Death Loves a Messy Desk (29 page)

Before I started my soup campaign, it might be a good idea to actually get some soup recipes. That would be another pleasant diversion. I could print out the recipes and put them in a little binder. Or keep them in a folder on my computer. Or would it be better to get a cookbook? A soup cookbook. There was a lovely new and used bookstore uptown on the arcade. That might be the best thing. I could get advice, as I had never actually owned a cookbook. It might represent more of a commitment to this soup venture than merely printing recipes from the Web or scoring a copy of
Soup for Total Losers
.

Of course, it wouldn’t take a team of shrinks long to figure out that I didn’t need soup at all. My usually smooth workweek had been chaotic; I was feeling lonely; my social network seemed to be in self-destruct mode; my best friend was lost to me, perhaps forever; and I needed a new way to use my downtime. Perhaps one that wouldn’t involve chopping celery.

I was still two exits away from my route, but I was fed up with the looming truck. Time for a different route. I wanted to ditch that turkey. I signaled and moved over to the exit lane. The truck pulled over, too. He was still close enough that his headlights made it hard for me to see. Never mind. At least there wasn’t much chance that he’d be going my way.

Wrong.

I turned left to head back into Woodbridge. He followed. I decided I didn’t want those headlights behind me all the way into town. Easily dealt with. I swung right to take the old route into town. No truck driver in his right mind would take this route. It was peppered with stop signs, hidden driveways, and blind corners. Plus it went through Vineland Estates, which had ridiculously low speed limits.

Just what I wanted.

Apparently just what he wanted, too.
We’ll see about that
, I decided, making a quick right, stopping at the second stop sign, and then managing an even quicker left. Next I turned right to get onto a long and winding road that was scenic in the day and quiet and empty at night.

So long, sucker.

My heart rate soared as the headlights followed. What the hell? He wasn’t even slowing down for those stop signs. His wheels squealed as he took the turns too fast for safety.

There’s never a cop around when you want one. And I really wanted one. I would even have been happy to see Nick the Stick at that point.

But come on, someone had to see this huge thuggish vehicle barreling through a residential area. But although there were lights in the houses and the flicker of televisions, no one stood on their lawn chatting, no one was conveniently pulling their car into their driveway. I was on my own.

I gunned the Miata and sped ahead. The lights got no farther behind. In fact, I thought they were getting closer. I needed to attract attention fast. I leaned on my horn, staccato beeps followed by long, loud blasts, then beeps again. Three short, three long, three short, all run together. SOS. My organized childhood badges continued to pay off.

Please someone hear me and stick your head out the door. This guy thinks he has no witnesses.
Bad, bad news, because at the end of this small development was a track of parkland surrounded by woods. My heart rate spiked again. Was this where the Impala was found? Had that driver been run off the road by a truck straight out of a horror movie and then murdered? I tried not to think about the body in the trunk.

Whatever else happened, I had to stay where someone might spot me. I didn’t know Vineland Estates well, but I remembered that several of the streets ended up on the route to the park. The others appeared to keep going around in circles, crescents, and possibly spirals straight to hell.

I pressed on the accelerator and rocketed around a corner. The truck stayed on my tail. In my rearview mirror I could see it wasn’t hauling a trailer, just the cab. Who knew one of those could whip around like that? The Miata is easy to handle and turn. I kept making short sharp twists. I changed my direction without warning, up and down the meandering crescents of this seemingly uninhabited neighborhood. I kept leaning on the horn. Still, by the time anyone stuck their head out the front door, I would have zoomed on to the next street. Would anyone ever spot the speeding truck and call the cops?

By this time, I felt angry as well as desperate. With all those paved driveways and basketball hoops, couldn’t one kid be out practicing layups? Did everything have to stop just because it was dark? What was this country coming to?

My cell phone was in my handbag, within reach, but I needed both hands to hang on to the wheel. As I shot down a relatively straight stretch of road on Malbec Crescent, I held the wheel with one hand and unzipped the purse with my other. By the time I yanked out the phone, the truck had gained. He was almost on my bumper. I floored it and flew into the next crescent. The roar behind me told me he had the same plan.

Valpolicella was the same as every other street in the area, the houses well-spaced with large lush lawns. I thought about driving straight across one of the lawns, but I worried about sinking into a backyard pool. Plus, the spaces between the houses were so wide that the truck could just follow. I pictured myself up against a fence with the cab pushing me into it. As I struggled not to panic, I shot past a house with a three-car garage that narrowed the space between it and its neighbor. I jerked the wheel and did a U-turn past the truck. I switched off my lights, then turned again sharply and careened down the side lawn and between the two houses. Luckily there was no pool, and better yet, no fence between this property and the one in back of it. I flew across the property and out onto the street behind. I needed to get out of the view of the truck for long enough to hide myself and my car.

Halfway down whatever wine street I had turned onto, luck smiled on me. A double garage door was open, one car inside. I turned sharply, hit the brakes, and slid into the garage. I hopped out of the Miata and spotted the garage door button. I pushed it and heard not only the rattle of the door closing, but also the rumble of the cab approaching.

My heart was still pounding as the garage door automatic light flicked off. I stood there in the pitch dark, disoriented. Why hadn’t I looked to see where the door to the house was? At least I still had my cell phone in my hand. I managed to flick the phone open and call 911 by the dim light of the tiny screen.

“Help! I’m being chased by a crazy truck driver! I think he’s trying to kill me. Get someone out here soon!”

Mona Pringle’s familiar snide tone responded. “That you again, Charlotte?”

Oh boy. I guess she owns the four-to-midnight shift. “Yes.”

“Well, the fun never ends.”

“Mona,” I whispered, “it’s not fun. I don’t know where he is. I am in a garage and it’s dark and I don’t know if he is outside. He could drive his truck through the door and crush me and maybe he’s listening.”

Okay, I realized how nutty that sounded, but it was all true, if a bit jumbled.

“Where are you?”

“I told you, in a garage.”

“Address?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in Vineland Estates. The street’s parallel to Valpolicella on the south side. I don’t know the street name or the number of the house. He was chasing me and I just drove in and closed the door. I kept blowing my horn but no one heard me.”

“Oh, people heard you all right. We got lots of calls about that truck chasing a Miata. I should have known you were involved. We have units on the way to the area. We’ll try to find your location.”

I blinked back hot tears, a response to the shock of the chase. “I’ll try to find out, too.”

The phone was a dim source of light, but perhaps enough to find a door. I felt my way along the garage wall.

Mona was squawking. “Charlotte?”

“I’m trying to find out where I am.”

“Units are on their way.”

“Tell them to watch for a big truck, just the cab.”

“What color?”

“I don’t really know. It was behind me shining its lights, they practically blinded me. And it’s dark out, but I believe it was red.”

“It’ll have to do.”

“Wait! It’s a Volvo. I saw the name on the front.”

“What about the license plate?”

I paused. I closed my eyes to recall. “There wasn’t one.”

“Well, there had to be one, Charlotte. That’s the law.”

“This guy’s not so big on the law,” I said. “There won’t be many murderous trucks rampaging through this neighborhood. Tell them, if they see one, just stop it.”

“Yeah. They figured that out already. And Charlotte?”

“What?”

“Maybe you should stay put.”

“Well, I’m a sitting duck if that truck takes a run at this garage, if he saw me come in.”

I picked up a rake as a weapon, not that a rake is much defense against a Volvo of any size or color. I hammered on the door to the house.

Nothing. No voices. No answer.

I tried the doorknob. To my astonishment, it opened. Lucky me, open garage door, open door to the house. Bless this family. Absentminded people went way up in my estimation. I stepped through the garage entrance and into the house. Everything was dark. No sign of anyone. At least the streetlight illuminated the interior enough to avoid tripping.

“Hello?” I said.

Nothing.

“Where are you?” Mona said.

“I’m inside someone’s house. There doesn’t seem to be anyone home. Mona, if I pick up the phone here and call 911, will you be able to tell where I am?”

Mona sounded miffed. “I was just going to suggest that.” I could hear her calling out to someone else in the dispatch center that a call from Charlotte Adams would be coming in and to get the address. Pronto. “Don’t turn off your cell, though,” she said.

By this time I had stumbled into the kitchen.
Telephone, telephone, find a telephone.
At last I found the portable phone and pressed the three magic numbers. My fingers were shaking.

One of Mona’s co-workers picked up immediately. “Okay, hang in there,” she said, “we got you. Number forty-three Chianti Drive.”

I slunk along the hallway and crawled along the living room floor. The house smelled of furniture polish and Tex-Mex leftovers that hadn’t made it back to the fridge, and, unless I was mistaken, someone had been smoking an illegal substance. Were they all stoned? Was that why no one answered my knock? But I had more urgent matters to think about. I crawled through the living room and over to the large bay window. I stuck my head up and peered out onto the street. Clear. No one there, no one coming. I had just about let my guard down when the malevolent cab rumbled into view, slowly, creeping past each house. Most were in darkness, and not a human being was in sight. Were my diagonal tire tracks still on the lawn?

The truck stopped. Did I only imagine the evil hissing of the brakes? Smarten up, I told myself. There is no way he—or worse, they—can know you are here. Even if he spots your tire tracks, there’s no possible way he can see you crouched here. The laws of physics don’t permit it.

The truck backed up and turned toward the window where I was hiding. What had given me away? As the engine roared, I scrambled away from the window and across the hallway.

I shouted into both phones, “He’s going to ram the house. Get some cars here fast. He’s going to come right through the window!”

I dashed up the stairs, dropping the house phone handset. I could hear the 911 operation squawking. In response to a truck that probably weighs eighteen tons, hurtling straight at you, flight is the only real choice. As I hit the second floor running, a door opened and a sleepy-looking teenaged boy in pajama bottoms lumbered into the hallway.

I screeched to a halt.

I believe we both screamed.

He rubbed his eyes.

I caught my breath and regained my equilibrium before he did. “He’s taking a run at the house.”

“What?”

“Is there a way out from the second floor? Oh no, I suppose not. This was a bad move on my part.”

By this time, his adolescent jaw practically rested on his bony chest. I suppose he thought he was dreaming. He said, “Who are you?”

“I’m Charlotte. We absolutely need to get out of here right away. We’re in danger, and I mean big-time.”

“What?”

“Please stop saying
what
. I’ll explain when we’re safe. The back door might be blocked. If there are two of them in the truck.”

“What? I mean two of . . . who?”

“Later. It will take too long. Is there a good hiding place here?”

“What?”

“No more
whats
. Someone is after me and they’re about to ram your house with a truck.”

He blinked.

Useless in a crisis.
Heaven help your future mate
, I thought.

So. Next move? Under the bed. Behind a door? Anyone who would chase an innocent person through a residential area and try to ram a house they were hiding in would not hesitate to search under a bed.

“We need a place to hide.”

“Wha . . . I mean, there’s the closet.”

“They’ll look in the closet. Is there a way out to the roof?”

“No. But I have a secret compartment in my closet. If you want to try it. There might be room for both of us. You’re not too big. That is, if you’re really real.”

I followed him back into the bedroom. “What do you mean, if I’m really real?”

“I’m probably just dreaming you and this whole thing. I had a lot of tacos just before I went to sleep.”

“You’re not . . .” Wait a minute. Why was it so quiet? Shouldn’t that damned semi have hit the house by now?

I headed through what must have been the parents’ bedroom to the window and lifted the corner of the blind to check on the truck. A massive oak tree blocked my view of the lawn. I listened. I couldn’t hear anything that sounded like an engine revving. Had they just come into the house instead?”