The Summer House

Chapter 22

Special Agent York has worked long enough with Major Cook to know that when he makes a request like this one, he doesn’t want to get a lot of questions in return. Just get the job done. Connie likes working for a supervisor who has confidence in his employees without micromanaging them.

Connie says, “Yes, sir. I’m on it. Make sure your seat belt is nice and tight.”

“It is,” he says, holding the pistol and the door handle. “Just don’t crash us.”

Connie starts accelerating. “What, you don’t like my driving?”

“I don’t like filling out motor vehicle accident paperwork,” he says. “Go.”

Connie goes, speeding up even more.

The car behind them speeds up as well.

The lights from the small businesses and homes flash by as she quickly exceeds the forty-mile-an-hour speed limit and goes right up to sixty, which is as much as she dares on this narrow road.

A look in the rearview mirror.

Still there.

She thinks of saying that maybe those are cops back there, but she keeps her mouth shut. The major certainly isn’t afraid or concerned about being pulled over, so why mention it?

Focus on the driving.

The road sweeps to the left, and there’s a squeal of tires as she handles the Ford nice and tight, keeping it in their lane, making sure they don’t drift over the solid yellow line.

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four.

The road is a straightaway now, and the pursuing lights are getting closer, like they’re egging her on. She quickly wishes she was back with the Virginia State Police with backup only a radio call away.

In a calm voice, Cook says, “Intersection coming up. Light’s still green.”

Connie’s tempted to slow down with all that civilian traffic crowding up the intersection, but no, she’s getting angrier that she and the major are being chased at night in this rural town in Georgia, like moonshiners being chased by the cops.

“Light’s turning yellow,” Cook says.

“No worries,” Connie says.

They race through the intersection, horns honking and screaming at them, Connie expertly passing a blue van slowing to make the stop. Up ahead the road swerves hard to the left, and she lets her foot off the accelerator, switches off the headlights. Turning hard, Connie pulls into the parking lot of a McDonald’s, quickly halting the Ford between a parked pickup truck and a mud-spattered Toyota, using the emergency brake to prevent any brake lights from popping on back there.

She turns and sees a black Dodge Charger roar by, and then she slips the Ford out of the parking lot and soon pulls up behind it, keeping the headlights off for a moment.

Cook says, “Well done, Connie.”

Even with the adrenaline rush from this ongoing chase Connie feels a spark of pleasure from her boss’s praise in a tight situation like this. She turns on the headlights, flicks them to high beams, and says in a heavy drawl, “The Virginia State Police aims to serve, suh.”

No answer, but that’s fine.

She barrels up right to the rear of the Charger, and she can see movement inside, like the passenger or driver is looking out the rear window, trying to see who’s now chasing them.

“Sucks to be on the other side,” she says.

And the major says, “Keep at it, keep hammering them.”

The Charger makes an abrupt right onto a narrow road, and Connie swears, missing the turnoff. She slams on the brakes, the Ford sedan shivers and comes to a halt, and she slams the shifter into reverse, the transmission grinding a complaint.

Cook looks behind and says, “Clear.”

Into drive.

Down the narrow road.

The Charger’s lights are now off, but she catches a brief glimpse of it as it passes under a utility light, and she punches the accelerator down. The Ford roars into life as she resumes the chase, everything narrowed and focused into a tube before her, looking at the Dodge speeding away, barely noticing the flick-flick-flick of objects passing by, like trailers and dirt driveways and utility poles.

As the road gets emptier, the taillights up ahead come on, and she knows the driver of the Charger is concerned about crashing into something in the dark, sacrificing stealth for safety.

The lane gets narrower. No more driveways. No more distant lights.

A yellow-and-black sign is visible for a second.

“Good,” Cook says.

A thump as the pavement gives way to dirt.

“Sir,” she says, “I think—”

The taillights up ahead drop from sight.

Something moves across her field of vision.

Connie slams on the brakes, the Ford sedan fishtailing as the tires try to grip the dirt-and-gravel road and—

For the briefest of moments, a chest-high white metal pipe blocking the road snaps into view, and Connie closes her eyes as the car hits it hard.