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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? (10 page)

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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“It's time to end this shit,” I said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I think it's time to push this car a little. I recommend hanging on tight.”
At St. Francis Road, without slowing or signaling, I wrenched the car into a sharp left. Oncoming traffic screeched angrily. Our shadow followed us. St. Francis Road curves and winds. It has two exceptionally dangerous spots for speeding cars. The first is in front of the Convent of the Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart. I made the Porsche take this at sixty-five. The tires held, but the curve is blind and the oncoming car missed us by a foot at most. His horn blared until he realized there was someone right behind us. He settled slowly into the snowbank on the south side of the road. Our follower righted his swerving car and came on fast.
“I didn't think we did car chases,” Scott said.
“What the hell. Why not?” I replied.
“What if he starts shooting?” Scott asked.
“Then I suspect this little car will go even faster.”
We gained on him as we flew toward the S curve just before Eightieth Avenue. The curve exists because of a farmhouse that sits on a twenty-foot bluff.
“Motherfucker,” Scott muttered. I glanced at him. His eyes were closed, his hands gripped the dashboard, braced for a crash. I glanced in the rearview mirror. We were still gaining. We hit the first leg of the curve, tires screaming. We jolted against the snowdrift on the left. The Porsche swung 360 degrees, paused, swayed. I gunned the engine. The car leapt through the second leg of the S, picking up speed as we drew away.
“Could we not do that again for a while?” Scott said.
We passed a car filled with kids heading toward the curve. I pointed. “I'm more worried about them. Two cars can barely take that curve at normal speed. If our tracker is there, it's going to be bloody and we'll need to help the victims.”
I swung onto Eightieth Avenue, pulled into the farmhouse driveway, and snapped off the lights. No light shone in the house.
I inched to the end of the driveway to look down at the S curve. The kid-filled car sat half in the ditch, its driver out and shouting. Our follower backed and maneuvered to ease past him. I rolled my window down to catch anything that was said.
I waited for the one car to maneuver past the other. In the headlight glare, it looked like a Trans Am.
Another car entered the curve and paused. This driver asked the guy blocking the road whether he needed any help. The first driver said everybody was okay, and he'd call for a tow from his car phone.
“Let's get out while we can,” Scott said.
“Nonsense. We're going to follow him.”
He frowned. “I'm not sure I have the nerve for that kind of thing.”
“We're about to find out,” I said.
It took precious seconds to turn around in the farmer's front yard. At the end of the driveway, I glanced around. No one going east on St. Francis Road. I was afraid we'd lost him. Then I saw red taillights top a rise going north on Eightieth Avenue. I jammed the car into gear and rushed off after our pursuer.
Scott said, “Let me check this to make sure I've got it absolutely clear. We are racing at”—he eyed the speedometer—“at ninety miles per hour after someone who may be trying to kill us. This is the coldest winter in a hundred years. With the wind chill, it's at least seventy below out. There are ice and snow patches everywhere on the roads, any one of which could hurtle us into oblivion.”
“You worry too much; besides, you've got your seat belt on.”
“That's a comfort. I want you to realize I'm just checking, not criticizing. However, if this gets us killed, I may raise one or two objections.”
“We're closer,” I whispered. I eased off the gas pedal. “It's one guy, I think.” I settled down to follow him.
“Why are we whispering?” Scott whispered.
“I've never trailed someone who was trailing me. I've got goose bumps.”
“Or rocks in your head.”
“Maybe both.” He turned left on 191st Street. “I don't want any dramatic confrontations. I want to see where he goes, maybe see who it is.”
“He could spot us. He may have a gun.”
“I'll stop if you want. Seriously.” The other guy turned right, onto LaGrange Road.
Scott grumbled, “You're sticking this on my shoulders.”
“This has to be by unanimous consent. It's deadly and dangerous. I vote yes.”
He sighed. “You better watch the road. He's turning onto the Interstate.”
The car ahead raced onto the ramp going west toward Joliet. We followed. He sped up to seventy-five and left it there to cruise. I dropped several cars behind, hiding behind a semi-truck or two. Enough cars broke the speed limit along with us to keep us hidden, I hoped. In one of winter's oddities, the road remained remarkably clear of snow. The wind howled straight out of the west. North-south roads might be difficult to drive, but for now, the highway was clear. Our pursuer didn't slow down through the 45-mph speed zone in Joliet. Then again, nobody else ever does, either. Through Joliet and past the interchange with 1-55, we sped into the night. Here fewer cars offered us protection from discovery. I feared we were too far behind. We could easily miss him if he turned off; but on he went and on we followed. Fifty minutes past I-55, he pulled off at the Ottowa exit. He sped south. The country roads slowed him. Even though the road had recently been plowed, drifts rapidly shifted back over it. We played cat and mouse through the sparse traffic into Grand Ridge, and then drove five more miles, until he turned onto a private drive. I drove past, then doubled back. I paused a half mile beyond the entrance.
“Now what?” Scott asked.
“We go exploring.”
“I don't remember skulking about in the dark as being part of the agreement when we became lovers.”
“Shows what you know. It's right there after who has to take out the garbage on winter weekends.”
“Is not.”
I whumped his shoulder. It couldn't hurt through all that winter-coat padding. “I'll show you when we get back; until then, we've come this far. We might as well see the whole show. I promise if it looks even slightly dangerous, we'll go back, get in the car, and go home.”
He sighed. A bright half-moon and a star-filled sky above the wind-driven snow gave enough light to show the indecision in his rugged jaw.
“Come on, big guy.” He hesitated a little longer, then caught my eyes and held them. Finally, he nodded.
I drove the car as far off the shoulder as I dared, to keep it hidden. I had confidence in its front-wheel drive to get us out of any deep drifts. Gravel crunched under our feet as we walked the fifty yards to the opening of the driveway. No cars passed us. A cloudless sky loomed above, but at ground level, the wind whipped snow at a violent pace. Rivulets of drifts spread slowly across the road. Waves of white swept over our feet and disappeared down the road.
A thin sheet of ice covered the gravel driveway almost completely. Glassy ice from the last semithaw filled the potholes. From the road, we couldn't see the farther end of the driveway, but we could make out lights in the distance.
Barren black trees, branches whipping in the wind, lined each side of the driveway. Even with the clear moonlight and starlight, we stumbled over ruts and bumps.
“They could at least have paved the damn thing for us,” Scott muttered. He was muffled from head to toe. I could barely see the slits where his eyes shone. At times, the wind blew the snow
stinging into our eyes. By the time we got to the end of the driveway, my eyes had watered enough to form icicles on the scarf I had wrapped around my face. It took more than fifteen minutes, a sudden turn bringing us to within five feet of the back of the Trans Am that had been following us. Painted flat black, it radiated a sinister warmth. I could hear the faint clicking of the cooling engine. Having nothing to write with, I repeated the license number in my head five or six times.
We crouched behind the car and examined the vista in front of us. I lowered my scarf for a better view. Straight ahead, maybe twenty yards, stood a rambling old farmhouse, three stories tall, with numerous additions that had pushed the building far beyond its original shape. Lights shone in the house on the first floor only. I couldn't see anyone moving inside. To our right, maybe thirty yards beyond the house, a haphazardly renovated old barn wheezed and groaned in the wind. A circular drive led past the house and around the barn. An unshoveled path led directly from the car to the house. Only one set of footprints disturbed the drifts toward the front door.
To our left, the woods made a wide circle and then drew within ten feet of the house. We inched in that direction. Our feet crunched frighteningly loudly in the darkness, but the noise of the wind would cover our passage, I hoped.
We crept past the car. I glanced inside. The dark interior told me nothing.
We inched along among the trees. Stealth in the Vietnam jungles was never like this, but the training then served me now. The woods provided enough cover for me to feel safe. I heard Scott's low breathing behind me. He moved less than two feet away. The wind pulled away the sound of our feet crunching on the snow. Someone could have been following us at five feet and I wouldn't have heard them. However, my jungle training —something I'd never lost, all those instincts I didn't want to remember—came back. I was wary, alert, and I hoped a little dangerous. At the near point to the house, we stopped to reconnoiter.
Two feet from the house, barren bushes made an ice-covered picket fence. A light shone through the first-floor window closest to the front. I put my lips next to where Scott's ear most likely was inside his blue knit cap. “I want to get a closer look,” I said. “Stay here.”
I left before he could object. I rushed across the expanse of coverless darkness and stopped an inch from the house, almost slipping on the ice that pooled close to the foundation bricks. I slid-tiptoed closer to the window. Slowly, I raised my head, every sense alert to any possible movement. At the moment, the wind presented the largest problem. It whipped around this side of the house in a gale. Again, my eyes stung with the wind-driven snow. I feared that the constant watering might prevent me from seeing.
I crouched over. With one hand, I gripped the windowsill. I placed my other hand against the house, felt it slip, caught myself. I planted my feet as carefully as possible. I raised my head millimeter by millimeter toward the windowsill. My left eye appeared over the rim of the sill a minute before the other. I saw a wall covered with bookcases directly opposite me. In front of it sat a massive desk, the large wooden type they made for schoolteachers before they discovered cheap plastic or steel ones.
I turned my head left an inch. I glimpsed a barren wall with a doorway in the middle leading to the darkened room beyond. I switched back to the right with painful slowness. Holding such a tight position began to strain my muscles. I'd have to leave in a few minutes. To the right, I saw Pete Montini standing on one side of a fireplace, head down, fists clenched. On the other side of the fireplace was a man I didn't recognize. He towered to at least six foot nine. He wore baggy painter pants, a red-checked flannel shirt opened at the throat to reveal a long-sleeved winter T-shirt, the ends of which shown at his wrists. He shook his extended hand, finger pointing, an inch from Pete's face. I couldn't hear their words.
Between them on a rug in front of the fireplace lay a German shepherd puppy. His head lay on his paws, his eyes flicking to the two humans above. I hoped his well-trained mother or father wasn't around.
Pete raised a hand as if pleading. The other slammed his fist on the mantelpiece. Pete flushed red. He shook his head no over and over. He seemed to be wilting under the bullying of the other. The stranger raised a hand to slap Pete. At that moment, my straining muscles began to give way. I caught myself with my left hand on the windowsill. An eternity later, I breathed. I looked again. Pete held the side of his face. The dog's head was up, ears at attention, eyes staring to the window where I perched. Time to leave: young or not, trained or not, I didn't want to wrestle with a German shepherd and his overly large master. I turned to steal away. My foot slipped. I caught myself for an instant, felt myself falling, grabbed a bush. It held, but my feet began to slide sideways. An instant later, my left leg gave a solid thump against the wall. Immediately, the dog roared to life. For a puppy, he sounded like a regiment. I dashed for the cover of the trees. Halfway across the glaring openness, floodlights bathed the entire perimeter of the house as bright as daylight. I heard doors slamming, loud shouting.
In the shelter of the trees, I searched frantically for Scott. I heard a shotgun blast, felt the pellets whiz past my head. I ducked down. “Scott!” I whispered. Stumbling and sliding, I hurried toward the Trans Am and the beginning of the driveway. I didn't want to chance a direct dash through the woods and possibly risk getting lost with a dog on my trail, followed by at least one man with a shotgun. Where was Scott? Then I heard a hoarse whisper behind me. I recognized Scott's muffled yelps. I stopped. Making no attempt to be quiet, he stumbled into the tree that I was hidding behind. The lights from the house let us see far enough into the woods to make our way along the perimeter. Scott said, “What the hell?” The shotgun boomed.
BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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