Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

“It would me.” Harry changed the subject. “Are you the only person working here? This is a big place.”

Mildred leaned against the counter. “No. Have two fellows working here; sent them off to bring me a late lunch and get some for themselves. I have two kids; ’course, they’re in their forties now. Drew and I sent them both to college. They don’t want no part of this business. Don’t want to get their hands dirty.”

“This is a good business.” Harry emphasized “good.”

“Young people are different now. Forty is young to me. No one wants to work with their hands.” She peered at Harry again, noting the dust on her jeans, a few pieces of hay in her hair. “Not many want to farm, either.”

“Millie, I wouldn’t be farming if I hadn’t inherited it. No way could I afford land, the equipment, seeds, and fertilizer and make a go of it.”

“Sucks,” Millie succinctly responded. “Tell you what, though, your mama and papa sure were lucky to have a girl who wanted to keep the family business going. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I know I should retire, but this is my life. What would I do? Watch I Love Lucy reruns?”

“She was the best.” Harry grinned.

“That she was.” Mildred shifted her weight. “When the economy comes back up, I reckon I will sell the business. Don’t rightly know.”

They chatted a bit more, then Harry thanked her profusely, making a mental note to send over some special canned foods she’d put up last year. Harry knew she’d be back. Something about Mildred touched her. She didn’t dwell on it, she just knew she’d be back.

Mildred gave her a big hug as Harry put her hand on the doorknob, the three furry friends at her feet.

“Millie, what do you drive?”

“Ha.” Mildred clapped her hands. “A big-ass 1962 Impala convertible. They can all get out of my way.”

Driving out of the salvage yard, Harry pictured the round little lady in the big Chevy.

Bored with I-64, she drove to Waynesboro the back way.

“Hey, let’s go to the drag strip. No one’s there.”

Tucker’s brown eyes registered worry. “You’d better not do anything with this car.”

Fifteen minutes later, the black WRX STI glided onto the grounds of Central Virginia Hot Rod Track. Harry drove right up to the Christmas tree.

“That’s a lot of lights,” Mrs. Murphy remarked.

“I so want to do the quarter mile.” Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel. “Well, I can’t. It’s not right to do that in a car I haven’t paid for, but how can I do it otherwise? I mean, they’ll never let me race here, and I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”

“Don’t,” Pewter howled. “You do enough crazy stuff.”

“What the hell?” Harry exclaimed. Coming around the bleachers in front of her at a fast clip was a charcoal Porsche 911. She checked her rearview: Behind her was a yellow Camaro. Harry couldn’t see the drivers, but she knew if she didn’t do something she’d be trapped. She put her foot on the brake, gunned the motor, took the brake off, and shot down the track so fast that the Porsche braked hard.

“Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Murphy cried.

Tucker, trying to balance herself, looked through the two front seats. “They’re trying to trap her!”

Pewter, crouching on the footwell behind the seat, shouted, “Make her stop.”

Mrs. Murphy summed up the situation. “If she stops, we’re toast.”

The jet acceleration gave Harry confidence. At the end of the quarter mile, she turned sharply, skidding out, for the Porsche hung hot on her tail. The Camaro driver seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he had the brains to know if he tried to block her she’d plow right through him, maybe killing them both.

Harry had guts: She called his bluff. The Camaro accelerated out of her way, and she felt the shock waves as she blew by that beautiful yellow tail. As she rocked by the Camaro, she saw Latigo Bly behind the wheel.

Harry now headed for the state road, praying that someone would see them and call the police. No way could she reach her cellphone.

She was running for her life, very glad the seat belts were good.

She hooked left, skidding out again. This time the Camaro disappeared, only to reappear emerging from the back way into Central Virginia Hot Rod Track.

Fearlessly, Harry aimed straight for him again. Latigo backed up in a hurry, stones flying from under the wheels.

As they were not yet near housing or commercial buildings, her two pursuers had two miles to bring her down. Given the quality of their cars and the skill with which they handled them, they just might succeed.

Sweat poured down her forehead, between her breasts. Senses razor-sharp, she’d never felt more alive than at this moment.

She heard the beautiful yowl of the 911 coming up on her right, on the lip side of the road, which was wide enough to take the car. She recognized Victor Gatzembizi in the gorgeous 911. On her left, the Camaro hurtled down a paved two-lane road. Both cars closed in. She was between them now. She couldn’t take her eyes off the road for an instant.

The Porsche bumped her as the Camaro swerved close to her. The smaller car shuddered but took it. The pursuers drove about a foot away, then came toward her again to slam the hell out of the WRX STI. Harry hit those brakes, which bit into the pavement. The screech of the wheels had to have been heard in Richmond. So quickly did the pocket rocket stop that the Porsche and Camaro crashed into each other. The big Chevy shouldered the Porsche right off the road at such a high speed that the Porsche plowed into a field, but it didn’t turn over. The Camaro, right fender now bent into the right wheel, made a screaming sound as the tire blew. The car spun around, stopping like a wounded animal. Latigo leaned out the open driver’s window with a gun and fired a shot Harry’s way. He missed, the bullet skidding over the Subaru hood.

Harry took off, speeding toward Waynesboro. Eventually she slowed, grabbed her phone, dialed 911. After giving the location of the two wrecks, she pulled into the Rite Aid parking lot to calm down.

“That was close.” She reached over, putting Mrs. Murphy in her lap and turning to pet Tucker.

“I could have been killed,” Pewter cried.

“Pewter, come on up here. Come on.”

Wobbly-legged, the gray cat, belly low, slunk into Harry’s lap. She’d peed on herself, but neither Harry nor anyone else said a word. They’d near done it themselves. Then Harry called Cooper.

“Coop, I’m in Augusta County—Waynesboro, at the Rite Aid. Victor Gatzembizi and Latigo Bly tried to kill me. I’m safe, I think. Will you come get me?”

“Hang on.” Harry heard Coop hit the siren and start roaring through Albemarle toward Augusta County.

By the time Cooper reached Harry, the animals were cleaned up. Harry had gone into Rite Aid to get bottled water for everyone and had bought a little plastic bowl and some paper towels for cleanup. Behind the counter Belinda—a pug owner and animal lover herself—pretended not to notice the cat-pee smell on Harry.

It wasn’t until Harry saw Coop that she about cried, her relief was so great. Coop shot out of the squad car, saw the scar marks on the right side of the Subaru, the thin bullet line on the hood.

“Jesus Christ, Harry, what happened?”

Harry explained as best she could, from the beginning. “How did they know I was there?”

“Easy, neighbor. Someone slapped a tracking device on your car. Same thing as on hunting-dog collars. They’ve known where you are ever since Victor Gatzembizi dropped off this car.” Cooper leaned into her squad car, called the Augusta sheriff’s department.