I stopped, softly gave my address, and said, “We need police up here immediately. We have a felon with a bench warrant against him in my neighbor’s yard, threatening everyone he sees.”
Then I pulled the phone away from my ear, opened the gate, and stepped onto the Maizes’ driveway.
The Bastard whirled toward me. He had something white and bloody in his arms, and I realized that it was Wicked. I couldn’t tell if the dog was alive or dead.
“Go away,” the Bastard snarled at me. “This is a family matter.”
“It’s a neighborhood matter,” I said loudly, hoping the 911 dispatch could still hear me. “You’re not supposed to be on Ike Maize’s property. There’s a restraining order against you.”
I said all of that for the 911 dispatch, not for the Bastard. Still, he glared at me with so much anger that my pulse started to race.
“Is that Wicked?” Roxy asked, her voice shaking.
“Stay back,” I said.
But her question had turned the Bastard back to her.
“Yeah.” He tossed the dog onto the driveway. The dog bounced on the gravel and then, appallingly, whimpered.
Time and time again, I had imagined horrible, hideous ways to kill that dog, but now that I saw it in front of me, I was ashamed for myself and terrified for the dog.
So was Roxy. She ran to the dog, and as she did, the Bastard ran toward her.
“Roxy, don’t!” I yelled, and I ran toward both of them.
But I was too far back. The Bastard grabbed his daughter from Roxy’s arms and raced for the truck. He cradled the toddler against his chest as he jumped into the cab, pulling the door closed.
“Noooo!” Roxy screamed, running for the truck. I ran for it too. She got there ahead of me, grabbing the door handle.
The Bastard shoved the truck into reverse and sped up, sending gravel in my direction. It hit me like sharp needles, but I kept going.
Roxy lost her grip, falling backward.
For one horrible moment, I thought he was going to back over her, but he didn’t. He maneuvered around her and sped off down the driveway.
I reached her side a moment later. Her knees and hands were scraped and she sat there, defeated, staring at the truck down on the road.
“Here,” I said, thrusting the cell phone at her. “I’ve already called nine-one-one. Give them the license plate and the make of the truck. I’m going after the Bastard.”
I didn’t give her time to argue. As I ran back through the gate, I realized I should have told her to call her dad as well. I hoped she was smart enough to figure that out.
I ducked inside my house, grabbed my car keys, and sprinted for my one indulgence. That Jag could outperform any other car in Seavy Village. And it could outperform a penis-shrinker, too.
I slid into the driver’s seat and started the car in the same motion. It purred into life, the engine ready to go at whatever speed I wanted.
I peeled down my driveway — something I had always wanted to do, but never dared to, not in this quiet subdivision. I turned right at the bottom of the driveway, thanking whatever developer had designed this place for the long twisty road that took us out of the subdivision to the highway.
I could just see the truck at the intersection. He didn’t come to a full stop — he was kidnapping his daughter, after all — but the stupid Bastard had his signal on.
He was turning left. To the straightaway that would take him out of Seavy Village and down Highway 101, away from the police and into a kind of legal no-man’s land.
He pulled out, and for the first time, I cursed the fact that I had given Roxy my phone. I wanted to tell the dispatch what direction he was going in.
Of course, in this tiny town, he had only two choices — north or south. The smart direction was south. Anyone with a brain would think of that straightaway and legal no-man’s land.
There, in the miles between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, the Seavy Village Police Department lost its jurisdiction. For ten miles, only the state police could arrest anyone. Then the Whale Rock police took over.
The state police, underfunded and undermanned, never patrolled that section of the highway. If they had to come in to make an arrest, they often had to come from another part of the county — sometimes from another part of the state.
When I reached the intersection, I didn’t stop, either. I turned left, sliding behind a black Subaru and in front of a bright blue Smart Car. The Smart Car slammed on its brakes, but I was already passing the Subaru, heading south at eighty miles an hour, double the speed limit.
There weren’t a lot of cars on the road, but there were enough that I had to weave and dodge around them, moving from the southbound lane to the passing lane to the shoulder in the areas where I could see far enough ahead to make sure there were no cyclists on the road.
The hotels and convenience stores, the kitschy restaurants and antique stores, sped by me in a blur. My engine roared as I shifted into the final gear, cranking the speed up to 100 miles per hour.
I had never driven these roads this fast. Part of me hoped someone would report me to the police — I could lead them on a chase to the Bastard, and then, since they were already on the scene, they could arrest him for the state police.
Part of me prayed that I wouldn’t hit anything or anyone. If I hit someone going this fast, I’d kill them. My Jag was so well built that I’d probably survive, but I wasn’t sure I could live with myself.
Then I thought of that little girl. I had only gotten a glimpse of her, even though she’d lived right next-door for the past few weeks. Tiny, blond, quiet for someone that age, on this afternoon she had been wearing a pink dress that showed her chubby legs.
Those legs were probably coated with Wicked’s blood, rubbed off from the Bastard’s hands.
I shuddered, gripped the steering wheel tighter, and pressed hard on the accelerator. I continued to weave, continued to pray, and finally, as the road narrowed and curved up the mountain between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, I saw the truck.
It was hard to miss with that extended back end. A lot of young men in Seavy Village loved those trucks, but most couldn’t afford them.
It had to be the Bastard.
I drove even faster.
The truck moved closer at a rapid pace.
Now if I swerved, I would hit the guard rail, maybe bounce over it and fall wheels over roof all the way to the ocean. Or if I crossed into the northbound lane, I would hit the mountainside.
I wouldn’t survive either of those.
My breath caught. I had to make myself exhale and think. I couldn’t force the Bastard off the road because he had the toddler with him.
But there was a wide area in the road, about eight miles from this point, where another road — coming from the east — intersected it. I could force him down that road, away from the ocean.
That road dead-ended into a large parking lot that led to a state park.
I zoomed up to him, then around him, hoping that he was smart enough to stop or turn when he came across an obstacle. He knew these roads better than I did, and I hoped that would influence his driving as well.
When I reached the road that formed a T with the highway, I glanced east. The road was as wide as I remembered. Someone driving fast could make a quick turn — even if that someone was in an extra long truck.
I stopped only a few yards away, turned on my flashers, and blocked both lanes. I kept watching both lanes, hoping that the first vehicle to approach — on either side — would be the Bastard’s truck.
Of course, it wasn’t. A minivan heading north pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man with a paunch and graying hair got out. He walked around to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
“You okay?”
“No,” I said. “Move away from my car.”