The red of taillights diminished and winked out.
A minute later, I saw a fork in the road ahead where Dinsmore split. One arm continued straight ahead and a second road shot off to the left. There was a row of four barriers across that arm. The devices were hinged like sawhorses with a two-by-four-foot panel across the top, painted in series of diagonal orange and white stripes. Each had a reflecting light on top that seemed to blink an additional caution. I slowed to a stop, remembering Winston’s description of the barriers he’d seen the night he’d spotted Violet’s car.
I had two choices: I could take the barrier as gospel, warning of repairs or obstructions on the road ahead, or I could assume it was as a ruse, drive around one barrier and straight onto Winslet Road. I flicked on my brights. I could see the front end of a truck parked about a hundred yards away. I understood the game. At that point the angle of the two roads was probably no more than forty-five degrees, the distance between them widening over the course of four hundred yards. Padgett could be waiting in between, biding his time until I chose one or the other. It really made no difference which I picked. I backed up and yanked the steering wheel hard to my right. I completed the turn, shifted from reverse into first, and headed back the way I’d come.
I checked my rearview mirror, expecting to see some sign of a vehicle. Nothing. I thought I might be okay until I heard the whap-whap-whapping of my tires. I struggled with the steering, which was suddenly clumsy and stiff, trying to control the car as the pressure in my tires diminished. I slowed to a stop. I was right. Padgett had stopped off at Mrs. Wyrick’s earlier that night. An ice pick would have been the perfect instrument to create four slow leaks. Not as dramatic as his tire-slashing methodology at the Sun Bonnet Motel, but he wanted to make sure I could drive on the tires for a while. At least long enough to find myself out here.
That’s when I saw the headlights behind me.
Padgett took his time. My engine was idling, but I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I wanted to open the door and flee, but I didn’t think I’d get far. Even if I ran as swiftly as I could across one of the wide dark fields, I wouldn’t be hard to catch as long as he was driving his truck. I reached for my handgun and pulled the slide back.
He pulled up behind me and slowed to a stop, his engine idling as mine was. He waited for a minute and then got out of his truck. He left his headlights on, flooding my car with an unearthly glow. He strolled along the road, coming up next to my car on the passenger side. He knocked on the window despite the fact that I was looking right at him.
“Flat tire?” His tone was conversational, his voice faintly muffled. I hated his smile.
“I’m fine. Get away from me.”
He leaned back and in an exaggerated display of skepticism as he checked the tires on that side. “Don’t look fine to me.” He rested his arm on the roof of my car, watching me with interest. “Are you afraid of me or what?”
I pulled the gun up and pointed at him. “I said get the fuck away from me.”
He said, “Whoa!” and put his hands up. “I believe you have the wrong idea, Missie. I’m here to offer help…”
I should have shot him right then, but I thought there had to be another way out, something short of killing the man where he stood. I simply couldn’t sit there and blast him in the face.
I stepped on the accelerator and the car jolted forward. This threw him off balance, but far from becoming angry, he seemed amused. Maybe because he recognized my fleeting moment of cowardice. I put the gun in my lap and pressed on at a much-reduced speed. I knew I was ruining my rims, risking a broken front axle, and god knows what else, but I had to reach civilization. As I shuddered my way forward, I could see Padgett shake his head, bemused. He ambled toward his truck.
He got in, shifted into gear, and followed me, taking his sweet time, knowing his vehicle was always going to be the faster of the two. My rims were now cutting through my tires, trimming off streamers of rubber. My rims ripped along the pavement, throwing up a rooster tail of sparks. The steering was almost impossible to control, but I hung on for dear life. We continued this slow-speed pursuit, Padgett riding up against my rear bumper, giving me the occasional quick bump just to remind me he was there.
I could see Highway 166 in the distance. It was 10:00 at night and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, but there had to be a business open, a gas station at the very least. Cromwell was closer than Santa Maria and if I could make it as far as the highway, I’d head in that direction. Padgett had slipped his gear into neutral. I heard him revving his engine and then he popped it into first again and lurched into the back of my car with a thunderous bang. I clung to the steering wheel, my knuckles white with the tension of my grip. I spotted the construction site ahead, the bright yellow bulldozer and an excavator parked on the left. Padgett slammed into me twice, doing as much damage as he could, which turned out to be plenty. I smelled burning oil and scorched rubber, and something made a scraping sound every time my tires flopped around. Black smoke roiled across the rear window. My car limped along, like some sad, crippled beast while I listened to the screech of metal like the howling of the dead.
He tried another one of his gear-popping tricks, but he outsmarted himself and his engine stalled. He turned the key and I could hear the starter grind. Once the engine coughed to life, he backed up, veered around me and eased on down the road. I thought he’d given up, but that was just my inner optimist rearing her sunny little head. He pulled onto the gravel berm, cut the lights, and got out of his truck. I watched him as he proceeded at a casual pace, crossing to the bulldozer. He grabbed a handhold on the side and pulled himself up, using the track as a foothold as he climbed into the cab. He settled in the seat and leaned forward. He turned the key and the bulldozer grumbled to life. He flipped on the headlights and I watched him reach for the levers that controlled the big machine. I couldn’t figure out what his intention was-beyond the obvious, of course-until I spotted the mound of dirt in the middle of the field to my right. He’d dug a hole for me.
He was heading right at me. I braked and reached for the door handle. The engine died and by the time I turned back, he was on me. He laid the lip of the bucket up against the driver’s side of my car, making it impossible to open. He down-shifted and began to push my car sideways toward the mound of dirt. I couldn’t see the hole, but I knew it was there. The VW was rocking, sliding sideways, raw dirt piling up against the passenger’s-side door. I stuck the gun down in the waistband of my jeans and slid over into the passenger seat. I pulled back on the door handle and then shoved, trying to push the door open against the rapidly increasing buildup of soil and rock on the other side. This was never going to work. I abandoned the effort and cranked down the window, working as fast as I could. By then the dirt accumulating against the side of the car was almost to the window. I hoisted myself onto the sill, making a low sound in my throat when I saw how fast we were moving. Five miles an hour doesn’t sound like much, but the pace was steady and relentless, leaving me very little room to negotiate. I rolled out, kicking to free myself, barely managing to clear the car as it scraped past me and tumbled into the hole. The ‘dozer came to an abrupt halt while the VW hit bottom with a bang and a shudder that left the rear wheels spinning.