Vigilante

CHAPTER 48

I’ve heard that at the moment of death your life will sometimes pass before your eyes as a series of living tableaus. As I stared in terror at the approaching train, I had no retrospective vision-no precious insights. I was just sitting there, unable to move, locked in full panic. The only thing that kept running through my brain was, This can’t be happening.

The train whistle blared relentlessly now less than a hundred yards away as a hundred and fifty tons of metal and glass bore down on us. The brakes were shrieking as they locked up on the track, throwing out sparks on both sides. Metal squealed against metal. We were seconds from impact.

First I heard the crossing guard arm behind us shatter. Then our car was hit from behind. As Marcia and I were thrown forward the airbags deployed. Next we were being pushed violently across the intersection and off the tracks. The nose of the Cad hit the crossing arm on the opposite side of the intersection, broke through it, and kept going.

Once the Cadillac broke through the guard arm, the tires cramped and it brodied right, spinning sideways. For a second I could see out the driver’s side window. A gray Navigator with smoked windows was behind us, powering us off the tracks. As we skidded sideways, the big SUV turned sharply with us and both vehicles barely cleared the rails. Seconds later the Metrolink flashed past.

The door to the Navigator opened and Lester Madrid climbed out. Leaving his cane behind, he limped quickly over to us and opened the car door. He pulled me from the front seat and laid me on the ground. Next he limped around to the passenger side to free Marcia. As he pulled her out, the train was still screeching by, trying to stop, but it was going so fast it would keep going for almost two more blocks. All I could see was the taillight as it finally came to a halt almost a quarter mile away.

I struggled to sit up. My head was spinning. Lester came back around the car and looked at me with disgust.

“I can’t believe I’m down to rescuing ass-wipe pussies like you,” he growled.

“Help me up,” I said.

He pulled me to my feet, and as soon as he did I started teetering. I felt a mile tall and six inches wide. I swayed and finally leaned against the Cad, trying to keep from falling down.

Marcia was lying on the grass on the far side of the road. She was beginning to regain some coordination and was struggling to get to her feet. She couldn’t make it but managed to prop herself up in a sitting position with her arms out behind her.

“Who parked you up there?” Lester asked. I couldn’t answer, so he went on. “I’ve been following you for two fucking days, Scully. How did you miss me? You should work on getting your head out of your ass.”

“Lee Bob Batiste. We need to get him, Les. He killed Lita.”

“Come on,” he said. “I saw where he went.”

Lester helped me into the front seat of the Navigator and then pulled Marcia to her feet and helped her into the seat behind.

I heard some train crewmen running toward us, their footsteps crunching the gravel beside the tracks as they approached. Lester got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and swung a U.

“Hey!” somebody yelled. “Come back! Where you going?!”

But Lester already had the Navigator in a smoking turn and squealed it back up and across the tracks.

“Where’d Lee Bob go?” I asked.

“Took off running up that side street back there,” Lester said. “Looks like designer houses and a cul-de-sac. Ends up by the foothills.”

He had the pedal down and the engine roared as the big SUV screamed across San Fernando Boulevard and made a right. We headed toward the foothills about a mile and a half away.

“Oh, shit,” Marcia muttered, ducked her head down, and threw up in the backseat.

Lester glanced back angrily at her. “You gonna puke, lady, do you mind doing it in your fucking purse?”

We flew up a residential street toward the hills beyond.

“There’s a backup piece in the glove box,” he said.

I fumbled with the latch, but I couldn’t get it open. My coordination was still shot.

Lester reached over and opened the glove box, then pulled out a.38 and dropped it on my lap.

“Try not to shoot me with it,” he growled.

We reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and Lester smoked the Navigator to a stop. I looked past the new designer houses and caught a glimpse of what looked like a man running in the moonlight through the brush up into the hills beyond.

Lester got out, then turned to Marcia. “Can you drive?”

“I think so,” she said. Her hair was in tangles. She had vomit stains on the front of her once-stylish gray designer pantsuit.

“Take this car back down the hill. On the way, call nine-one-one and give them this location. There’s a police station a mile away on San Fernando. Get help up here.”

Then, as Marcia pulled out, Lester led the way up toward the hillside. I stumbled along behind him clutching his.38 in my still-numb hand.