I see the Explorer accelerate, powering off at Exit 17 as J.T. predicted. It’s headed up the steep two-lane ramp and into a complicated intersection that leads at least four ways. To industrial Newtonville. Chic Newton Center. Working-class West Newton. Or he could make a U-turn back onto the Pike and toward Boston. If No-Hat gets a green light and makes his turn before we get there, we’ve certainly lost him.
To follow him, we’ve got to get in front of the truck. If we don’t, we risk losing the Explorer altogether.
I glance into the rearview. Nobody behind us.
“Hang on,” I say. My voice is low. Determined. “Going for it.”
I yank our car hard to the right into the narrow breakdown lane. The wheels rumble, catching in the uneven, roughly paved strip that’s supposed to be used only for emergencies. Fine. This is one.
I hit the accelerator, and have just enough room to pass the still-speeding truck on his right. If I go too far, I’ll crash us into the highway’s corrugated aluminum guardrails and we’ll wind up like Declan Ross. Or much worse. Praying for the slightest bit more speed and hoping I have enough room, I swerve in front of him.
“Holy…!” J.T. yells. “Careful!” He’s cradling the camera on his lap with both arms, protecting it, the seat belt holding him in place.
I am being careful. Much as I can. The length of the exit ramp is my only hope. If the Explorer hits a red light at the top of the hill, we can catch up. My hands clench on the steering wheel, my eyes narrow, focusing on the road ahead.
The hulking truck moves over, pulling into the left lane, giving up just enough room so we can both drive without the side of his flatbed slicing our car-and me-in half. I cling to the right, leaning into my turn, and try to slow down without slamming on brakes.
Several hundred feet in front of us, I see the intersection. And the glorious red light. Waiting in the front of the line, brake lights on, is the Explorer.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” J.T.’s voice comes from beside me, a mixture of terror and approval. “Are you nuts? Or lucky?”
“Are you rolling yet?” I reply. “We’ve got him.”
And now we’ll see where he’s taking our car.
Chapter Nineteen
“Tobacco Road,” I say, counting my blessings as I squint past the steering wheel, out the windshield, through slashes of shadow and into the open double doors of the garage across the street. The moon is full, but mostly hidden behind thickly scudding pre-snow clouds. Inside the car, we’re sitting in total darkness. Our heat is off. The engine is off. My feet and nose are freezing. “Or someplace out of the Dust Bowl. Skeevy buildings. Creepy houses. And look at the streetlights. Or what’s left of them. Probably someone’s target practice.”
“The Dust Bowl wouldn’t have snow,” J.T. mutters. His tinted window is cracked open wide enough for the lens to fit through. His eye is still pressed to the viewfinder. We’ve switched off the red record light on the camera, in case someone looks our way. Don’t want us to be target practice.
“Whatever,” I say. Franklin’s in a cozy bar, probably watching ESPN. I’m sipping my now-tepid coffee, which somehow didn’t spill in the truck-avoidance maneuver, and watching the ramshackle building across the street. Rantoul Avenue, a potholed two-way in a bleakly needy neighborhood of Newtonville, is pretty much deserted this time of night. That’s bad news, because we’re an unfamiliar car and right out in the open. With luck, No-Hat and his pals are under such a crushing time pressure they’ll figure we’re visiting one of the houses here. If they notice us as all. Our tinted windows are almost opaque at night. We can see fine from inside, but from outside, our car looks empty.
I hope. J.T. is shooting everything that moves. And some stuff that doesn’t. It’s been a video bonanza.
We got the doors to the garage opening from inside as the Explorer drove in. The roll-away door on the left is wide open, providing an ideal view of the complete garage setup inside. Rows of bright lights studded across the ceiling illuminate the whole scene, bright as a movie set. No-Hat hops out of the driver’s seat and disappears into the darker recesses of the garage. The hood of the Explorer pops up. Men in jeans swarm, one into each of the four doors. Another unlatches the hatchback. Another, lying on his back, scoots a wheeled dolly underneath the chassis.
A flash of worry. What if there’s something incriminating in the car? Something that screams Channel 3. A mic flag. A press pass. It’s too late to matter, though, I reassure myself. They’ve taken the car, which is illegal. And it’s on tape. We win.
I shift in my seat, tucking one leg under me, trying to get a better view. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t make out what they’re doing. But what I’m seeing is not what’s important.
“You’re getting this, right?” I whisper. Camera lenses can be touchy. I’m worried about the murky distance to the garage. Or if the light inside is too bright.
“Pretty sure,” J.T. says, his voice low.
“We can always-” I stop talking, not wanting to ruin the audio. I know we really only need to select a few crucial shots from this to put on the air, the clear and revealing ones that confirm the crime beyond any question. My brain clicks into planning mode.
We’ll eventually need to interview more victims, maybe another car-rental-agency owner, a cop, state and federal officials reacting to our story, and try to approach whoever the bad guys are. Besides the outside stuff we’re shooting tonight, we also have the hidden-camera video from inside the car. Our on-air story can last maybe six minutes. One of the most difficult decisions in TV news is choosing what to leave out.
“Yo.” J.T.’s voice is softer than a whisper.
Careful not to jounce the camera, I turn so both knees are on the seat, peering to get a clear view through the one tiny corner of open window that’s not blocked by the lens.
A man in jeans and a dark sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves walks toward the passenger side of the car. Sweatshirt Man is holding some sort of tool-a flat lever? Like a very thin crowbar?-in both hands. As he leans into the front seat, my view is blocked. Worse, the camera view is blocked.
I close my eyes briefly. The audio won’t be ruined by my puffed sigh of frustration.
“Hidden cams, remember,” J.T. whispers.
In the Explorer. Which is good news, bad news. If our shot is blocked, the hidden cameras will get the video. One the other hand, if No-Hat’s compadres are taking the car apart, they’ll find them.
Nothing we can do about it now.
“Ah.” The sound comes out of me like a prayer. I actually feel tears come to my eyes as Sweatshirt Man eases his way back into view. In one hand, his crowbar thing. In the other, what I instantly recognize as a section of leather and plastic he’s apparently pried from the Explorer’s dashboard. It’s flat and rectangular. I know exactly where it came from. It’s the cover of the passenger-side air bag.
I risk the audio, speaking close to J.T.’s ear, barely able to control my excitement. Franklin is going to flip. Kevin, too.
“You saw that, right? You got it?”
“No,” he whispers.
He’s kidding. My heart is racing. My feet are somehow no longer cold. Now there’s something else in Sweatshirt’s hands. I touch J.T. on the shoulder, the softest of taps.
“Keep it rolling, brotha,” I say. I rise up, still on my knees, leaning toward him and straining to see out the window, as close as I can get without bumping the camera. “That’s the first air bag.”
The wail of the siren crashes me into J.T.’s back, clanking the camera lens against the window. I scramble to regain my balance. This time, the dregs of my coffee spill from the cup holder and onto the floor, the plastic cover of the paper cup popping off onto the rug down by my tote bag.