Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (45 page)

As we exited the house, the full effects of
the shifting weather pattern met us immediately. In the matter of a
few hours the clammy mist had thickened into a full-blown shroud of
wet fog. Distant streetlights had become dim yellow globes of
illumination unnaturally suspended in the white emptiness. From our
front porch we could barely make out Detective McLaughlin’s sedan
sitting in our driveway.

“Which hospital?” I asked as we hurried down
the stairs.

“University,” she replied as she shakily
fumbled with her car keys and succeeded only in dropping them. Her
cool, professional detachment had fled in the face of a family
crisis.

Felicity was quick to scoop the key ring from
the flagstone sidewalk. “Why don’t you let one of us drive?”

Charlee still maintained enough of her wits
to realize that my wife’s offer was the safest bet for all
concerned and quickly nodded the affirmative.

I was just preparing to climb into the rear
seat of her Taurus when farther up the street, in the near
distance, a set of headlights sparked to life. A low, mechanical
roar overtook the night, underscored by the high-pitched grind of
recalcitrant gears as a dirty black panel van pulled away from the
curb and accelerated past us.

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.