Archer Mayor - Occam's razor

“Gun,” I yelled at Sammie ahead of me.

Sam swerved as Walter aimed and fired a round, her feet slipping on the inclined walkway and causing her to slide like a home-base runner into several men coming out of the rest room. I crouched quickly, steadied my elbow on my knee, and drew a bead on Walter. Too many people were standing behind him for me to risk a shot.

“Police. Drop the gun,” I yelled.

Instead, he shot carelessly at me and then broke for the car parked next to the one he’d been working on, temporarily losing himself in the crowd.

I jogged up to Sammie, who was already fighting off several helping hands. “He’s gone for a car.”

We bolted for the gate, where Rob still lay prostrate, surrounded by a confused crowd of gawking people. The gunshots had blended without notice into the sound of crackling exhausts, so many who’d actually seen Walter fire still didn’t understand what had happened.

I paused long enough to check Rob’s pulse. His other hand reached up and swatted me away. “Get the bastard,” he said, “I’m fine.”

There was a small explosion of sound from where Walter had disappeared, and a yellow late model suddenly leapt backward into the service road paralleling the pits, scattering people like chickens under attack. I saw Walter’s grim face through the plastic windshield as he wrenched the steering wheel around to straighten the car out.

He had but one way to go. Due to the line of cars behind him and the crowd clogging the service road, the only outlet was the entrance to the track. Spewing twin clouds of acrid blue smoke, his car burst toward that direction, almost hitting Sammie and me as it sped past.

Incongruously, we both gave chase on foot, guns out, topping the small embankment enclosing the track just as Walter skidded onto its surface, cutting off the pace car and causing the entire pack behind it to scatter, brakes and tires squealing. To the sound of several collisions, I reached the pace car’s passenger door, pulled it open, and yelled at the astonished driver, “Police. We have to stop that man.”

Sammie piled into the back seat as I slid into the front, and the driver-a young man with a sudden broad smile on his face-took off much as Walter had moments before.

Again, our quarry’s options were limited. He couldn’t make the loop and head back out the entrance chute, since a tangle of race cars was now blocking his way. The grandstands, a tall fence, and a hill cut off other potential exits, so, about halfway down the length of the track, he did the only thing left to him-he cut violently to the right, vaulted over the lip of the track, and took off across the grass toward the parking lots, two rooster tails of dirt marking his progress.

Laughing by now, our driver followed suit. I could hear Sammie behind me being thrown around like a rag doll.

“Seat belt, seat belt,” I yelled at her over the engine noise, while I struggled to follow my own advice. “What’s your name?” I asked the driver.

“Sean. Glad to meet you. He kill someone or something?”

We hit a trough, and I smacked my head against the roof. “Yeah.”

His hands still on the wheel, he said, “Use the radio. Tell them to call for backup.” He had a portable radio wedged under his thigh. I grabbed it, keyed the mike, and said, “This is a police emergency. Call the cops and tell them we have an officer down and are in pursuit. We need assistance.”

The laconic reply was, “Got that. VSP’s already been notified.”

Ahead of us, Freund leapt onto the roadway and fishtailed toward the parking lots. Moments later, with a sickening crunch from underneath, we did the same. Sean let out a yell and hit the gas.

“This thing going to hold together?” I shouted, grabbing the dash.

“Hell if I know, but I’ve always wanted to open ’er up.”

We barreled down between a row of parked cars, grateful to be on a smoother surface, even if it was still dirt. I kept my fingers crossed no pedestrians would suddenly appear. In the straightaway, Walter widened the gap between us.

“Don’t worry about him losin’ us,” Sean declared.

“Why not?” I asked skeptically.

“’Cause he won’t be able to turn right worth shit.”

Those words were still in the air when Walter reached the end of the lane in front of us, cut right to make the corner, and went sailing into a row of cars, sending a shower of sparks into the night air. That canted right front wheel, solely designed for left turns, had bit into the dirt with all the effectiveness of a skinny bicycle tire. We were back on his tail as he recovered and regained speed.

The next stretch played to his favor, however, going downhill in a wide left turn, at the bottom of which the surface returned to asphalt. We were nearing the exit to Thunder Road and the state highway beyond.

“Let’s hope your friends are on their toes,” Sean said, “’Cause this boy’s options are just about to open up.”

Walter seemed to sense the same thing, while simultaneously catering to his vehicle’s one drawback. As he hit the end of the entrance road, he predictably turned left.

I grabbed the radio again. “Anyone out there?”

The response was scratchy, the range being only a mile or so. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve gone left out the entrance. Tell VSP to set up roadblocks.”

Nothing came back except static.

“Guess we’re on our own,” Sammie said from the back.

Sean needed no more urging to apply the speed. I hoped his skill matched his ambition as I felt my back press against the seat-especially as we topped a rise, all four wheels off the ground, and saw Walter ahead of us swerve to avoid an oncoming pickup truck.

Either his lack of skill or that front wheel did him in. He fishtailed slightly, puffs of blue smoke curling from his rear tires, and then he began to slide. As Sean hit the brakes and started us into our own controlled skid, I saw Walter’s car give the pickup a glancing blow and go sailing across the ditch. He smashed into a tree about five feet off the ground and landed with the finality of a dictionary hitting the floor. As we shuddered to a halt not fifteen feet behind him, only slightly out of true with the road, I was suddenly aware of both silence and stillness, even before Sean killed his engine.

I stepped out, glanced over at the pickup’s astonished driver, still frozen with his hands on the wheel, and crossed the ditch to Walter’s car. It was shattered, flattened, surrounded by debris, and utterly, totally at peace.

Sammie was right behind me. “You see him?”

“Not yet,” I said softly. I approached cautiously, gun drawn, aware of sirens closing in from afar, and crouched low so I could see through the passenger window. Walter Freund was holding the steering wheel in a lethal embrace, his rib cage seemingly welded to the car. Blood was everywhere.

He hadn’t had time to fasten his seat belt.

I straightened and turned to Sammie. “Of the three men who killed Phil Resnick, it looks like we’re down to one.”

We returned to the track after the state police took over the crash site. The evening’s events had been canceled, and thousands of departing spectators were being detoured through various exits, forcing Sean to inch along in a parody of his earlier glory. By the time we got back to where the late models were parked, Danny Mullen was long gone and his crew was tight-lipped about his whereabouts.

I found it a frustrating end to a day that had begun far more hopefully.

In contrast, Sammie seemed curiously upbeat. “Too bad Walter committed dumbicide, but at least now we know who to focus on.”

Since I remembered she’d been on a tear to go after Mark Mullen earlier, she now had me guessing. “Danny or Mark?”