M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“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.