Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (20 page)

She continued. “Here, let me show you” She quickly drew
the tortuous route from the park entrance to the Illinois
Memorial where she placed an X. “Here it is.” To the right, she
drew another X. “This is the Shirley house. The memorial is
to the west, about a hundred yards from the house. They’re
both on the same ridge.” She drew an imaginary line from the
house to the memorial. “The road dead ends another two or
three hundred yards farther west at the Louisiana Redan”

I nodded. “Okay. But, if the park is closed, how do I get in?”

She smiled wickedly. “Like the teenage parkers do, drive
across the grass”

“What about security?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. I leaned across the table
to hear her. “Two units. One from either direction.” She
glanced at her watch. “What time are you meeting him?”

“One o’clock.”

“It’s eleven now. Between twelve-thirty and one-thirty,
each unit takes a thirty-minute lunch break. That means only
one unit is out. That’s your best chance of slipping in without being spotted”

I indicated the location of the Illinois Memorial on the map
she had drawn. “It looks like there is only a single road. What
about someplace to hide my truck when security passes?”

She pointed to the Illinois Memorial. “A drive goes
around in back. You can hide your pickup there”

I laid my hand on hers and squeezed. “Thanks, Diane. I
don’t know what I would have done without you” Despite
knowing that as soon as I left, she would run to WR, I still
felt like the hypocrite.

With a deep sigh, I pushed the feeling aside. What had
been between us was dead, relegated to the dark storeroom
of disappointed memories.

When I left the steakhouse, the rain had momentarily
ceased, and a full moon shone over Vicksburg through
patchy clouds. I pulled into a convenience store and purchased a map of the battlefield and its sites. The sixteen-mile
route formed a tortuous circle, twisting and snaking over and
around the tree-covered hills. The exit to the park was a hundred yards west of the entrance, the spot from which Diane
had drawn her map.

I parked across the street and waited.

Sure enough, at exactly 12:30, one security unit pulled up
to the Visitors’ Center and two park officers went inside just
as the second unit set off from the exit, making its way
around the route in reverse.

With headlights off, I waited for a gap in the traffic on
Clay Street, then shot across the road, eased over the curb,
and raced across the grass. I glanced at the Visitors’ Center,
hoping neither of the park officers was peering from the
window.

Fortunately, the full moon lit the road, making driving
without lights a snap except for under the giant oaks and
pecans spreading their ancient limbs across the battlefield.

Ten minutes later, I spotted the Shirley house, and
beyond, the dome of the Illinois Memorial glistening in the moonlight. I stopped at the intersection by the house. The
road continued west to the dead end Diane had mentioned.
The park route itself turned north.

I had no intention of hiding my truck behind the Illinois
Memorial as Diane suggested. It was an obvious trap.
Instead, I turned north. A broad grin jumped on my face
because just beyond the Shirley house, a dirt road led back
into the forest.

After parking, I hesitated, staring at the locked glove
compartment in which lay my .38. For a moment, I toyed
with the comforting idea of taking it with me, but I remembered Hemings’ warning, and I didn’t want to end up in a
Mississippi jail.

Hopping out, I opened the toolbox and removed my black
satchel from which I took a bumper bug, a flashlight, and the
roll of duct tape.
- - - - - - - - – - - - - - -

I clambered up the muddy hill through the darkness to the
rear of the house. Even in the light of the full moon, it didn’t
take a professional carpenter to see that the house was in a
sad state of repair.

Remaining in the shadows of the house, I studied the
Illinois Memorial to the west, the moon bathing the white
dome in stark relief. As Diane said, both the house and the
memorial-which was modeled after the Roman
Pantheon-were located on a ridge about fifty feet high, the
crest of which stretched over a hundred feet in breadth.

I hurried along the crest of the ridge to the memorial
where I taped the flashlight to the open doors, pointing down.

Quickly, I hurried down the forty-seven granite steps
leading up to the portico of the memorial and hid in the
shrubs across the drive.

My plan was simple. If WR or Stewart did send someone,
they’d have to climb the stairs to the beam of light. That
would give me time to slip across the drive, place the bug
under the bumper, and vanish back into the shrubbery.

Then I could follow them.

The clouds began to gather. Thirty minutes later, the drizzle started once again. I muttered a curse. All I could do was
stay where I was, huddled behind the shrubs, feeling sorry
for myself.

Time dragged.

Soon, the drizzle tapered off, and the cloud cover drifted
slowly northward.

When I heard the faint crunch of gravel, I forgot all about
my discomfort. I peered down the road and spotted the black
silhouette of a pickup easing around a curve, heading directly for the memorial.

My heart thudded against my chest. I wished I had acted
against my better judgment and slipped the .38 in my pocket. Still, if my plan worked, I would have no need for heat.

Abruptly, the dark truck stopped, still a hundred yards
away. The doors remained closed.

Muttering to myself, I eased through the underbrush
toward the vehicle. I dropped to my knees when the door
swung open. The interior remained dark. A figure stepped
out and looked around. “There’s a light up there. I’ll slip up
there and take care of them” I stiffened when he added, “He
won’t get away this time like he did from the Caddie.“_

The speaker was a black silhouette against the lighter
background of the steep ridge. He headed for the memorial.
After he passed me, I eased forward, keeping the row of
shrubs between the pickup and me. I was counting on the
driver’s attention to remain on his partner.

Quickly, I placed the bug, then headed up the ridge to my
pickup. I couldn’t afford to fall too far behind them when
they left, or I couldn’t pick up the bug.

Halfway up the ridge, a beam of light framed me. I froze.
“Hey,” a voice shouted from the memorial, “there he is!”

Down below, the pickup door slammed shut. Galvanized
into action, I raced to the top of the ridge. Bobbing up and
down, the beam of light from the memorial headed in my
direction. The second man was still a hundred yards below.
I kept waiting for someone to start shooting as I reached the crest where I stumbled and tumbled head over heels down
the backside.

The first man took an angle to cut me off from the thick
woods, but I reached the edge of the forest well ahead of
him. I raced down a well-used trail, which, only a few feet
into the thick woods, turned out to be darker than the inside
of acow. Quickly, I hid behind an ancient oak-and waited.

The beam of light bounced up and down as it drew closer. Then I could hear the footsteps. I said a fast prayer hoping that my timing wasn’t too far off. Just as my pursuer
reached the oak behind which I had hidden, I stepped out
and threw a right hook, catching him squarely on the forehead and slamming him to the ground. He hit hard. I
grabbed his flashlight and raced through the woods for my
truck, shaking my stinging fist. I could hear their grunts as
they raced after me.

“Shine the light over here,” one shouted. “He got my
flashlight.”

“Hurry up. We got to get the guy. I don’t want Jumbo mad
at me like he was at those truckers”

I almost slid to a halt in surprise. Jumbo! Did I hear right?
Jumbo? Truckers?

Then came a sickening thump and a sharp scream. Then
all I heard was one set of footsteps. I grinned. Somebody
had straddled a tree in the darkness.

Moments later, I jumped in the Silverado and slammed it
into reverse. Through the windshield, I saw a single light
bobbing up and down, coming in my direction. I gunned
the engine. The ground was muddy from the rain, and the
rear wheels slid off the drive. The rear bumper slammed
into a tree with a crunch. My head snapped back, then
popped forward.

The light was drawing closer.

I shifted into drive and eased forward several feet, then
yanked it into reverse.

Suddenly, an orange spurt of fire erupted beside the
flashlight followed by the splat of a slug hitting the wind shield. I concentrated on the narrow drive in my side mirror. I figured I had less than thirty seconds to back out
before he was on me.

I’ve had some unnerving experiences, and concentrating
on backing out of a muddy, winding driveway with someone
taking potshots at me ranks right up there.

But I made it. I reached the road and promptly made my
next mistake. I took the long route out of the park instead of
backtracking over the shorter one.

By now, the light southerly breeze had swept the clouds
from the sky once again, leaving behind a glittering overhead of stars against a sky of black velvet. I flipped on my
headlights as I raced around the circuitous route, hoping to
reach the exit far enough ahead of my pursuers so I could
hide until they passed. Then I could follow the bug I’d
placed on their bumper.

That wasn’t to be.

Within minutes, headlights popped into my rearview mirror. A cold chill ran down my back when I spotted the telltale orange mushrooms of fire from the passenger’s window.
They were shooting at me.

I took the curves as fast as I dared. What few stretches that
permitted fifty or sixty miles an hour abruptly ended in
switchbacks that would roll a vehicle at thirty.

A few miles farther, I cut right. The pickup stayed on my
tail. I passed a road on the left, and to my surprise, the truck
behind slid to a halt in the middle of that road.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know why you
stopped, buddy, but I ain’t stopping,” I muttered between
clenched teeth. Seconds later, I saw why he had stopped.
The road I was on made a giant circle right back to the
parked pickup.

So, I did what anyone would do. I pulled up on the opposite side of the circle from them. And waited. On a rise
between us was a statue of Ulysses S. Grant mounted on his
steed. I glanced at my glove box. To heck with Herrings, I said to myself, removing the keys from the ignition and
unlocking the compartment. The heft of the .38 in my hand
felt reassuring. I restarted the engine.

If they came one way, I’d go the other. I smirked. I had
them now. Abruptly, my smirk vanished. I squinted into the
starlit night, and all -I could do was mutter a soft curse.

Leaving their pickup to block the intersection, one headed down the middle of the road coming up from behind
while the other came down the middle of the road ahead of
me. Taking a deep breath, I rolled down the window and,
.38 in hand, I rested my left arm on the side mirror. I
cocked the .38 and muttered through clenched teeth.
“Well, boys. If that’s how you want to play the game, let’s
get at it.”

With that, I floored the accelerator and sent the truck
hurtling toward the figure in front of me. My headlights
picked him up. When he realized my intention, he spread his
legs in a firing position and brought up both arms. Before he
could get in position to fire, I triggered off three shots.

There was no way I could hit him with the truck bouncing
one way and me bouncing another, but three bursts of gunfire
and a two-thousand-pound truck bearing down on anyone
except Godzilla were enough to send him leaping from my
path. He sprawled on the ground. I roared past, aiming for the
narrow space between the rear of his pickup and the curb.