I warily stumble to my feet and limp through the room to the stairs where I reach out and grab for the hand railing. I yank myself upward, groaning as I go. I limp my way through the kitchen and into the living room where the couch Joanne and I made out twenty years ago rests against the wall. I look beyond the screen door into the yard where Ritchie is racing through the rain toward Kristie’s car.
Hopefully, she’s locked herself safely inside. Hopefully, she’ll be able to get out of the driveway without getting stuck in the mud. Hopefully, she’ll get away. But I’m not so naïve as to simply hope for the best, so I limp down the steps into the tall grass, the rain instantly melting my clothing to my body. My legs are rubbery. I can barely stand, and as I weave my way through the wet grass, I realize there’s nothing I can do to help her. At least not from here. I have only one play, and it’s a gamble at best.
Part IV
The tires throw mud up on the windows as the car fishtails backward along the overgrown driveway. Kristie turns the wheel, and stomps on the brakes, bringing the car to a stop, the headlights cutting through the downpour where she sits idling in the middle of the road.
Ritchie is climbing into his truck. He pulls the door shut and flips on the blinding head beams, the yellow eyes cutting through the rain. The engine of his big F350 roars to life, and the tires spin, propelling the truck forward. He races through the mud, the fearsome front end a monster bearing down on her.
She throws the car into drive and mashes the gas pedal to the floor. Ritchie’s truck careens into the road, managing to clip her rear bumper and send the car skidding slightly to the side. She recovers, points the car toward town and bolts forward into the storm. In her rearview mirror, Ritchie’s headlights are already drawing closer. Her car is all over the road, the nearly bald tires threatening to hydroplane.
Lightning flashes overhead as she tears over the hill.
Don’t stop until you reach the police station, Tony’s voice echoes in her mind. Drive through the front door if you have to, but don’t stop for anything. Red lights or anything…
Her wipers are on high but of hardly any use. She can’t see anything. Hydroplaning is a real concern, but more than that, she could drive right off the road without even knowing until it’s already too late. It’s raining too hard. And once Ritchie catches her, it’s over. No more games. No more talk. She has to make it to town. If she can make it to town, maybe he’ll back off. Especially if there are other people around. He’d have to kill her in public…
Her car weaves to the side, skating on water, but she’s careful not to over-compensate, careful to bring the vehicle back under control. The speedometer inches over seventy, but that’s as far as she dares to push it.
Ritchie is drawing closer, his 4x4 plowing through the water. His high beams are cutting through the rain, growing larger and more menacing. He’s racing closer as if she’s sitting still. Keeping one hand and one eye on the wheel, she reaches across the passenger seat to the glove-box. Ripping it down, she reaches inside and grabs for her phone. She thumbs 9-1-1 and presses ‘send’ just as her car is struck from behind, lurching forward. Checking her rearview again, Ritchie’s truck is closing in for a second strike.
Ring.
She tightens her grip on the wheel, bracing for impact. He rams her sharply, her car threatening to spin out of control. Dropping the phone, she puts both hands on the wheel and straightens out. Ritchie backs off, the yellow eyes of his rig flaring in her rearview mirror. Her hand searches the floor for the phone, fumbling around until she finds it. Thunder rumbles overhead, clouds tumbling over one another. She can barely make out the road through the torrential rain.
“911 emergency,” an operator says through the tiny earpiece.
“Hello?”
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s this guy who’s chasing me!” she screams. “He’s trying to run me off the road!”
“Can you give me your location? Your name?”
“Kristine Lambert. I’m on Route 89 heading southbound into town. He killed my sister, and now he’s after me!”
This time there’s urgency in the voice. “Someone’s trying to kill you?”
Ritchie’s truck smacks her from behind again, but it’s a straight-on shot and the blow only propels her forward. Up ahead she can see the dim glow of Payton drawing closer.
“Ma’am?”
“Ritchie Hudson!” she screams. “He’s trying to kill me!”
The two vehicles cut through the rain like razors. The headlights in her rearview are drawing closer again, and they’re coming on fast.
A stoplight is up ahead, the light turning yellow.
Don’t stop for anything. Red lights or anything…
“Oh, my god!” Kristie shouts into the phone. “I’m going through!”
“Ma’am?”
Kristie mashes the gas, pulling ahead of Ritchie’s front bumper. The light turns red and cars begin moving forward through the intersection. Screaming, she keeps her foot on the gas, the 911 operator shouting through the phone. The cars are passing back and forth in front of her, entirely oblivious to the approaching vehicles moving too fast to stop.
Barreling through the intersection, horns blare, and cars skid sideways, whipping out of her way. Even so, Kristie feels her bumper clip the rear bumper of one car and the front bumper of another as she sails between them. The impact sends both cars spinning, her own car slowed slightly as she streaks through the intersection, Ritchie close behind.
A bolt of lightning strikes a tree as she races by, the tree bursting into flame—a huge branch collapsing onto a power line and sending a shower of sparks raining down on top of her. The branch bounces in the road behind them both, the power in the homes on the right side of the road blinking out.
“Ma’am?” the operator calls. “Are you there?” Her voice sounds far away.
“I’m heading toward the police station!” she shouts.
A sharp corner is coming up, but she can’t slow down or he’ll punch her backend and send her spinning. The turn is sharp. Too sharp. She won’t make it. She’s going to—
“Help me!” she screams.
“Ma’am? Where are you?”
Kristie tosses the phone into the seat beside her and takes hold of the wheel with both hands, her foot poised over the brake pedal.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
The curb races at her.
Three…
The turn looks too sharp. Way too sharp.
Two…
She’ll never make it. She’s going over. She’s—
One…
Biting down, she stomps the brake and jerks the wheel to the left. The car goes sideways, the headlights of Ritchie’s truck bearing down on her. Her foot goes from the brake to the gas and the car finds purchase, yanking her forward. Ritchie’s truck lurches as he tries the sharp turn, the Ford tilting to the side, running off the road where the tires spin in the wet grass. The engine growls, the tires chewing up the manicured lawn and spitting it out as he charges forward.
The police station is close. She can see the lights. She can make it. She has to make it. Checking her mirrors, the truck has found its four feet and is quickly closing the distance. Ritchie must know that this is it. He must. But he’s not giving up. He just keeps coming.
Kristie is sobbing as she pushes the pedal to the floor. Forty, fifty, sixty miles per hour. The truck is still closing in, the headlights blinding in her mirror. There’s another sharp turn coming up, but she has no intention of trying to navigate it. The police station is straight ahead. Across the parking lot, over the grass and up the front steps. She’ll drive right through the front door if she has to. Just like Tony said.
She floors it, leaping the curb, bending the front axle, the car bouncing uncontrollably as she barrels through the parking lot, narrowly missing
some of the parked cars, skidding against the sides of others. She’s screaming as her car hurdles another curb, the front wheels twisting inward, the nose of the Grand Am digging into the lawn, the car’s back end whipping around. The big eyes of Ritchie’s truck race at her, and she shrieks, bracing for impact. When it happens, she’s thrown against the seatbelt, the side of her car caving in—pinching her against the center consol. Ritchie continues to push her forward, the grill of his truck growling and hissing just inches from her face through the blown-out driver’s side window. His truck pushes her car sideways over the lawn and then over the edge of the next curb, up the front steps and—
Drive through the front door if you have to, but don’t stop for anything…
—through the front door, glass exploding around her. People leap from their desks, her broken car sliding over marble flooring under fluorescent lights. Desks splinter into jagged pieces, her car turned sideways as the truck pushes her deeper into the building. The fluorescents explode overhead, showering the two vehicles in sparks. Three tons of metal slide into the police station on a demonic path.
Then everything stops.
Everything goes quiet.
Both vehicles come to a rest, both engines dead. Emergency lights are swinging from the ceiling, blinking on and off, casting shadows around the destroyed room. She’s covered in blood, frozen in shock. Outside, it’s still storming, the rain cascading off the roof and running into the building through the gaping hole her car had made.
Part V
Soaking wet, bruised and bleeding, I open my eyes. Everything’s gone silent. Even the rain has stopped. Then I look around and realize that it actually hasn’t. We’re just not outside anymore. There’s a roof overhead, lights swinging back and forth, casting broken light across the interior of what looks something like a police station. Slowly pushing myself into a sitting position, the pain is like spikes being driven through my left leg. Grimacing, I pause to catch my breath, surprised that I survived.
It’s eerily quiet. So quiet that I can hear the rainwater dripping from my hair and the sounds of someone softly sobbing not far away. There’s a squeak followed by a metallic groan as the truck’s cabin door swings open. Then his huge frame climbs out, his back to me.
This isn’t over.
I look around, searching for a weapon—a shovel, a rake, a club, anything. Then my eyes stop. There’s a rusty old 12 gauge double barrel lying in a pool of bloody rainwater right here with me in the bed of Ritchie’s truck.
Part VI
Kristie wriggles from where she’s pinned under her steering wheel, the driver’s side door crushed up against her. She’s bleeding. She can taste it, and something feels terribly wrong.
It’s quiet now.
A woman approaches, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She’s not a cop. At least she’s not dressed like one. She’s wearing office attire, a runner in her pantyhose. She peers through the cracked windshield of Kristie’s car. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
“He’s trying…” she gasps, unable to draw enough air. “…trying to kill me.”
Ritchie kicks open his door, his leg snaking out. Shards of glass crunch beneath his weight as he stands. He looks pissed. A deep-seated frown ruins his face as he straightens before hobbling a step closer, a handgun in his hand trembling at his side.
“He’s trying to kill me,” Kristie repeats, her voice weak.
The woman turns, sees Ritchie and shrieks, stumbling backward before tripping—tumbling to the floor. She starts kicking, trying to back away, her heels useless on the waxed floors. Yet she keeps kicking, her hands opening up and leaving two trails of red behind her as she fishes through the sea of glass.
“Hands up, Hudson!” someone shouts—an officer. He’s on one knee, a bad gash on his forehead spilling blood into one eye.
Ritchie limps forward. The lights overhead continue to swing back and forth, blinking and casting shadows.
“Oh, my god…” Kristie wheezes. “Help me…”
“Drop it!” the officer yells. “Now!”
“She killed her sister!” Ritchie thunders. “She killed Joanne Lambert! Her and Tony Abbott. They both done her together!”
“Put the weapon down!” the bloody officer shouts.
“Shoot him…” Kristie manages. “Shoot him…”
Ritchie limps her way, the pistol hanging at his side. “But I brung her to you. I brung you the killer.”
“Drop it!” another officer shouts.
Ritchie looks up, his eyes crazed. He’s panting, his hand twitching at his side. “She killed her sister!” he growls. His eyes go from the officers to Kristie. There’s nothing inside. No feeling or sympathy. Only entitlement. He expects to be exonerated for everything that’s happened. Not because he’s innocent, but because he’s Ritchie Hudson—the hometown hero that everyone loves. He doesn’t realize that it’s over. He doesn’t realize that it’s been over. To him it’s like high school never ended, and he’s still inches away from completing some kind of masterpiece that will somehow enshrine him. He doesn’t understand that his legacy is nothing more than a signed game jersey hanging on the back wall of the only tavern here in town. The days on the pitching mound, the days down by the Beaver, the memories and the cheers are all behind him. All that’s left is a half-forgotten ghost of a man, and that ghost is standing in broken glass and clutching a Beretta, a scowl on his face.
“She ruined my life,” Ritchie says. He’s panting as he looks around. Then he zeroes in, his eyes going from light to dark. “So she dies first.” He jerks his wrist, raising the pistol.
There’s a thunderous crack as a gun goes off.
Part VII
“Shoot him…” Kristie manages. “Shoot him…” Her voice is raspy and strained.
Ritchie limps her way, the pistol dangling from his hand at his side. “But I brung her to you. I brung you the killer!”
“Drop it!” another officer shouts.
“She killed her sister!”
My shoulder is out of whack, and my left leg feels on fire—my jeans soaked with blood. But I’m still here, and as long as I’m breathing, I will do whatever I can to end this. Clumsily slipping out of the bed of Ritchie’s truck, I step gingerly, my bad leg threatening to buckle. Broken glass is sprinkled on the floor like diamonds. There’s too much to avoid, so I limp along the best I can while trying to sneak up on the turned back of who was once my best friend.
“She ruined my life,” Ritchie says.
I lift the shotgun waist high and lock the hammer.
“So she dies first,” he says, jerking his wrist, raising the pistol.
I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
Part VIII
Ritchie stumbles forward like he’d been shoved from behind. Then he squares up, planting his feet solidly on the floor to keep from tumbling. The gun he’s holding slips to his waist, his hand swinging loosely back and forth. He starts sucking wind, his chest heaving. He tries to lift the pistol, but it only rises a few inches before settling back at his side. He stumbles forward a few more steps toward her ruined car, and through the cracked glass of her Pontiac, Kristie continues to tug frantically against her seatbelt.
“Drop the gun!” one of the cops shout, but they’re not shouting at Ritchie. They’re looking at me.
“I’m putting it down,” I answer, kneeling down and setting the shotgun on the floor before raising my hands up over my head.
Ritchie is gasping, but he manages to remain on his feet, his massive frame teetering ever so slightly.
Kristie tugs at her seatbelt one last time, and it finally comes free. She lunges at the window, trying to crawl through the broken window, her eyes flashing, but she’s still pinched beneath the steering wheel. “He killed my sister,” she shrieks, her voice raspy. “He killed her…”
Ritchie is wavering unsteadily on his feet. “Someone shot me,” he mumbles. “Who…” He turns around, his eyes dancing. He’s looking—searchi
ng, a string of blood stretching from his lip to his chin. His face has gone pale, but when he finds me, he relaxes. Then he grins, that stupid ass smile of his spreading across his stupid ass face and into his eyes. Not just any grin, but that famous Ritchie grin of old. I see the man-child I knew as a boy. “Damn, man,” he says, spitting a wad of dark red blood. “You do that?”
I say nothing. I just glare at him.
“How’d you get here so fast?”
I just stare.
Ritchie looks around. “What’d you do? Hitch a ride in the back of my truck?”
I continue to glare.
“That had to be one helluva ride.” He snorts, and clears his throat, gagging as he hacks up a wad of bloody phlegm before spitting. “Shot me in the back.”
“Put the gun down, Hudson!” one the officers shout.
Ritchie winces, gritting his teeth. “I can’t believe you…I can’t believe you really done it.” He winces again and drops the gun. It clatters uselessly on the tile floor. He crouches down, shuffling into a sitting position. The pistol is inches from his hand, but he’s not interested in it anymore. Instead, he’s looking at the shotgun I’d set on the floor. “Is that my dad’s gun?”
I say nothing.
“That damn thing…” He just stares at it, his face wrinkling slightly as if he’d tasted something sour. “The fucker keeled over,” he mutters, clearing his throat. He snorts, hacks up, and spits another wad of thick blood that slaps the floor. “’Bout ten years back.” He licks his lips. “I remember when me and him would go hunting,” he whispers, grimacing. He breathes heavily for a few seconds, his eyes tired. “I’m glad…” he says softly, blood dipping from his mouth onto shirt. “I’m glad it was you that done it, and not one of them…”
Payton Hidden Away Page 29