Never Burn A Witch argi-2, page 34
part #2 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
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.
CHAPTER 26
Acute slivers of pain were rapidly followed by an overwhelming dull ache across my back as I roughly impacted the metal railing and tumbled to the wet asphalt. I let out a tortured scream as I suddenly felt the flesh ripping on my forearm to form what I knew could only be a bloody rendition of a religious symbol. Realization punctured the storm of agony inside my skull, and I knew instantly that the victim I was assuming he had in his clutches was in fact, me.
“Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses and your own confession, been convicted of the sin of heresy,” an ominously dark and distinct voice began in the shadows, blending deeply with the music to lend a surreal edge to the recitation.
