… gotta go… gotta get out … gotta go … gotta get out … gotta get away from here …
Where was he going? He didn’t know. Where could he go? Where could he go that he wouldn’t be recognized, wouldn’t be identified, wouldn’t be reported? They had to be looking for him by now. What with all the noise and the screaming and goddamn Harvey next door, they must know by now. Can’t keep secrets in this town, no sirree. He’d learned that a long time ago.
He clenched the steering wheel all the tighter. They’d be looking for him.
… gotta go … gotta get out … gotta go … gotta get away from here … gotta get away from here before it’s too late …
In the dead center of the turnpike, he saw a red pickup aimed straight for him, headlights blinding. He clenched his eyes shut and swerved to the right. The pickup whooshed past, missing him by inches. He suddenly realized he’d been driving down the center of the highway. Driving down the center, going about ninety, not knowing the difference.
He was going to die tonight, wasn’t he? Jesus God, that was what this was all about. Meeting his Maker. Paying for his sins. It wasn’t fair that they should die and he should live. He had to die, too. That’s what he was doing out here in the dark on the turnpike. He was going to kill himself.
He realized he was breathing in gasps, practically hyperventilating. Go ahead, he told himself. Do it. That would be a nice touch. And you’ll die all the quicker.
His hands were so wet they kept slipping off the wheel, sending him careening in one direction or the other. I wonder if it’s made the news yet? he thought. Wonder if I’m getting a good spin?
One way to find out. He snapped on the radio. He didn’t have to wait long.
“… police are chasing Mayor Wallace Barrett down the Indian Nation Turnpike eighty miles south of Tulsa. Reports indicate that he is driving at an excessive speed in an extremely erratic manner, and that he does not respond to overtures from the police caravan. Conflicting reports continue to come in from the scene of the crime. Once again: Mayor Barrett’s wife, Caroline Barrett, and their two young children, Alysha, age eight, and Annabelle, age four, have been murdered. We will continue to update this story as new information emerges.”
He shut it off. Police caravan? What the hell were they talking about? He checked the rearview mirror.
The bright, almost blinding glare of headlights shone back at him.
As he rose up the next hill, he spotted at least four separate sets of headlights.
They’d found him. In almost no time at all.
He rolled down his window, sending the car swerving back and forth across the center line. The wind rushed past his head, making a thundering noise, blotting out almost everything else.
“Pull your vehicle to the side of the road!”
The command came from the cop car just behind him, practically tailgating, as close behind as they could risk getting to a car going ninety, anyway. Someone barked another command, but he couldn’t make it out. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t.
… gotta go … gotta keep going …
He heard something else, something that had been there all along but was so drowned out by the wind he hadn’t distinguished it. A chopping noise. From overhead.
He stared up into space. It was a helicopter! But not a police copter. The huge channel number painted on the side glistened in the darkness. Someone was speaking to him through an electronic megaphone. He could barely make out the words.
“Mister Mayor!”
Yeah, that’s me. Mister Mayor—that was what the reporters in town always called him. So they not only knew where he was, but who he was.
“Mister Mayor!” The wind swept the words away, making them almost unintelligible. “Did you do it?”
Jesus God. They knew everything. And they had minicams. He knew the new infrared models didn’t need much light. He was on television! The whole goddamn stupid chase was on television. He saw the cameras, saw the blinking red lights. Two of them, at least. Hell, it was a better turnout than he had for his last press conference.
He heard some static from behind, barked commands from the cop cars. The police were trying to get the press to stay back. It wasn’t working.
“Pull your vehicle to the side of the road!”
He rolled up his window. What was the point? He had to figure out what he was going to do. What the hell was he going to do?
He’d never be able to lose them. And he was coming up to the tollgate. He couldn’t stop. What was he doing to do?
All these unresolved dilemmas were suddenly blotted out by the appearance of a semitrailer truck dead on the horizon. It was barreling toward him, seconds from impact. Small wonder; he was more in the semi’s lane than in his own.
The semi driver laid on his horn. He couldn’t possibly move that huge heavy truck in time. Barrett knew it was up to him. He twisted the wheel around, jerking his Porsche to the right. He lurched out of the path of the semi at so sharp an angle he was practically perpendicular to the road. He careened off the shoulder and onto a nearby embankment.
He saw the brick tollbooth just ahead, illuminated in his headlights. He smashed his foot down on the brakes, but it was too late, much much too late.
“I’m coming home, Jesus!” His hands rose off the wheel and covered his face. The white brick wall filled his field of vision and he screamed for just an instant before the thunderous impact silenced him and everything around him faded to black.
Chapter 9
HOMICIDE DETECTIVE MIKE MORELLI pulled his Trans Am onto Terwilliger and searched for the house. The hardest part was not reading the numbers on the curbs; it was keeping his sagging eyelids pried open.
“Jeez, Tomlinson,” he groaned at the man in the passenger seat, “how long have we been awake?”
“Twenty-five hours and counting,” Tomlinson replied. Tomlinson was Mike’s protégé, a detective in training.
“Christ. How many murders can one little town in the heartland have? First that poor schmuck in the bathroom at the River Parks. Then a homeless man living in a cardboard box under the West End Bridge. And now the mayor’s entire family. Who’s next.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mike massaged his face. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I do,” Tomlinson said matter-of-factly. “Sunspots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sunspots. Lots of sunspot activity today. I heard it on the radio. Crime always soars during high sunspot activity periods. It’s like the full moon.”
“Do tell.”
“Has something to do with shortcircuiting the synapses in our neural networks. All those little ganglia go snap! Tempers flare, and suddenly you’ve got a crime wave on your hands.”
“This is a fascinating theory, Tomlinson. Perhaps you should write this up for one of the police journals.”
“It’s been done. Well, not in the police journals, but in other influential publications.”
“Like the ones they sell at supermarket checkout stands?” Mike cruised to the end of the street. “Ah. This must be it.”
Cars were parked all around an impressive two-story brick house on the north side of the street. Swarms of people were streaming in and out of the house. A crowd was huddled on the front lawn; some people were even taking snapshots.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike put the car in neutral and jumped out, leaving Tomlinson to park.