He closed the door, silently turning the handle into place. He swallowed and said to Ben, “Of all the shitty luck, we had to stumble upon a meth lab!”
Chapter Forty-Six
Sam whispered, “That explains the security cameras and blocked driveway.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, but it doesn’t explain how they move the stuff after it’s made.”
“Who cares? Let’s get out of here.”
“I care. That lane we came down hasn’t been driven on in years. That means they’re not shipping the drugs out from there. Ergo, they must have another way in and out. There must have been a dozen or so people working inside, they don’t live here, so where are their cars?”
“Not our problem,” replied Sam.
“No, but it might be our solution. Cars can’t be stored out in the cold in this part of the world. They’ll be tucked safely away somewhere nearby. Find the cars, we might just find a way out of here. There must be something round the back.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
Ben shrugged. “Trying to walk anywhere from here will be deadly, so I’m up for it.”
“All right.”
They headed past the log-house-come-meth lab following the trail as it split into a fork, with one path leading farther south toward Devils Lake and the other turning into a more easterly direction. Buried within a dense forest of conifer trees, the track to the east became more protected from the elements and better maintained.
There were tire tracks beneath the snow.
They followed the trail. The tracks were deep and wide, like they came from a large SUV, a small truck, or maybe a Jeep. The track kept going for a couple hundred feet, giving rise to doubt — there was no certainty they were going to find the drug dealers’ cars.
A side path to their left led to a small barn roughly eighty feet away. The tire tracks continued straight ahead on the main path.
Do they keep going or try the barn?
Sam and Ben looked at each other, mulling over their decision in silence.
“Let’s have a look at the barn,” Ben said, his eyes tracing the snow-covered lane. “Look, no prints or tire tracks in the snow. At least we know nobody’s been this way for a while. Maybe we can crash there until this storm passes by.”
“Sounds good.”
Sam reached the side door. It was unlocked. The place looked conspicuously abandoned.
Inside, it was dark.
Ben closed the door behind him.
Sam fumbled with the wall, trying to find a light switch. There was a faint hum coming from the other side of the barn, suggesting the place still had usable power.
His fingers touched a dangling cord. He pulled hard and the light came on. Big compact fluorescent lights came on, taking nearly a minute to warm, before they shone brightly down on the barn’s single object, like the focused lights at an antiquity exhibition.
Whatever it was, it was covered by a thick cloth.
Sam pulled it back, revealing a mint condition, 1970, second generation, cranberry red Chevrolet Camaro RS/SS underneath.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Camaro's styling was inspired by Ferrari. It was bigger and heavier than the first generation, and no longer capable of being built as a convertible. Engineered much like its predecessor, the car still used a unibody structure with a front subframe, leaf springs in the back and A-arms up front for suspension. It had the Rally Sport and the Super Sport equipment package, featuring the unique front-end appearance with a split front bumper and a center grille cavity encircled in rubber, and the heavier-duty suspension.
The red paint looked like it had just been sprayed yesterday.
The contours of the second-generation Camaro were streamlined like a racecar, with its new body style featuring a fastback roofline and ventless full-door glass with no rear side quarter windows.
Some believed it was the greatest car in Chevrolet’s history. Certainly, the most powerful of the Camaros. As the years progressed, it would grow less powerful, succumbing to the pressures of tightening emissions regulations and the fuel crisis of the seventies.
Ben stared at the car, his eyes wide, and his breathing deep. “I always wanted one of these!”
“Hey, it might just be your lucky day after all,” Sam said with an unsuppressed smile. “If we can get it going, you might just get to be the proud new owner of a stolen Chevrolet Camaro SS! So much for staying inconspicuous…”
“Who cares, with a beast like this, we can outrun the police!”
Sam met him with the look of a parent about to tell a child Christmas wasn’t real. Doubt was written all over his face as though he seriously doubted the classic American muscle car — albeit great for its day — could outperform a modern police car. Still, they had to work with what they had and right now, that was a nearly five decades old sports car.
“Let’s see if we get can it going first.”
“Okay,” Ben replied. He lifted the pull-up handle and it opened smoothly. The damned thing was unlocked. “It must be our lucky day.”
Sam responded with a curt, “Clearly.”
“The key’s sitting in the ignition! Who leaves the key in the ignition of a classic sports car?”
“Who indeed?”
Ben nodded. “Oh right, a drug dealer who knows nobody’s going to be stupid enough to steal it.”
“That’s right. I guess he wasn’t thinking about a couple of fugitives on the run.”
“Guess not.”
Ben reached in and pulled the hood release latch under the dash beside the steering wheel. The hood lifted a few inches with a distinctive popping sound. He eagerly moved around to the hood, reaching his fingers under to find the latch. The old coils were tight, and the hood a little stuck. He pressed down with all his weight, releasing the tension, while his forefingers depressed the latch.
The hood released.
It lifted all the way up into its self-securing hood system.
He breathed out. It was the first time he realized he was holding his breath. The 1970 Camaro SS 396 was catalogued to have a 396 cubic inch engine, that boasted a blistering 350 horsepower. It was in pristine condition, and someone had gone to the trouble of keeping the engine block warmer plugged in overnight, which dispelled any fears that the car might not still be in a drivable condition.
Whatever dilapidated state the barn might be in, there was no doubt in his mind; the owner had gone to great lengths to keep the car in perfect condition.
He turned to Sam. “Do you realize this was the first of the 1970s big block V8s?”
“No,” Sam replied. “I’m afraid my dad had, how do I say this… more expensive tastes in cars when I was growing up.”
“All the more shame for you.”
“I guess.”
“Well let me enlighten you, my friend. This was the first of the model’s big block V8s and it actually displaced 402 cubic inches, although Chevrolet chose to retain the 396 badges. It’s equipped with a single 4-barrel Holley carburetor that produces a staggering 375 horsepower at 5,600 rpm!”
“That’s great. Really, I mean it. I get classic cars. I love them as much as the next guy, maybe even a little more. But I’m pretty certain that storm’s going to hit soon, trapping us here for another day, or worse yet, those drug dealers are going to return and then it’s game over — so let’s just get it started and get out of here.”
Ben smiled. “You bet. But I drive.”
“Sure.”
He unplugged the engine warmer and dropped the hood.