The Ruinous Sweep

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  Up ahead — way ahead — she saw a tractor-trailer coming. A massive-looking thing: an eighteen-wheeler. She caught the silver glimmer of sunlight on its impressive grill. The idea came to her from some dark recess of her unconscious. It wasn’t sane, but when a madman is sitting on your rear bumper, there aren’t a whole lot of sensible solutions available.

  Can you do it?

  She would have to try.

  Will it work?

  Possibly not, in which case she would be dead anyway. And with that encouraging thought still in mind, she swerved into the westbound lane, destined for a head-on collision with thirty tons of steel.

  She heard the air horn and marveled at how quickly the distance closed between her and the tractor-trailer.

  Now!

  She swerved onto the westbound shoulder, almost lost control but managed to keep the car from tipping over into a watery grave. The eighteen-wheeler flew by, his air horn deafening. The car, now stopped, shuddered from the truck’s drag. And far ahead she saw the red Sierra round the next long, slow curve.

  She gasped for breath but there was no time to rest. A couple of cars passed and then there was a break, long enough for her to scream into a U-turn and head back west. She had a plan.

  She had passed Cedar Bog Road only minutes earlier, seen the bent-over sign out of the corner of her eye as she held off the maniac badgering her, pressing her, wanting to kill her. She knew that Tulk would take the first opportunity he could to turn around and come back for her, and the way he drove, he’d catch her long before she could reach the car dealership, let alone the OPP station in Perth.

  Why had she ignored Stills?

  What was wrong with her?

  Did she have a death wish?

  Well, there wasn’t time to think about it now. She needed to get to a phone. She needed to get off the damn highway — the sooner the better. So she swung onto the dirt road and raced down it toward the Needham farm, hoping that the dense tangle of brush along the cedar fence was high enough to hide her escape, should Tulk already be heading back this way. She pulled into the yard and made sure to drive close to the house so that the shed shielded the car from the road.

  The dog came bounding out of somewhere. But the yard was otherwise empty. The little green Honda was gone. She turned off the Figaro, got out, pocketed the keys, and closed the car door.

  “Hello,” she called.

  Spinach barked and came to give her a lick. Bee ruffled his ears.

  “There’s nobody here, is there?” she asked him.

  He barked again, clever dog.

  “Are you going to growl and bite me if I try to go in the house?”

  Spinach laughed his doggy laugh, his tongue lolling out. Probably the worst watchdog ever. She headed toward the back door, the one that led into the kitchen. She was hoping that it would be unlocked. Her own home back in Ottawa was not only locked but equipped with burglar alarms and video surveillance. Somehow she didn’t think that Cedar Bog Road was a high-risk area for burglary or that Jilly Green was the kind of person who locked doors.

  And she was right.

  She held the screen door open with one hand, turned the handle of the inner door, and pushed it open. She stood on the threshold, leaning in.

  “Hello?” She waited. The dog whined behind her, trying to nose his way in, but she stopped him with her knee. “Uh-uh, Spin,” she said. Then she called out again. “Is anybody home?”

  Nothing but the ticking silence and the smell of tomato soup. There was a pot of it on the stove. The aroma drew her in. She closed the door behind her. Spinach was not amused and let her know it.

  The stove was off but there were dishes in the drying rack by the sink: bowls and round spoons. There was a loaf of bread on a wooden board on the counter, and a knife beside it. Feeling like Goldilocks, she cut herself a piece. Then she crossed to the stove and dipped it in the warm soup. In three bites the bread was gone. Because the soup was neither too hot nor too cold but just right, she figured her next step would be to find a bed that was just right and wait until the three bears returned. But the thought of a bear was enough to forcibly remind her of the man who seemed determined to deal with her, one way or another. A man she had yet to actually lay eyes on but who was monstrous, nonetheless. She had no doubts at all that he had killed Donovan in his red machine. And working backward, she could only imagine he had killed Donovan’s father as well, smashed his face in with a bat. And now he was looking for her.

  There was a phone in its cradle on the counter by the back door. She picked it up but was not sure what to do. Did she dare to phone Stills? No. She was too far away to be of any help, and Bee wasn’t sure she could take being scolded one more time, whether she deserved it or not.

  So she dialed those three numbers her mother had taught her about as a child. Dialed and let it ring and ring and ring. She walked to the back door. Pulled it open, stood looking through the screen. Spinach was nowhere to be seen. The phone rang and rang. Bee couldn’t see the road from where she stood, so she stepped out onto the porch. There was only Toddy standing in the yard. When she looked north, she could see a stretch of the road beyond the large utility shed. She trained her eyes on it. The line opened.

  “You have called 911,” said the dispatcher, “where is the emergency?”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you. Cedar Bog Road,” said Bee.

  “Do you have a number on Cedar Bog Road?”

  “No . . . No, I’ve forgotten it. But it’s the first house on your right about a couple of miles or so from the highway. Highway Seven. East of Perth.”

  “And what is the nature of the emergency?”

  “Someone is trying to kill me. I’m being chased by a lunatic.”

  “So you require law enforcement?”

  “Yes! Please! He tried to run me down and I got away, but he’s after me.”

  Did she imagine the pause that followed this remark? Because, hearing her own voice, she sounded like a lunatic herself.

  “Where are you calling from, please?”

  “I told you. Oh, you mean whose place? It’s the Needhams’ farm. They’re not here. There’s no one here. This man is a psychopath. Please hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have already contacted the police. Help is on the way. But please stay on the line, I have more questions.”

  “A red GMC Sierra,” said Bee.

  “Is this your vehicle, ma’am?”

  “No! It’s his — the lunatic’s. License plate RUCO 467.”

  “This is the person who you say is after you?”

  Who you say. She hated the sound of that. “I’m not making this up,” said Bee.

  “No, ma’am. I appreciate —”

  “Oh shit!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “There’s a car coming.”

  “Can you make out whether it is the vehicle in question?”

  Bee had only caught a glimpse of it through the trees far up the road, but she could hear it now and doubted from the roar and the cloud of dust that it was going to be the little green Honda.

  “It’s him. I’ve got to go.”

  “Ma’am, please don’t hang up.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve got to hide.”

  “Take the phone with you, if you can.”

  “Sorry. I . . .” Bee didn’t finish. Her thumb pressed STOP and she slid back into the house and closed the inner door. She locked it. Shit! She should have stayed on the line. Should she redial? No. No time. She looked around the kitchen. There were three doors. She raced to the first and pulled it open — some kind of a pantry. She opened the second — stairs down to the basement. She shuddered.

  Spinach was barking furiously now at the approaching car. Bee whimpered and fled to the only other door, one that led into the entrance hallway. There was the front door to her left, with curtains and an antique umbrella stand. A colorful rug made of rags lay in front of it on the dark wood floor. She checked the door; it was locked: a cere
monial entranceway. She peered out into the yard just as the red pickup wheeled in. The dog raced around it. Oh, if only he were vicious!

  She watched Tulk pull up behind the Figaro and stop. She waited for him to step out, wanting to see him — wanting to see what she was running from, what she was up against. He didn’t open the door and her curiosity gave way to panic. She turned. To her left was a living room, straight ahead was a steep and narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. She tore up the stairs, then stopped. The knife! The one in the kitchen she’d cut the bread with. She should get it. She turned to go back down and then stopped. Who the hell did she think she was kidding! There was no way she could do anything to a person — even a killer — with a bread knife. So she raced back up the stairs hand over hand along the polished oak railing, cursing for having wasted precious seconds dithering. She heard a car door slam. Heard a voice raised at the barking dog. Heard the dog yelp. She yelped herself.

  And then there was silence.

  She stood looking around. There was a hallway along the banistered stairwell. There was one door to the right of the stairs at this end and one at the front of the house. Across the hall, there were three doors. Against the wall, right at the landing, was an old pine table about as wide as a school desk but with raised sides and back, and with a single drawer. There was a large ceramic bowl sitting on it, the outside ochre, the inner surface off-white and crackled with age. A pitcher sat in the bowl. A washstand.

  She heard the kitchen door rattle. Heard a hand slam against it and a voice yell, though she couldn’t tell what he said. Then she heard hard footsteps on the porch. She listened. Heard the footsteps return. Heard the unmistakable sound of the door being opened.

  She heard it close behind him. Heard footsteps tromp across the kitchen’s pinewood floor. There was a runner down the upstairs hall, a faded mossy-green carpet. She slipped out of her flats, picked them up, and on tiptoes started toward the front end of the house. The attempt to conceal her passage failed. The old floorboards creaked under her weight. She stopped. At least she was out of sight were he to look up.

  He was in the downstairs hallway now. Had he heard?

  “Hey, bitch,” he said. “Didn’t know I used to live here, did you?” he said. His voice was pitched to intimidate: a big voice, rough around the edges. Silently Bee lowered her shoes to the floor and reached for the pitcher in the bowl on the washstand.

  “Jilly still keeps the key in the same place. Imagine that. All these years later.”

  Bee picked up the pitcher in two hands. Not heavy enough.

  “You in the living room, bitch?” So he hadn’t heard.

  She heard him clump across the hall, a man in serious boots. Gently she placed the pitcher on the floor beside her shoes.

  “Hello? You in here, Miss Busybody?” More clumping, in the living room this time. “Now whyn’t you just come on out. Make it easier on everybody.”

  She picked up the ceramic washbowl in both hands. It had the circumference of a basketball hoop, must have weighed the same as a sack of potatoes. She held it firmly and turned to face the stairs, two yards away.

  “Not here,” said Tulk. “Which means you’re upstairs.”

  More clumping and then he stopped. “You up there, girl?”

  He took a step up, the stairs complained. Another step. She grasped the ceramic bowl more tightly. He stopped. Couldn’t see her yet, nor she him.

  “You come out and we can have a talk,” he said. “If I have to hunt you down, I’m just going to get madder and madder and, ooo-ee, that won’t be pretty.”

  He took two more steps and she knew she could wait no longer. She crossed the floor to the top of the stairs.

  “Well, what do you know?” he said looking up at her. “Finally we meet.”

  He wasn’t a big man, she figured, even accounting for the foreshortening of looking down on him from this angle. He was broad across the shoulders, though, with large hands, one of which had grabbed the railing when he saw her holding the washbowl.

  “Planning on throwing the crockery around?” he said. “Hell, I was afraid you’d find Matt’s rifle, maybe even his shotgun. Must be up there somewhere. Not that I’d know, but it stands to reason.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, he ventured up one more step. She stood perfectly still, her right foot toeing the edge of the landing.

  “Picked yourself a woman’s weapon, huh?”

  She raised the bowl above her head and watched him take a step backward. The stairway was narrow; there was no way she could miss.

  “Like I said, we should talk. Pretty girl like you don’t really want to be messing with me. You never know what I might do.”

  Tell him you’ve called 911. Tell him they’re on the way and he’d better run for his life.

  She tried to talk. She opened her mouth but there were no words there for this man. Nothing she could say. His face was unshaven, his hair a rat’s nest. His eyes looked haunted. She wanted to think he had been losing sleep over what he’d done. Maybe he was even drunk. Wanted to think that he was suffering in some way, in excruciating pain. But she wasn’t prepared to talk to him.

  Then he made his move. Reaching along the railing for a higher purchase, he launched himself up two steps at a time and then another two steps until he was halfway up. She hurled the bowl at him, howling with rage as she did it.

  She couldn’t miss and she didn’t!

  He turned his shoulder, but the weight of the bowl and the force of her throw made him lose his footing and he stumbled back, fell to a knee, cursing and yowling with pain. She didn’t waste a moment watching to see if it was enough. Nothing was enough. She darted back to the washstand. She couldn’t lift it but she dragged it to the top of the stairs just as he started back up. She got behind the cabinet and heaved it with all her might.

  It rocketed down the stairs, gaining momentum, and one sharp edge caught him right in the gut, sending him hurtling down, trying to hold the thing like it was an animal to wrestle with. He landed on his back and the washstand rolled over him and crashed on the floor in the hallway below.

  Tulk lay half on the stairs and half on the floor. He was twisted so that his torso was front-side down. She watched, saw his hand twitch. Heard him groan. He was hurt but not hurt enough, and she had to move now because there was nothing left to throw at him.

  Forgetting her shoes but not the pitcher, she skittered down the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing like it was a lifeline. She slowed her flight, suddenly horrified at the idea that she might trip and end up falling on top of him. She reached the bottom and stepped gingerly between his legs, having at last to let go of the banister. There was just his torso to climb over and those arms flung out to the side.

  Carefully, she stepped as far as she could and as soon as her left foot was planted, her right followed — taking a giant step. She lifted her left leg to follow and his hand suddenly darted out to grab her ankle. She screamed and he pulled, not just to pull her over but to pull himself upright. His face was bloodied. He must have caught a corner of the table or the newel post on the way down. He snarled at her as she tried to pull away and she saw a tooth was missing, his gums slathered with fresh blood. She threw her back against the stairwell wall for support, switched the pitcher to her right hand, and kicked out at him with her captured foot. But now his other hand came up and grabbed her calf and he pulled himself toward her. He looked up at her, grinning like a death’s-head.

  “I got me one helluva view up your skirt,” he said triumphantly through his bruised and bleeding face and bloodied tongue. And she brought the ceramic pitcher down on his head with every ounce of energy she possessed.

  As soon as she felt his grip lessen, she pulled herself away with a mighty shout and tore through the kitchen, through the outside door, where Spinach met her, barking his head off. He danced around her as she made her way across the yard, the gravel digging into her naked feet. She got to the Figaro and fished for the keys
in her skirt pocket. They weren’t there. Not in either pocket. She glanced back toward the house in time to see the screen door fly open and Rory Tulk stumble out like a drunkard. She turned and saw his pickup. It was her only option. She couldn’t run, not far enough, not in bare feet across the farmyard. So she groped her way around the hood, aware suddenly that she was whining — keening — like a mad person. She reached the driver’s side door and prayed that it was open. It was. She hauled herself up on the runner bar and heaved the door open.

  “Nooooo!” he shouted. “Get the fuck away from my truck!”

  She clambered in and slammed the door behind her. She searched and found the door lock and cried with relief to hear the solid click. Then her eyes saw what she could not have dreamed of seeing. The keys. He’d left the keys in the ignition — probably for a fast getaway. She glanced toward him. Tulk was shambling across the yard. Spinach was barking like crazy and growling and darting at Tulk from every side to nip at him. He swung his arm at the dog, who was too smart to get caught again. The dog dashed behind him and in trying to hit Spinach, Tulk fell over, twisting like a top and landing hard on his side.

  Bee turned the ignition and the vehicle rumbled under her. She revved the engine. High. Exhilarated and terrified by the sound of it. All that power that had scared her to death when it was chasing her.

  The last sound Donovan had ever heard outside of that space capsule at the General. The last sound he had heard in the real world.

  She reached down to the gearshift and put the truck in drive, felt it tug at her arms as it bounded forward. Then she swept out into the yard and pulled the vehicle in a tight circle, spinning out, and raced toward Tulk lying helplessly on the ground. The dog sprang away. Tulk’s face looked like something from a horror movie, his chin thick with blood, his face contorted, his eyes wide with terror.

  She slammed on the brakes three feet from his body. By then he’d thrown his arm over his eyes. Now he moved it and looked up at his own truck hovering above him. He tried to stand and she revved the motor, her foot hard on the accelerator and the brake. The truck shuddered under her, wanting to move, wanting to crash forward and crush him. The motor was screaming, and it took every fiber of moral courage she possessed to keep her foot on the brake.