Bad Penny

by John D. Brown

  There was nothing but interstate and high country desert for a hundred miles east of Rock Springs. Everybody drove eighty-five. So if he tried an interstate escape that way, the Nissan would soon catch up without even breaking the legal speed limit. East was no place to run. Frank had to assume Tony would see that.

  On the other hand, if he went west, it was only seventeen miles to Green River. Lots of streets. Lots of hiding places. More cops.

  Tony had been heading south-east when Frank had last heard him. Probably to get on I-80 at the east end of town. Frank was on the west end.

  Frank said, “I want you to go east on I-80. I think he’s going to be coming our way. We can get a visual, and I’ll call the cops—there’s always at least one highway patrol watching the stretch between Green River and Rock Springs.” Although that might not be exactly how it played out. The median on the interstate wasn’t too bad. If worse came to worse, he’d have Sam cross it. And then what? The mighty minivan against a Nissan and at least two semi-automatics?

  “Are you carrying?” Frank asked.

  “Carrying?”

  “A gun.”

  “No,” Sam said. “I’m really not a big gun guy. The best I’ve got is a spud gun in the back. It’s for the Cub Scouts.”

  That was splendid news. If this thing went south, Frank would show up to the rumble with vegetables.

  Sam shook his head. “All these years laughing at the gun heads, and now I need one. I used to go paintballing all the time.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Frank said. Except it was. But you played with the hand you were dealt, even if it was Mr. Mormon in his minivan. Frank would have to count on the Wyoming police to bring the fire power.

  The last light before the interstate turned yellow. The car in front of them started to brake. Sam did not. Instead, he put on the gas and maneuvered into the other lane, passing the car, and shooting toward the backside of the braking pickup just ahead.

  “Sam!” Frank said. He put a hand on the dash, pushed his foot to the floor, braced for impact.

  The pickup was jacked up, its big fat steel bumper just about the right height to come bursting through the windshield to crush chests and heads. Frank watched it zoom toward them.

  They were going to die.

  But then Sam yanked the Mazda back into the first lane in front of the car and sped through the intersection just as the light turned red.

  They both took a breath.

  “That was close,” Sam said.

  “You think?” Frank said, his whole body still on high alert. “Let’s not go out of this life just yet.”

  “I’m with you on that, bro.”

  “And not in this vehicle. I’m pretty sure Saint Peter will pull our man cards for having bought it in a baby blue minivan with unicorn stickers.”

  “You get special points in heaven for rainbow unicorns,” Sam said.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure. You’re totally covered in this van.”

  “I feel so much better now,” Frank said.

  They raced the last half mile to the interchange, peeled off Dewar and motored hard up the long on-ramp to the interstate. They passed Walmart. The community college was next, standing proudly in the distance amidst acres of dry blue-gray sagebrush and scorched weeds. Ahead, the freeway rolled out in front of them, and Sam merged onto it.

  I-80 was the main artery through Wyoming. The only artery. On any given day anywhere from six to ten thousand semis hauling freight rumbled past Rock Springs. There was a clog of them on the road right now coming up behind. Sam gassed the minivan, then put on his blinker and pulled into the fast lane.

  “You watch the road,” Frank said. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for the Nova. And no more of that Mario-Andretti-Doctor-Jekyll-Mister-Hyde.”

  “Are we chasing bad guys or going out on a stroll?”

  “We’re avoiding getting hit by big hunks of speeding metal, glass, and rubber that weigh a couple tons.”

  “I had gobs of room back at the light,” Sam said. “Things were totally under control.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Frank searched the interstate and side streets and then searched the interstate again in a clockwise pattern. He used his fingers to direct his gaze so he didn’t miss anything. Nothing but regular traffic.

  Sam said, “I still don’t see why the girl put a box cutter to his throat.”

  “She doesn’t know who we are. Ed came to my house. Which means Tony and I are just two more of Ed’s upstanding associates.”

  “Ed’s the bad guy?”

  “Ed is a soul slimy with rot. I think maybe this is a ransom kidnapping. I think she’s illegal, or part of some rival organization. I think that’s why she’s afraid of the cops.”

  Sam shook his head. “You read about the kidnappings in Arizona. You don’t ever imagine that crap coming here.”

  “Rock Springs isn’t what I’d call a pure town.”

  “It’s not gang land either.”

  “Don’t worry. That crap didn’t come here. It was just passing through and ran into a little snag called Tony.” Mr. White Hat. The one person who had written Frank faithfully all seven years. The one person who’d never given up hope. Frank had all his letters in a box. All of them. From the ones when Tony was ten that were mostly drawings of stick figure army men and dinosaurs and sharks, all the way up to the one where the boy had included a bit of poetry he’d written for his high school Language Arts class. It was about playing Call of Duty on his Xbox. Not Robert Frost by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly a heck of a lot more fun. Tony was the closest thing he had to a little brother.

  Up ahead on the other side of the freeway an older car pulled to the far side of a Schwan’s refrigerated food truck.

  Frank’s heart leapt. “I think I see them,” he said.

  The Schwan’s truck approached then passed on the other side. Frank spun in his seat to see the old car behind it, but it wasn’t the Nova. It was a Camero that looked like crap. His heart fell, and he turned back around. “False alarm.”

  There were three Rock Springs exits on I-80, each about two miles apart. They were coming up on the middle one. A white Lincoln Town Car with Oklahoma license plates started to pass Sam on the right. Frank scanned the streets below, searched the oncoming traffic. The Nova wasn’t anywhere. He tracked the frontage road, looked behind him and Sam. He turned back around. They were approaching the overpass for the second exit. He glanced down at Elk Street, which ran underneath the interstate, and froze.

  The back end of a two-toned silver and gray car slipped underneath the overpass. Had he seen the brick dent in the panel above the wheel?

  Sam and Frank sped onto the overpass. Frank looked out Sam’s window to watch for the car as it came out the other side, but two semis blocked his view. He waited. Waited. Come on! Then the semis heading west passed by, and beyond them, down on Elk, the Nissan emerged from underneath the overpass. Frank looked farther up the road, and about a quarter mile in front of the Nissan, racing north past the Flying J truck stop, was the Nova.

  “That’s them!” Frank yelled. “They’re heading north! We’ve got to exit.”

  “I already passed the exit,” Sam said.

  “We’ve got to exit!”

  There was no way they could go off road across the median here—too much oncoming traffic, and even if there wasn’t, there was a fence. The big Lincoln Town Car was still in the lane on their right, the off-ramp growing small behind them.

  Up head on the right, the on-ramp was coming fast.

  “Sam!”

  “There’s a car.”

  “Down the on-ramp. It’s time for Mr. Hyde.”

  Sam didn’t balk. No panic. No questions. He tapped the brakes, put on his blinker, and jerked over into the right lane. And then he was off onto the shoulder, dust flying behind the van, the tires roaring across the whump whump whump of the rumble strips.

  They were g
oing too fast. Furthermore, two cars and an SUV were accelerating up the on-ramp.

  “Hold on,” Sam said.

  Frank braced himself.

  Sam slammed on his anti-lock brakes. The van pitched forward. Frank strained to keep from flying into the dash, and realized he should have put his seatbelt on because Sam wasn’t having any problem staying in his seat. A ten-pound sack of potatoes slid out from some hiding place in the back, flew up the center aisle of the van, and slammed into the foot of the console.

  On their left, two cars rushed past followed by a semi Frank was sure was going to hit them. Then the minivan came to a halt and rocked back just about dead center of the on-ramp. The first two cars coming up saw them and maneuvered quick stops. The last one slowed to a controlled stop.

  Sam cranked the wheel, gave the minivan some gas, and turned down the on-ramp. He moved over to the right shoulder and pushed the button to set the hazard lights blinking.

  The man in the first car was shocked and angry and gave them the bird with both hands. He was shouting as well, but Sam had the windows rolled up. Sam waved like a friendly neighbor and drove on by. He accelerated down the on-ramp, half on the asphalt, half on the shoulder, the minivan tipping sideways. The second driver was in shock. The third rolled down her window to take a picture of Sam and Frank in the minivan with a cell phone. Maybe to post on Facebook, maybe to send to the cops, maybe both. By that time Sam was moving at a good clip. He waved for the camera and called out a pleasant, “Sorry.” He was a road hazard, but a very polite one.

  Two more cars entered the on-ramp, but Sam paid them no mind, just drove with speed, his hazards flashing, until they got to the bottom. Then he looked both ways and punched it out onto Elk Street.

  Frank said, “I’m impressed, Sam.”

  “My wife’s going to kill me.”

  “Not when she hears what this is all about.” Frank brought up his cell and dialed 911. The dispatcher answered, and Frank said, “I called in earlier about the kidnapping. I’ve got a visual. They’re heading north of I-80 on Elk Street. They’re still in the Nova. There’s a second car involved. A two-tone silver and gray Nissan Maxima that’s been hot-rodded and chopped. Colorado plates. We’re following them.”

  “Please do not try to handle this on your own, Mr. Shaw. Officers are on the way.”

  “You should know the two men in the Nissan are probably armed.”

  “I’m going to leave this line open, Mr. Shaw. Again, the officers will be there. We need to keep everyone safe.”

  “Sure,” Frank said.

  Sam sped under the overpass and then out the other side. The Nissan was some distance ahead of them, but still visible. They cruised through a green light, past a Best Western on one side and a Taco Time on the other, then a trailer park. Sam accelerated, not wildly, but enough that they began to gain on the Nissan.

  “Get a little closer,” Frank said. “Then we’ll just pace them.” The fact of the matter was that the police were indeed much better equipped to deal with this situation than he and Sam. But if the situation made a turn for the worse before they arrived, there was no way Frank was going to stand by and watch. If nothing else, Sam could ram them.

  They drove past the last subdivisions on the city’s edge and out into the barren landscape. There were no trees out here except at the golf course a few miles off. The rest of the land was nothing but dirt, blasted grass, and stunted gray sagebrush as far as the eye could see. Bluffs rose a few miles to the west. They looked like they’d been made by stacking a fat layer of pale orange dirt on top of a layer of pale tan dirt on top of fat layer of gray. Devoid of almost all vegetation. Most of the hills around Rock Springs were like that—unclothed earth, showing the erosion lines wriggling their way down to beds of dirt and rock.

  In the distance, the Nova approached the Yellowstone Road cutoff, but Tony kept going straight. Farther up the road was the DMV and the office for the Highway Patrol, which couldn’t be any more perfect. Tony hadn’t gone where Frank had thought he would or where he’d been originally directed—maybe the woman with the box cutters had overheard the first directions—but this was probably just as good. The Nissan sped past the cutoff. A half minute later Sam and Frank followed. Elk Street turned into Highway 191.

  There wasn’t much along the road at this point, just a couple of warehouse buildings sitting a hundred yards off the road and spaced widely apart. The road narrowed into a single lane. Sam passed an old pickup, but farther ahead a gasoline truck in their lane blocked the view of the road beyond.

  “Do you see them?” Frank asked.

  Sam moved a bit into the empty oncoming lane and then back. “I see them,” he said.

  A few miles down the road were the offices for the Highway Patrol. “Ha!” Frank said. “I think Tony’s got this.”

  “He’s taking them to the Highway Patrol.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  They rolled past the dead landscape. A few seconds later, he and Sam crested a low rise. In the distance was the Nissan, then the Nova, then the Highway Patrol offices.

  The Nova approached the entrance to the office.

  Frank waited for the brake lights. Waited for Tony to turn. But Tony didn’t slow. He didn’t turn. He rode up to the entrance and then continued right on by.

  “They didn’t turn,” Sam said.

  “It’s okay; we’ve got eyes on the target,” Frank said. But inside, his stress began to elevate.

  The Nissan flew past the entrance.

  The Nova came to the fork in the road. Tony stayed on the main fork and headed for the railroad crossing. There weren’t any gates blocking the crossing, just railroad crossing lights overhead. The two red lights were blinking in an alternating pattern, the warning clanging. A freight train was approaching from the north. A few cars were waiting in the oncoming lane on the other side of the tracks. On this side, a big yellow Dodge pickup and a tractor were stopped, waiting for the train to pass. The train with its double-stacked engines was almost to the crossing. Tony pulled up behind the tractor, then pulled out into the other lane and gunned it. The train was blasting its horn, maybe only thirty yards from the crossing. Tony sped across the tracks and cut back into the right lane. The Nissan didn’t slow or hesitate. It moved into the left lane and shot across the tracks.

  “Sam!” Frank said.

  Sam accelerated, then immediately braked—they were too far away.

  The train engines lumbered across the road in a blast of noise. It stretched back up the valley for quite some distance.

  Sam slowed and pulled up behind the tractor. It was a big green deal with an old man enclosed in a glass cab up on top. The old pickup pulled in behind Sam and Frank. It was followed by two other cars.

  They were going to be here for a few minutes. Unless they turned around and tried to beat the train to Wyoming Road two miles back. Then they could scoot up around the golf course and join up with Highway 191 about a half a mile past this crossing.

  “We’ve got to get around the golf course,” Frank said.

  “I’m on it,” Sam said. He made a U-turn, then gunned it back the way they’d come. As they accelerated, a police cruiser coming toward the crossing crested the rise with its lights flashing. They sped past the cruiser, and Sam gave the minivan more juice. Off to their right the train moved along the tracks, but they easily pulled ahead.

  Frank talked to the dispatcher. “Are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” He looked down, but somehow the call had been dropped.

  Sam said, “Have you looped in the man?”

  “The man?”

  Sam pointed up. “The Man,” he said.

  “The Man’s out today.”

  “He’s always in.”

  “Then he’s putting me on voicemail. It appears I’m just not your big hallelujah prayer type, Sam.”

  “I’ll say it.”

  “Don’t you need to watch the road?”

  “Fold
your arms.”

  “I’m sure the Lord’s apprised of the situation.”

  “Of course, he is,” Sam said. “But it’s our job to ask. You don’t know what he might do, unless you ask.”

  “Sam,” Frank said. “Focus on the train.”

  “You want God working with you on this problem, or do you want to go it alone?”

  Frank looked at Sam. “You’re Conroy all over again.”

  “Conroy?”

  “Sergeant Conroy. Our 18C.”

  “You doing that military talk thing?”

  “18C. Engineer. Builds things, blows them up. Conroy was our all-around Jesus freak. We couldn’t fill the latrine bag without him saying a prayer.”

  “I’m sure you exaggerate.”

  Frank shook his head. But maybe the Mormon man had a special line. “You got any sacrificial mice?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Say your prayer, but make it quick.”

  Sam didn’t close his eyes, just spoke out at the road. “Father, as thou knowest, Tony needs thy help. We’re on the job. If there’s anything we aren’t thinking of, let us know. If thou art willing, help the cops. Help that woman be calm and see things straight. And if there’s anything else thou thinkest might shut this thing down—a blown tire, a deer on the road, we would be grateful. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

  Frank blinked. “I couldn’t tell for sure with all that Shakespeare, but did you just pray for road kill?”

  “I prayed for creative options.”

  “Like road kill. With antlers crashing through the windshield.”

  “It could slow them down.”

  “Let’s hope God doesn’t go big and send an elk or some stray cow. You ever see a car slam into three-quarter’s ton of beef?”

  Up ahead a well-used pickup with a tool box in the bed was making a left hand turn, pulling into their lane. Sam moved into the left lane and shot past the pickup. “Go big or go home is what I say.”

  “Yeah, go home in a body bag,” Frank said. But who knew? Maybe road kill miracles were on God’s order menu. It wouldn’t be any weirder than some of the things recorded in the Bible. The term “holy cow” suddenly popped into Frank’s mind and took on whole new dimension.