hoped his well-trained mother or father wasn’t around.
Pete raised a hand as if pleading. The other slammed his fist on the mantelpiece. Pete flushed red. He shook his head no over and over. He seemed to be wilting under the bullying of the other. The stranger raised a hand to slap Pete. At that moment, my straining muscles began to give way. I caught myself with my left hand on the windowsill. An eternity later, I breathed. I looked again. Pete held the side of his face. The dog’s head was up, ears at attention, eyes staring to the window where I perched. Time to leave: young or not, trained or not, I didn’t want to wrestle with a German shepherd and his overly large master. I turned to steal away. My foot slipped. I caught myself for an instant, felt myself falling, grabbed a bush. It held, but my feet began to slide sideways. An instant later, my left leg gave a solid thump against the wall. Immediately, the dog roared to life. For a puppy, he sounded like a regiment. I dashed for the cover of the trees. Halfway across the glaring openness, floodlights bathed the entire perimeter of the house as bright as daylight. I heard doors slamming, loud shouting.
In the shelter of the trees, I searched frantically for Scott. I heard a shotgun blast, felt the pellets whiz past my head. I ducked down. “Scott!” I whispered. Stumbling and sliding, I hurried toward the Trans Am and the beginning of the driveway. I didn’t want to chance a direct dash through the woods and possibly risk getting lost with a dog on my trail, followed by at least one man with a shotgun. Where was Scott? Then I heard a hoarse whisper behind me. I recognized Scott’s muffled yelps. I stopped. Making no attempt to be quiet, he stumbled into the tree that I was hidding behind. The lights from the house let us see far enough into the woods to make our way along the perimeter. Scott said, “What the hell?” The shotgun boomed.
“Later. Run.” Forgetting quiet or attempts at concealment, we raced for the driveway, then rushed back the way we had come. The ice on the drive proved nastily treacherous because of our haste. Twice I slipped. Once Scott fell in a heap. I dragged him up and we kept going. I heard the car behind us roar to life.
“Through here,” I shouted to Scott. No choice now, and by hurrying cross-country, we could cut closer to the car. We stumbled, fell, struggled on. The snow dragged at our feet, making it harder than running in sand. Branches whipped our faces as we dashed past threatening trees.
We hit the road. The black Trans-Am sat at the end of the driveway. If he decided to go left, we could make a dash to our car. We had a 50 percent chance. Scott scrabbled on the ground. He heaved a large slab of ice to his waist. The slab was larger than a grapefruit and had jagged edges. He hefted it carefully, then wound up and pitched it far over the waiting car. It thumped with satisfying loudness through a mass of pine branches at least fifty feet to the other side of the car. After a moment’s hesitation, the Trans-Am took off in that direction.
We watched the taillights for a moment, then ran to our car and threw ourselves in. I jammed the keys into the ignition. It roared to life. The tires squealed in protest, spun on the ice, almost sank into the snow. I swore. I eased up on the gas pedal for a second, let the tires catch, then swung an arc to U-turn away from pursuit. As we circled, I saw the taillights on the other car glow bright as it braked. It began its turn. I righted the Porsche and floored it. For a few minutes, the diminishing lights of the following car pursued us; but I had the Porsche flat out. Fortunately, no one else had chosen this night for a pleasant excursion. Countless times, we plowed through growing drifts and I thought I might lose control of the car, but the tires caught the road each time and the car purred on beautifully.
At the first crossroad, I turned north. We hit Route 178 near Rouyn. We roared back north through the sleeping town. Two miles beyond, we hit Interstate 80. For the first time, I slowed to something approaching the speed limit. I unhunched my shoulders and looked at Scott.
“Let’s do that again, say sometime when we’re in our nineties.” He drew a deep breath. “What did you see?”
I filled him in.
Scott said, “We should tell the cops.”
“What?” I said. “That we trespassed?”
“The guy followed us.”
“And we followed him. We don’t have a case.”
He grumbled awhile. I told him that whenever we next saw Frank, I’d mention it, but I doubted they could do anything based on what had happened.
He’d tried to memorize the Trans Am’s license number, too. With all the excitement and even pooling our memories, we couldn’t remember any of it.
We drove the last half hour in silence. By the time we got to New Lenox, Scott’s head rested on the window as he slept. I kept myself awake with thoughts of what all of it meant. I didn’t feel we were close to clearing Jeff or finding out who killed Susan. Montini and Windham were hip-deep in some kind of shit—with the mystery man I’d seen tonight, I presumed. What and how I wasn’t sure, but drugs were a good bet.
At home, we quickly undressed and crawled into bed. I snuggled close to Scott, draping an arm around him as he lay on his side, my chest against his back.
He yawned. I caught it and did the same. “Thanks for sticking with me,” I said.
“No problem,” he muttered. “One of us has to keep sane in this relationship.”
I rubbed my five-o’clock shadow gently around the back of his neck.
“Shit,” he said.
“I thought you liked this,” I mumbled into his neck.
“I do. I forgot. Your mom called today with last-minute changes in Christmas plans.”
Nigh on to perfection he may be, but besides nagging about cars, he forgets messages. I was too tired to go over that argument. We discussed familial logistics for a few minutes.
“No word from your folks?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“They’ll come around,” I assured him. The Judy Collins tape I’d placed on the stereo clicked off. We listened to the wind, once again raised to a galelike howl. As we’d pulled up to the house, I couldn’t believe how high the drifts were, three feet in some places, and this with only blowing snow from the last storm. Drowsiness and comfort crept over me.
The phone rang. “What the fuck?” I glanced at the clock. “It’s one in the morning,” I moaned. I plodded to the living room to pick up the phone. I’d put off getting an extension for the bedroom for ten years. As I answered the jangling thing, I could see Wolf Road out the picture window. Not a car moved on it.
7
“Mr. Mason, I’m desperate.” I recognized Jeff Trask’s voice.
“Where are you, Jeff?”
“In a phone booth at the gas station across from the high school.”
I heard Scott pad up behind me.
“What are you doing there?”
“I can’t go home. Can you help me? I’m cold.”
“I’ll come get you. Hold on and don’t go anywhere.” I hung up.
Scott asked, “Who was that and where are you going?”
Back in the bedroom, I explained as I dressed. Scott started pulling on his winter gear.
“I can go,” I said. “It’s only a few minutes’ drive.”
“No way. In this weather, even without somebody after you, it’s too easy to get stuck in a drift or skid off the road.” On the way out, I glanced at the thermometer hanging outs
ide the back door. It read twenty-one below. I drove my car through eerily deserted streets. It took twenty minutes instead of the usual ten.
We saw Jeff in the phone booth, stamping his feet and pounding his arms around his chest in attempts to keep warm. We installed him in the backseat of the Chevette.
“What happened?” I asked.
“My mom bailed me out around four today. When I got home, she started in on me. When she got back from the hospital with Eric, she started in again, ranting endlessly. She wouldn’t stop. Finally, I blew up. I smashed the TV in my room. I threw my stereo receiver and turntable against the wall. She tossed me out of the house. She wouldn’t let me take the car.”
“You should have called from home,” I said.
“I tried to, but you weren’t home. I tried calling all my friends for a place to stay. If parents answered, they told me no. The few kids I did talk to didn’t want me at their house. I guess I have even fewer friends than I thought. Nobody wants a murder suspect around.
“So I walked to the movies and sat through Scrooged and Rain Man. But the movies closed around twelve, and you still weren’t home, so I tried walking around. It was too cold. I hung around the White Hen across from school as long as I could, but I think they were getting suspicious, so I decided to give your place one last chance. You said to call anytime, Mr. Mason.”
“It’s okay, Jeff. We’ll put you up tonight, then figure out what to do tomorrow.”
“I won’t go back there,” he announced.
At home, I got him a few blankets and set up the couch for him. It was nearly two. Tomorrow would be soon enough for questions and answers. I did give his mother a quick call to let her know he was safe. She thanked me and agreed to the solution. She sounded grateful, relieved, and at her wits’ end.
Jeff stumbled into the kitchen the next morning while I made the automatic coffee maker do its duty. Scott had brought me the simplest one on the market for my birthday. I’d managed to break three others. Machines don’t like me. Or they see me coming and nudge each other and say, “Hey, Harry, here’s a live one,” and they break. When Scott comes into the room, they whistle innocently as if it were all my fault.
Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Page 9