The sun hung like a gigantic ball of super-dense hydrogen on the western horizon as L.J. and I sped north on Highway VV. Highway 54 would have taken us back to Columbia quicker, but L.J. must have wanted to drive the scenic route. The windows were down and the evening breeze swirled through the car, a refreshing mixture of summer wind, fast food and tobacco. L.J. attempted to light a cigarette with a match. It took him several tries, during which he never touched the steering wheel.
“Did you take care of business at the convention?” L.J. puffed on his smoke and groped around on the seat for a CD.
“Yeah.” I didn’t feel like conversation.
“Were you meeting someone?”
“Yeah.” A mental patient. I pretended to be interested in a road map. It was so old, it had a photo of John Ashcroft as Governor of Missouri. Someone had written ‘I’m watching you,’ in a balloon over his head.
The functioning dashboard speaker blared to life. Apparently we were listening to a CD of Dr. Demento’s Greatest Novelty Songs. Steve Martin’s King Tut pumped out of the speakers.
“So what was that all about?” L.J. pressed.
“Nothing.”
“Hey, you’re not still pissed at me?” he asked, just before we were rammed from behind.
Its lights were off so we never saw the black vehicle coming. There was no telling how long it had followed us. Now that we were on a deserted stretch of winding two-lane road, the driver made his move. Accelerating rapidly, he had smashed into our rear bumper.
L.J, who had not been wearing a seatbelt, banged his forehead on the wheel. His cigarette popped out of his mouth and began smoldering on the dash. “What the hell!” he bellowed.
We’d been doing over sixty. The assailant hadn’t been driving much faster than that, but it still took L.J. a few seconds to regain total control of his car.
I spun in the seat. The outline of the dark car was fast approaching again in the fading light, and I could just make out the bulk of the driver.
“That son of a bitch hit us on purpose!” howled L.J, purple with rage. “He’s trying to do it again! Jesus!”
My testicles retreated inside my body. I had a pretty fair idea of who was in the car behind us and why he was trying to run us off the road.
“It’s the Northern Synod,” I babbled. “I know about what they did to Reverend Gowen. They don’t want me finding out more about Saberhagen.”
Despite the emergency driving conditions, L.J. managed to shoot me a baffled look. “Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do.” He hit the gas.
Highway VV was almost completely empty. There were no streetlights and the road made a series of sharp turns and curves as it wandered its way north. This was hardly the place to engage in a high-speed chase, but we didn’t have much of a choice.
Steve Martin serenaded us as the speedometer climbed to eighty. Our tires squealed like the damned as we careened between the solid yellow stripes and the gravel shoulder.
Fifty yards behind us, the pursuant flipped on the brights and floored it. His car must have been ten years newer than ours and had probably known the occasional tune up. He was going to catch up with us and this was not a situation covered in the AAA driving guide.
L.J. released the wheel to retrieve his still-smoking cigarette. If a car had come from the other direction at that moment, the state troopers would be calling our parents in the morning. In the rearview mirror, the other car was slowly gaining.
“Five more miles,” hissed L.J, his teeth pulled back in a rictus around his smoke. “Then we hit Kingdom City. He won’t follow us into town.”
My sweaty hand touched the cracked vinyl of the dashboard and wondered what it would be like to smash my face into it. The speedometer now said ninety. One tap at that speed and both cars would probably roll over.
As the last rays of sunshine disappeared beyond the horizon, we found ourselves on a straight and narrow stretch of road. Suddenly, L.J. smacked the brakes so hard we almost turned sideways before coming to rest on the shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed. Behind us, our pursuer screeched to a halt, about sixty feet south.
L.J. wore an expression that would have made even Dan step back. “I’m going to bash that bitch’s face in, that’s what.” He groped behind him on the floorboard until he came up with a tire iron.
He stepped out of his car and stood in the glow of the dark car’s high beams, tapping the weapon in his palm. I couldn’t see anything but the dim form of the car behind its blinding headlights. For a few seconds the scene froze, with the highly inappropriate strains of ‘May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose’ streaming from the speakers.
I didn’t hear the gunshot over the radio, but when the side mirror exploded about half a foot from L.J’s gut, it wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. L.J. somehow managed to get the car moving before he was all the way back inside. “Change of plans,” he said calmly, slamming his door and spitting his cigarette out the window.
The lights behind us were fast approaching and our car wasn’t much for acceleration. Pretending not to notice the Christmasy display of red lights blinking on the instrument panel, I looked over at my friend. Maybe he knew some way to get out of the mess I’d gotten us into.
I was surprised to see he wore a smile. “Route 6 is just up the way. Little pissant town of Homestead is through there. Their police station is right on the main drag.”
“You think we’ll have time to get inside?” I doubted this maniac could shoot anyone from a moving car, but once we stopped…
“I’ll park in the goddamn holding cell to get this psycho off my ass. He ain’t dicking around.”
I thought L.J. was going to miss Route 6, but at the last second he made an impressive bootlegger’s turn and careened onto the eastbound road. The tires found no purchase and we fishtailed helplessly toward the wooded shoulder. I was bracing for the roll when L.J. managed to wrench the car out of the spin and fly forward.
Off to the right, a green sign riddled with bullet holes announced ‘Homestead—1.’ Already disappearing in the distance, our tormentor had missed the exit completely and was doing a high speed U-turn to catch us. We were home free.
We both heard it at the same time. The mournful howling, the long, morbid cry from the darkness ahead. Through the blackness, we saw two widely spaced red lights, blinking opposite each other.
A goddamned train.
I could see it now, chugging along from the left, its spotlight illuminating the crossing. The two bars had already lowered as red warning lights flashed mockingly at us. No exit in that direction.
L.J. began to slow. In the remaining mirrors I could see the black car pull onto Route 6. We were trapped. No going back, no going forward.
“Stop the car,” I squeaked. “We’ll get out and run off into the dark.”
L.J’s face was as blank as a zombie’s. Just as the CD skipped and began playing a Looney Toons song, did I realize we were accelerating again.
“L.J., Jesus Christ, no!”
The speedometer needle shot up like an erection. We were barreling down the country road, heading towards the place where the train would be in a few seconds. The glaring headlights behind us made me realize we hadn’t shaken our tail.
‘Overture, curtain, lights…’ sang the radio.
L.J. bared his teeth and hunkered down over the wheel. “Hang on, Sherm.”
The engineer must have seen us. His whistle was no longer blasting long, solemn cries, but an incessant, warning alarm. The gates that stood across our path rushed towards us.
Our car mounted the slight rise that led to the crossing. I could feel the rumble of the train’s wheels through the floorboards.
The gate didn’t break off when we hit it, it bounced over the hood. L.J’s car was filled with the white light of the spotlight. I may have been screaming, but it was hard to tell over the deafening whistle.
Then it was over. The second barrier whammed off our car, the body scraped against the street, and we were through.
On with the show…
I never expected the other driver to follow us over the track, but he didn’t even slow down. Almost made it, too. Two more feet forward and the mysterious shooter would have cleared the locomotive. As it happened, the engine just clipped our pursuer’s rear bumper. That was all it took.
It was strangely silent in our car as the black sedan rolled twice, losing its hood and the passenger door, before landing on its wheels in the railroad ditch. L.J. immediately braked.
Already a quarter mile away, the engineer let out an impotent, angry blast on the air whistle. He wouldn’t be able to stop for miles. I pitied the guilt he must have felt.
I started to open my door.
“What the hell are you doing!” gasped L.J.
I gestured vaguely at the wreck.
“Why? He just tried to kill me! Kill us!”
I shrugged. This was my fault. I had to see what was in that car. I had to know.
“You coming?” I asked my companion. He rapidly shook his head. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was trying not to cry.
Steam poured out of the black automobile’s cracked engine with a whistling sound that rose eerily over the chug of the passing train. Green coolant oozed onto the disturbed earth. The roof of the car was flattened halfway down the shattered windshield.
I didn’t want to see what was inside. I didn’t want to find out. But I needed to, all the same. The engineer would have radioed someone about the wreck, so there was little time.
Even from a distance I could tell the driver’s door would never open again. I walked around to the other side, stepped over a hunk of plastic fender, braced myself, and looked in.
Other than at my grandfather’s funeral, I’d never seen a corpse. Even though the driver could not have survived the wreck, it took me a few seconds to mentally identify the crushed figure behind the wheel as a human body.
The blinking grade crossing lights illuminated the remains every other second. The force of the crash had rammed the steering wheel into his chest. He sat compressed in his seat, the steering column rammed into his torso, his neck slung back at an unnatural angle.
The face was immobile, bloodless, the eyes closed. In the red light, I recognized the shaven-headed, mustachioed mug of the guy who’d rolled me behind the pool hall.
The train passed and the lights stopped blinking, plunging me into darkness with the dead man. The thick odor of feces mingled with gasoline assaulted me, and I desperately wanted to leave. But not yet.
I couldn’t bring myself to frisk the dead man. But in the back seat, I found something. A cheap, imitation leather satchel, covered with broken glass. There had to be some kind of identification inside, some clue as to who the dead man really was. Reaching around, I managed to grab the case.
I returned to find L.J. out of his car, legs twitching, desperately eager to leave. Wordlessly, we sped off.
Ten silent minutes later, we reached Kingdom City. L.J. pulled over in the parking lot of the Country Kitchen, stepped out of the car, and threw up.
I felt terrible. I’d known this guy for a week and he’d nearly been killed because of me. I was a marked man. Not only was I in danger, anyone near me was too…John, or Steph, or Charlie…dear God, not Charlie.
L.J. had retrieved his cell phone with shaky hands.
“L.J., what are you doing?”
“Pol…” His voice came out as a squeak. He spit and took a breath. “Police.”
I grabbed his wrist. “No! They can’t help us.”
He looked at me, uncomprehending.
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this. I didn’t think things had gotten this bad. But this isn’t a matter for the cops.” At least, not according to Denton.
“Have you lost your mind, Sherman? That guy shot at us! You expect me to just forget the whole thing?”
I glanced around the brightly-lit parking lot, making sure no one overheard that interesting comment. “L.J., some people want to hurt me. I don’t know how to defuse the situation. Maybe I’ll have to get the cops involved, but for now, you’re still safe. No one saw your license number in the dark. Go back to the dorms. If Mr. Schultz notices I’m gone, tell him I had a family emergency or something. If you say anything about this, you’ll be in as much trouble as I am.”
The attack had obviously rattled my roommate, but he was not the kind of person to run away with no concern for me. “And what the hell are you going to be doing?”
“I gotta see a guy. If that doesn’t work, I promise I’ll get the police. But I’m leaving your name out of it.”
“Sherman…”
“Get going. Take the highway and maybe kinda stay in the dorm this weekend. I’ll be back by morning. Get going!”
He started to say something, then shrugged. He pulled out of the parking lot, still looking at me over his shoulder.
Hopefully he’d make it back safe. In the meantime, I had twelve hours to kill. Figuring I’d be safer inside than out, I entered the Country Kitchen, requested a corner booth, and flopped the stolen briefcase onto the table.
Most of the contents were generic: a pair of cheap sunglasses, half a thing of breath mints, and a car rental agreement with an illegible signature. The large manila envelope had my name on it, though.
Seriously. My name. Andrews, Sherman J.
The waitress interrupted me before I could open it. I ordered a lumberjack special with extra gravy, a side of grits, and lots of coffee. I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but I didn’t want anyone complaining about me taking up space here.
I examined the contents with increasing alarm. A copy of my Scholars’ Academy application, one of my schedule, and another of my ID. Printouts of all my questions about Rev. Gowen on the message boards. A snapshot of me entering the Missouri Historical Society. Another of me leaving Mark Twain with L.J., John and Aaron. That must have been the night I was attacked.
I was holding a dossier on myself. Had I not been in mortal danger, that would have been kind of cool. As it were, these guys must have started keeping tabs on me the second I found that letter from Rev. Gowen. As soon as I started getting snoopy, they acted.
How could they possibly be that organized? Denton claimed they were this secret brotherhood, but how many people—how much money—would it take to mobilize so quickly and effectively? I glanced around the restaurant, checking to see if I was being watched.
I turned over the final piece of paper. Handwritten directions. They started in Columbia and ended at…Ironton Cemetery?
Just like Denton had said.
My coffee arrived, and I quickly replaced everything in the attaché case, adding the battered photo of Rev. Gowen and friends as an afterthought. I then turned off my cell phone. The fewer people that could find me, the better. I sipped my coffee and reviewed what I knew.
• Gowen and his buddies had been interested in Saberhagen back in the 1930s, and most of them had been killed.
• I was interested in Rev. Gowen. In one week I’d been assaulted twice, and been the victim of a very well-planned assassination attempt. And a guy was dead. Jesus.
• Powerful people wanted me out of the way. Permanently.
• Did I mentioned they wanted me dead?
My food arrived. The waitress smiled down at me. “Looks like you’ve been having a rough night.”
The story of the train accident would be all over the news tomorrow. I didn’t need her remembering the upset customer who showed up right afterward.
“Huh? No, I’ve just been driving all night, down from Minnesota…eh? I’m supposed to meet a friend in the morning, hope you don’t mind if I’m here a while, kay?”
I picked at my food. There was one man who could still help me. Everything depended on that.