I blinked hard as I swiveled my head to follow the dusky red taillights of the old delivery truck. I simply couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. A pair of heartbeats skipped up to my throat before slamming into the pit of my stomach then slowly rising back to my chest.
“No. That couldn’t have been…” Detective McLaughlin stammered at me across the roof of her car.
“Call Ben,” I stated evenly as I pushed the car door closed and started toward the back of the house with my hand digging in my pocket.
“Rowan! NO!” Felicity called after me.
I ignored her initial appeal as it echoed in my ears. By now I was sprinting, and I had made my decision. Charlee needed to get to the hospital right away, not to mention that I doubted her effectiveness with her being as distressed as she was. The killer already had a head start, and I didn’t want his lead to grow any wider. I couldn’t let this chance slip past without even trying. I had no choice but to pursue him myself.
“ROWAN!” my wife screamed again.
“MISTER GANT!” Detective McLaughlin’s voice rang in behind.
“I’m just going to follow him!” I yelled back over my shoulder in an attempt to thwart the objections.
I continued my rush down the driveway through the open gate and punched my key into the truck’s door lock. It took a pair of clumsy twists from my trembling hand to rotate the key in the proper direction, and I still re-locked it once before getting it right. As I swung the door open I called back to my wife a final time, “Call Ben now! Tell him to call me on my car phone!”
The engine rolled over immediately, and as I flipped on the headlights, I pressed my thumb against the switch to ignite the yellow fog lamps mounted on the grill. With a jerk I pulled the shift lever down to drive and leaned on the gas. The truck was already in motion before I had the door fully closed.
Steering with my knees, I thrust my left arm through the shoulder harness and dragged it across my chest and lap with my right. Grasping the steering wheel once again, I struggled with the belt, fighting to slip the metal connecting finger into its receiver. Each time I would force it down, the end would catch under the nylon holster attached to my side. In frustration I finally aborted the quest as Detective McLaughlin’s car blocked my egress, and I needed both hands to crank the truck into a shallow turn through my front yard then over the curb.
I glanced quickly into my rearview mirror, but the fog had spilled into the void behind me, obscuring everything.
At least two minutes had expired since the panel van had roared past the end of my driveway. Not a very long span of time at all in the grand scheme of things-a complete lifetime when you are that far behind someone you are chasing in a dense fog.
I jammed on the brakes as a stop sign erupted out of the mist, and the truck slid to a halt on the wet pavement where the entrance to our subdivision made a T with the main road. The delivery truck was nowhere in sight as I threw a hard look in either direction. Turning right would take me into the business district of Briarwood. Turning left would take me to Highway 40.
The in-dash stereo was set at a medium volume, and a haunting feminine voice was chanting from the speakers as the loaded CD picked up where it had last been shut off. The tempo of the song made a sudden leap, and I pressed the vehicle forward, hooking into a screeching left turn. In less than thirty seconds the lights of the overpass were before me, and as I slowed I was once again faced with a decision.
East or west.
To the west were Millchester, Wallfield, Waynesville, and straight on to Kansas City. To the east were access to northbound 170 or the Saint Louis city limits and eventually the PSB across the river to Illinois. Everything in my being told me that if I were going to run, west would be the direction that I would take. But it wasn’t me that was running.
I punched the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel hard to the right, propelling the truck down the ramp and onto eastbound Highway 40. The speedometer needle rotated smoothly upward passing 50, 60, and then clearing 70. As it struggled toward 90, a pair of dull red spots appeared in the dense white curtain. Seconds later they veered onto the Hanley/Eager off-ramp.
I followed them.
Catching up to the delivery truck was definitely a part of my plan. Actually catching it wasn’t. I wanted only to keep track of him until the professionals with badges and handcuffs arrived, so I backed off the accelerator on the approach to Hanley and watched carefully as he made the almost U-shaped turn through the intersection and onto Eager road. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so I had to assume he felt he was safely away and that no one was in pursuit. Either that or I was chasing the wrong guy. The growing throb in my temples told me that the latter was unlikely.
I reached to the dash as I rolled to a halt at the top of the ramp and extinguished the headlamps and fog lights. Waiting for a nervous three count, I then made my own arc through the intersection and continued blindly down the road. Using the faint glow of the distant overpass lights for guidance in the failing visibility, I pressed along right at the speed limit, hoping all the while that I wasn’t appearing as an on-again, off-again phantom shadow in his oversized side view mirrors.
It was only a minute before I reached the terminus of 170 where it emptied into Eager, eastbound Highway 40, or directly into the entrance of the Briarwood Shopping Mall. I lightly braked to slow myself as I came under the illumination of the powerful lights regularly spaced along the mall parking area on my left. As I watched ahead, the van hooked a casual right, slipping under the Highway 40 overpass and into the northbound lanes of the Innerbelt. I waited for another cautious count of three, then switched on only my headlights this time and followed along a respectable distance behind.
My temples were really starting to ache.
More than fifteen minutes had elapsed, and I was beginning to feel like I was in hot pursuit of the proverbial white Bronco as we tooled along at a speed exactly matching the posted limit. In an attempt to remain undetected, I held back a fair distance, always making sure to keep the van’s tail lights in sight-but just barely. Other traffic on the highway had been sparse at the beginning and was now nonexistent, so I even went so far as to exit and fire up the fog lights before shooting straight across and down the ramp on the opposite side of the overpass. I could only hope that if he had noticed my lights in his rearview mirror that a different configuration would belay any suspicions he might have.
I shot a quick glance at the clock on the stereo and saw that we were coming up on a solid twenty minutes since I had begun my lone chase. Ben still had not called. I resisted the sudden urge to panic as the realization blended with the bizarre reality I was making for myself. There could be a million reasons why he hadn’t called me yet, but I was damned if I could think of any of them at this particular moment. Concerned, I reached for my cell phone.
My decision to take the initiative was immediately aborted as I directed my attention back through the windshield and past the slapping wiper blades to the taillights bracketing the silhouette of a large panel van. My momentary lapse of attention had led me off my pace, and I had now gained on the vehicle, easily placing my truck within view of his mirrors. I may not have been visible to him myself, but it was a sure bet he knew my vehicle, and at this decreased distance he would be able to see its outline as well as I could see his.
The earlier stab of panic forced itself between my shoulder blades and I backed off the accelerator. I could already feel a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead as I tried to nonchalantly veer onto the first exit ramp that presented itself.
I once again extinguished the fog lamps and sat watching the blinking red traffic signal for a slow count of three, then added a second trio for good measure. This exit was a downhill ramp, and the angle placed me well below where I could see the highway. I had to assume I had not been noticed and that I was being overzealous in my attempt to remain unseen. Pressing through the intersection I guided my truck up the on ramp, picking up speed as I went. So intent was my focus as I sought to catch up to the black panel van that I didn’t notice it coming rapidly alongside to purposely block my merge.
Which one of us impacted the other first was a point of contention I wasn’t particularly interested in arguing at the moment. The simple fact was that he had every intention of running me off the road and down the embankment. At this juncture he was succeeding beyond any shadow of a doubt.
The sound of creasing metal joined with his screaming gearbox and protesting engine to form a madman’s symphony of anger. Inertia was on his side, and with the van being much larger than my truck, I was being forced at an angle onto the gravelly shoulder.
A stiletto of pain twisted behind my eyes as the earlier throb in my temples imploded. Blinking back tears I forced myself to remain focused. I fought to crank the steering wheel to the left and then floored the accelerator with no effect.
Reaching down, I locked the shift lever into low four and gunned the engine once again. Loose gravel slung from beneath my tires as all four wheels engaged in a high-torque distribution of the power, but the measure was too little, too late and met with only limited success. For every inch I would gain, it seemed his mass would push me back three.
The passenger side door let out a dull scrape as the truck bounced against the metal post of a traffic sign and dragged slowly along. I could hear the hateful cry of the van’s gears as he shifted to apply more force against my vehicle. If things continued at the current pace, I was going to be rolling down a hill in less than half a minute.
In desperation I let off the gas and jammed on the brakes. As my truck continued scraping along the signpost, I rammed the shift lever on the column into reverse while straightening out the wheels then jumped on the gas pedal.
In the mixing din of the two battling engines, my truck bucked against the van, and with the scream of ripping sheet metal, it lurched backward. I immediately pulled the steering wheel hard to the left to keep from propelling myself down the embankment or into the overpass abutment. There was a loud thud and the sound of shattering glass as the passenger side mirror was ripped from the door by the signpost. The front quarter panel dragged roughly against the metal stanchion, and the corner of my bumper caught it hard, causing the truck to shudder, but I continued moving. The driver’s side was still scraping against the side of the killer’s vehicle as he continued his angle of attack.
Another loud crack issued as the driver’s side mirror disintegrated against the black van, and my truck made a sudden lurch rearward. The moment my headlights cleared his bumper, I slammed on the brakes and jerked to a halt.
The panel van itself leaped forward with equal force once the resistance of my truck had been removed. Without a moment’s hesitation, he serpentined back into the lane and sped off.
A brief moment of calm ebbed through the cab as I sat watching the taillights of the van disappear into the thick fog. The fleeting instant of quiet was quickly replaced by the ambient noises around me.
A thick rush filled my ears, and I realized that I was panting hard just to get air past the goiter of fear that was currently setting up house in my throat. The intense pain that had been ricocheting around inside my skull was now settling in for an extended stay and hadn’t even begun to show signs of dulling. But worst of all, a violent itch had burst forth on my forearm, and I knew it would soon be a festering wound. My best guess was that he had already kidnapped someone else before he ever came looking for me.
Through it all a dulcet-toned singer was melodiously relaying a story about a highwayman and his one true love as the in-dash changer continued to randomly shuffle between the loaded CD’s.
I pressed the stick into high four and cranked the shift on the column into drive. I had come this far, and I wasn’t about to lose him now, especially if he had someone in the van with him.
This had to end, and stealth was suddenly no longer an issue.
It didn’t take long for me to catch up to him. For all I know he wanted me to, but it didn’t really matter. All that was important to me at this point was that he was not going to get away. I was charged by an absolute resolve to see to it no one else was made to suffer.
Everything I had seen in the past weeks was flashing before me in billowing Technicolor with an emotional soundtrack comprised of self-imposed guilt. I hadn’t been able to pick out the clues we needed and people had died. I had been so off-center that a young woman had been tortured for an entire week, and even though I knew it was happening, I couldn’t find a way to make it stop. Now, it was entirely possible that this killer had yet another victim in hand, and I knew I would never be able to live with another Amanda Stark on my conscience.
We were now at the opposite end of the Innerbelt and making the wide arc onto the eastbound leg of Highway 270. There were still no other vehicles to be seen on the road, and I fell in immediately behind him as we made the left hand merge into the empty fast lane.
My truck being lighter, I was now the one with the advantage. The speedometer needle climbed rapidly past 80 and had its sights set on 90 and beyond as I leaned on the accelerator and shot to the right to whip my vehicle up alongside his. Looking to my left I saw the side of the large delivery truck looming ever closer as it angled into me once again. I jerked the steering wheel hard and shunted right while urging my truck to go faster.
The density of the fog still obscured everything save for the occasional cluster of lights to one side or the other of the highway. Every now and then an illuminated highway sign would appear overhead in a flash of green and white then disappear behind us as if it had only been imagined.
The orange stylus of my speedometer was hovering just below the 100 mile per hour hash mark and the steering wheel was beginning to vibrate. I locked my arms to hold the truck on course, and the reverberations climbed up my arms to make my entire body shudder.
As we continued our weaving race, an old cliche passed through my head- There’s never a cop around when you need one.
We had been trading positions for several miles now as we weaved back and forth across the eastbound traffic lanes in a high-speed game of tag. The corridor we traveled had narrowed quickly as Highway 270 funneled down into two lanes in each direction. What seemed like a solid half hour had in reality been less than ten minutes. I was now positioned just off his right rear side and gaining fast. As I inched the nose of my truck up alongside, I caught a subtle leftward lean of the van and anticipated his next move.
As he quickly jerked to the right, I let off the gas and threw my own wheel to the left, crossing behind him, then punching down on the accelerator as my front bumper narrowly missed his rear. In a flash, not only had I gained but was now ahead of him by a half car length. With a yank I tilted my wheel back to the right and brought my truck directly in front of the van.
As I took my foot off the gas, I stiffened my arms to brace myself against the coming impact.
Even with my body stiff in preparation, my head snapped back hard as my rear bumper took the blow. The truck lurched forward, and I started pumping the brakes just before the van slammed into me once again.
The speedometer needle was dropping, and I watched in my rearview mirror as the large delivery truck tried to veer around me. Even through the stabs of pain in my skull, I anticipated his moves and canted my steering wheel with a frenzied motion to keep in front of him. Right now the only thing on my mind was stopping his vehicle. What I would do once I had accomplished that I still didn’t know.
The van met me full force for a third time and remained locked against my bumper. We had dropped below 80, and I continued to pump the brakes as the indicator fell. We were barreling down the center of the highway, straddling the white line. Tortured banshee cries screamed from my tires each time the brakes took hold. As our speed dropped below 70, I applied the pedal longer each time while still fighting with the steering wheel to keep him behind me.
Glowing lights slowly bloomed in the veil of grey mist before me, and I was soon able to discern the dim outline of an exit. Apparently, so could the killer.
As we came upon the ramp, there was a sudden roar from behind as the engine in the panel van wound up against a lowered gear ratio. The screaming transmission protested the abuse it was receiving as it was downshifted mercilessly. Before I could react, the killer veered off onto the exit, clipping the right corner of my rear bumper hard and sending me into a shallow skid.
I reflexively twisted the steering wheel in the direction of the skid and pumped the brakes slowly. Each time they would catch the wet pavement, the truck would slide farther toward the center of the highway. As the bed of the truck whipped around, I was now facing the opposite direction, and I straightened the wheel as I jammed on the brakes hard.
The tortured squeal of rubber against asphalt married with the sound of scraping metal as the passenger side impacted the concrete barrier dividing the highway, and I jerked to a sudden halt.
I had finally stopped at a point twenty yards beyond the exit ramp on the Riverview Drive overpass. I was pointing west in the eastbound lanes, and I was butted up against the concrete median, so I couldn’t see for sure where the van had gone. Without a second thought I let off the brake and jumped once again on the accelerator, shooting diagonally across the traffic lanes and making a hard left down the ramp.
At the bottom of the hill I locked up the brakes once again and slid to a halt with the battered nose of my truck sticking out into the intersection. I flipped a mental coin and turned left, ignoring the stop signs as I went. I was less than a mile down the road when my head began to clear, and the throbbing pain that had once occupied it drained away.
I immediately slammed on the brakes and turned around.
The category five migraine returned as soon as I cleared the underpass heading south, and I knew I couldn’t be far behind him. My misaligned driver’s side headlamp canted awkwardly at the pavement, illuminating it in a harsh swath of blue-white. If it hadn’t been for the bizarre angle at which it now shone, I probably would have missed the shining skid marks.
In June of 1929 the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge opened. The fifth bridge to cross the Mississippi, linking Missouri to Illinois, it was one of the longest continuous truss bridges in the country at slightly over one mile in length. By 1968 a newer, wider bridge had been opened up river, and the “Old Lady” had been closed. After over thirty years of sitting silent, the structure had finally been renovated for use as a pedestrian-only bridge linking hiking and biking trails on either side of the river.
It was here to which the skid marks led.
Yet again I applied my overtaxed brakes and slid the truck to a slightly canted halt. At this stage the bridge was only open on weekends between early spring and late autumn. A tall, chain link fence surrounded the entrance to what was originally a park-like area leading up to the old toll bridge. The wide gate that would normally be locked shut was now splayed open in a deformed mass, barely hanging from its hinges.
This close to the river the fog was nearing terminal density, and visibility was threatening to disappear. I twisted the steering wheel and followed the marks through the ruined gate, advancing with caution as I pushed through the opening.
With my engine revving barely above idle, I made my way around the left perimeter of the gravel parking area, fully expecting a large black panel van to loom dully in my headlights at any moment. It never did, and as I came upon the entrance proper to the old bridge, my fear was confirmed.
Two evenly spaced metal posts had been set at the mouth of the bridge to bar vehicular traffic from entering. The leftmost of the barrier posts was now slanted at an outward angle from a recent impact. If I strained to follow the beam of my one still-aligned headlamp, I could just barely make out the Iron Gate slightly beyond the posts that was used to close off the entrance. Just like its chain link predecessor, this one had been violently flung open.
I slowly idled the truck up the ramp and between the metal barriers. The rampant itching on my forearm had intensified and joined with a painful soreness that I knew to be a precursor to yet another weeping stigmata. Urgent emotion was declaring that I needed to race across the bridge to catch up with my quarry before the gory symbol was brought into being. Bitter logic was arguing that I was crossing a bridge that hadn’t been used by vehicles in over thirty years and that visibility was near zero.
My throbbing temples told me that he wasn’t far away, so logic won out for a change.
Now at the opposite end of the scale from the earlier chase, I cautiously urged the truck along at just over ten miles per hour. The Old Chain of Rocks Bridge was only a two-lane structure, and I steered up the center, casting my intent gaze forward as I made my way along the slow incline.
The clinging mist combined with my headlights to create an eerie forced perspective. The rust-marred superstructure rose around me to blend with the shadows. The lower beams bore a recent coat of dull green paint, and a four-foot fence painted a bright blue lined each side. The sight line of the structure faded quickly into the veiled atmosphere to join with an imaginary vanishing point.
The old patched pavement before me was marred by graffiti imprinted upon it throughout the years of non-use. Some of it benign declarations of so-and-so-loves-so-and-so, some of it disgusting epithets, all of it enhanced by the shiny wetness overlaying the asphalt.
I had traveled maybe a third of the distance across the bridge when I finally saw the red taillights of the panel van peering back at me like a pair of demonic eyes in the grey ether. I forced myself to maintain my wary pace and much to my surprise continued to gain on them. In less than a minute a perfect outline of the vehicle was visible, and the swath of my headlamp fell across the back to reveal the rear doors hanging open.
In an automatic motion I halted the truck and pushed the gearshift into park. A demolition crew was now working with a jackhammer directly behind my eyes, and the rabid itch on my forearm had mutated into a fiery burn. Somewhere within all of the pain, it crossed my mind that I was suddenly in way over my head.
I sent my hand in search of my cell phone and fumbled the device out of the dash-mounted holder. When I glanced down to punch in Ben’s number, I realized why I hadn’t heard from him yet. I had forgotten to switch it on. I quickly pressed my thumb against the power button, and the moment the unit completed its flashing and self-diagnostic chirping, an urgent peal emitted from it. I stabbed the button to answer and placed it against my ear.
“Ben?”
“GODFUCKINGDAMMIT, ROWAN!” my friend’s voice distorted through the earpiece, “WHAT THE HELL DO YA’ THINK YOU’RE DOIN’?”
“He’s here, Ben,” I stated urgently. “I’m right behind him, and I think he might have someone else out here!”
“WHERE? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
I had quickly switched the phone to my left ear and was reaching to the dash to turn down the volume on the CD player when the battered driver’s side door of the truck swung violently open with a loud groan. Before I could utter anything more than a surprised yelp, a massive hand slapped against the back of my neck, its bony fingers wrapping around to almost completely encircle my throat.
The cell phone flew from my hand and clattered across the pavement as I was wrenched forcefully from the seat and tossed like a piece of discarded trash against the bridge’s safety rail.
In the confusion my fingers had spun the volume knob on the stereo in the opposite of the intended direction, and music now blared raucously into the night.