Payton Hidden Away (30 page)

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.

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.

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.

“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.