Helpless (47 page)

The conservation land behind Pine Street was especially hilly, so Tom kept the chain mostly to the inner chainwheels. He remembered to ease off the pedal pressure some just before shifting gears. He sped up, didn’t brake, while going over obstacles. On the downhill, he leaned back to apply more grip to the rear tire. Uphill he leaned forward to accomplish the same on the front. The biggest problem was the clipless pedals, for which he didn’t have the proper cleats. His feet slipped, but not often.

Tom kept clear of the paths, which meant more obstacles to overcome. The unbalanced weight of Jill’s nylon backpack somewhat hampered his ability to maneuver the bike. Still, he managed to bunny hop a fallen moss-covered maple tree without having to dead stop. On a couple of steep run-ups, Tom had to dismount and shoulder the bike to the top. He used the densest parts of the woods to his advantage, turning the tall, leafy trees into a natural canopy that concealed his location from air surveillance.

Tom was glad he kept up a disciplined exercise schedule. Even with the injuries he had sustained in the car accident, his breathing was unlabored as he pedaled through a river swollen from a recent rain. Trained athletes would have been sucking air at his pace. Weekend warriors would have been hyperventilating, probably injured by now. He saw obstacles—roots and rocks—that normal riders would have missed. His heartbeat stayed steady.

As he rode, he visualized the response to his escape. The Shilo police weren’t a significant concern, even though they would call in reinforcements from the state police. They’d organize a containment strategy of sorts. Patrol cars and motorcycles at the major access roads bordering the section of woodland directly behind his house. They’d figure on covering about a ten-mile radius. But Tom was riding fast enough that they’d need to double that acreage to have any hope of spotting him.

But SWAT was a legitimate concern.

Some of those guys had his level of training. They could mobilize fast, too. It was what they were organized to do. The state police would call for SWAT. They’d come at him from the air. But they’d also come by land.

Tom had a map of Shilo in his backpack, but he didn’t need to refer to it. He knew exactly where he was riding. If he could slip by SWAT, he was gone. Nobody would find him then. Not unless he wanted them to.

Of all the concerns clouding his thoughts, his biggest worry was Jill. Would she be all right? Would she do exactly as he had instructed? He recalled how she had screamed into the dark woods, daring the vandals who desecrated her house to show their cowardly faces. He saw a fight in his daughter she’d shown only on the soccer field. It was reassuring. It gave him confidence that she’d be fine. Soon, they’d be together.

The terrain flattened out for several hundred yards but then began a steady incline. Tom rode in a zigzag pattern, with his body over the rear wheel to establish a greater center of gravity. His outside foot leaned forward into each turn, granting him added mobility so that he could swivel at a much greater angle. He moved toward each turn, looking nine feet ahead in anticipation of the next.

The forest here was composed mostly of hemlock, white pine, beech, and oak trees. The composition of the terrain seemed to vary every few feet. In parts the soil was rocky, but it soon became a coarse washed till and just as quickly turned sandy and fine. The riding was challenging, but not impossible. He knew where he could lose any pursuer, and didn’t have that far to go.

Tom was beginning to think the chase would be easier than he’d anticipated. Then he heard the sound of a helicopter’s rotors slicing the air.

SWAT had arrived.

Tom craned his neck skyward. The land in front of him dipped. He nearly lost his balance trying to pinpoint the chopper’s exact position. There was a quick break in the tree cover. The helicopter was almost directly overhead. The forest thickened again, but the damage was already done. The helicopter pilots had seen him. Same as he’d seen them.

For ten minutes the helicopter kept pace with Tom. He knew what was coming next. He heard the sound in his mind before he heard it in his ears. The whining engines of ATVs barked out their warning from the dark wood behind him. As he expected, SWAT had mobilized a task force to hunt him down. The helicopter worked as a spotter. Now it was up to the ATV riders to bring him in.

Good luck,
Tom thought.

The ATVs sounded at most five hundred yards to his back. He knew not to be confident in that assessment. The forest made pinpointing location by sound a misleading endeavor.

He accelerated to ninety-five rpm’s. His destination was nearing. It would be a race to see who got there first. Diffused light from the late-day sky flattened out the shadows and blended dangerous obstacles in with the harmless terrain. Tom’s night vision acuity couldn’t reveal everything, and when Tom hit the rock, a small boulder buried beneath a lump of decaying forest rot, his only option was to take the fall.

The wheel of his bike connected with the rock’s jagged side at full speed and sent Tom lurching forward. He catapulted over the handlebars like a projectile launched from a slingshot. With a grunt, Tom landed on the hard-packed ground, feeling the impact like a thunderclap rolling about his head.

He staggered to his feet and retrieved the crumpled bike, which had landed some twenty feet from where he rose. The bike’s front wheel was bent slightly; a few spokes had become dislodged on impact. He checked it quickly; it could still be ridden. The noise of ATV engines grew louder with every passing second. They buzzed, seemingly from all directions.

As Tom remounted his bike, headlights appeared at the top of the hilly rise several hundred feet behind him. The headlights, like a swarm of gnats with glowing eyes, six sets in total, lit Tom’s face and cast threatening beams that danced over the rocks and trees of the darkening wood.

Tom began to pedal again. It wasn’t far now. He’d studied the maps before he’d left the house. He knew how the terrain changed beyond the creek. Where the land rose again stood a forest of densely packed, smaller trees. Skiers in the Northeast might refer to the tree line up ahead as glades. But Tom had a different name for it.

Escape.

A voice from a megaphone overhead cut through the noise of the ATV engines and whirling rotors.

“This is the police. We’ve got you surrounded. Dismount your bicycle. We have orders to shoot. Dismount and get down on the ground.”

Tom pushed harder against the pedals. He was sweating. The muscles in his calves and thighs burned as fibers broke down and lactic acid built up.

“Last warning. Dismount now,” boomed the voice from above.

Tom risked a glance behind him and saw that five of the ATVs were still in pursuit. He estimated the distance at fifty yards back, but closing in quick. The sixth rider had stopped to ready a weapon.

Fifty yards to the glades.... now forty ...

The crack of a rifle shot exploded in the distance. The bullet slapped into a tree not far to Tom’s right. It splintered the wood with an alarming snap. Another shot, this one passing close enough for Tom to hear the bullet whiz by.

Twenty yards to go ...

The riders were close enough now for Tom to feel the heat of their headlamps. All forest sounds gave way to the noise of their engines revving in pursuit.

Ten ...

Another shot rang out. The bullet was way off target. Even so, the lead ATV had managed to pull alongside Tom. The ATV rider slowed to keep pace. He wore a black helmet and had on leather protective gear.

Good for him. He’ll need both,
Tom thought.

The rider released one hand from the ATV handlebars and motioned wildly for Tom to stop.

Tom released his hand from the handlebar. He used that free hand to point to something up ahead.

The rider turned to look to where Tom pointed. Tom could see the rider try to brake. But he braked too late. The spacing between the trees was twenty inches, twenty-five at most. Tom needed only eighteen to clear the obstacle. The ATV required more than seventy. The impact when the ATV threaded two trees was ferocious.

Traveling at over thirty miles per hour, the front of the ATV collided against two trees with only a tap of the brakes to decelerate. Metal crunched against wood, and the ATV’s engine made a desperate whirring sound, as though taking its final breath. The vehicle flipped over onto its front, but the trees held it in an inverted position, which kept it from toppling over. The rider flew into the air, arms outstretched, and landed, miraculously, between two other trees. The force of his fall buried his head beneath a dense pack of ground cover. The other ATVs stopped inches before hitting the glades.

Tom’s bike, however, wove in and out of the trees, tracing a zigzag path between the obstacles like a seamstress’s stitch. The forest canopy thickened again.

Above, Tom heard the helicopter circling, but he could no longer see it overhead.

Behind, Tom listened to the angry idling of five waiting ATV engines.

Ahead, Tom saw only trees. Densely packed and narrow.

The final passage to his escape.

Chapter 77

T
om rode the bike in a wide circle. The police would assume he’d continued on his northerly course. He doubted anybody would suspect that he’d backtracked toward home. But that was the direction he had to ride if he wanted to make it to the Plenty Market—and to Jill.

The sun had set, and the late summer song of crickets and other woodland critters punctuated the evening’s calm. In this part of town, there was nothing unusual to draw the people’s attention. No all-points-bulletins had been issued to locals, warning them that Tom Hawkins was a fugitive from justice. Sure, news spread fast in Shilo. But Tom was confident it didn’t spread that fast. Whatever was happening on Oak Street was taking place a world away from where he was now. Here, there were only food shoppers.

Tom entered the market. He wore a baseball cap he’d packed in the backpack and kept his head low. The high-powered air conditioners chilled his skin. He intentionally proceeded down an aisle without any other shoppers. He headed straight to the back of the supermarket without slowing. Once there, he pushed open the swinging double doors that led into the back storeroom.

Gill Sullivan was sitting at his desk in the little office with the big plate-glass front window. If Sullivan hadn’t been there, Tom had plan B ready to roll, but he was glad to see the bastard hard at work. Sullivan looked up, frowned at Tom, rose from his seat, and was quick to leave his office.

Puzzled, Sullivan took hurried steps toward Tom, slowing as he neared. “What are you doing back here, Hawkins?” he asked.

Tom lunged at Sullivan with a burst of acceleration that took Sullivan by surprise. Sullivan’s eyes went wide with fright. A panicked look replaced his earlier confidence.

Tom sliced the side of his hand through the air as though he were brandishing a sword. The blow connected against Sullivan’s windpipe with enough force to drop the man to his knees, but not quite enough to crush the organ.

Sullivan clutched at his throat, gagging for breath. He dropped to the floor and lay flat on his stomach. Tom straddled Sullivan’s back, seized a clump of greasy hair, and pulled his head back.

“Where are your car keys?” Tom asked in a calm voice.

Sullivan grabbed at his throat and struggled to speak. Tom pushed Sullivan’s face to the floor. He pressed the knuckles of his fist into the back of Sullivan’s head. His other fist dug deep into the man’s spine. Sullivan gasped and coughed up a glob of green phlegm mixed with strawberry-colored blood.

“Car keys,” Tom said, repeating the demand.

Sullivan patted the side of his pants, and Tom fished out the keys.

“Make and model,” he said.

“Chevy Equinox,” Sullivan squeaked out. His voice was raspy and weak.

“Where is it parked?”

“Out back,” Sullivan said. “Loading dock.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“What do you want?” Sullivan asked.

“Well, first, I wanted a car. Thanks for that. Now I want information. Who killed Lindsey Wells? Was it Mitchell? Did Roland say?”

Sullivan tried to shake his head but couldn’t move it much with his face still to the floor. Tom turned Sullivan over so he could study the man’s body language.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sullivan said. “I didn’t even know she was dead.”

No tell. Nothing to suggest that Sullivan was lying.

“What about Marvin? Was Boyd involved? Did Roland Boyd have anything to do with Marvin’s death?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

Tom noticed something this time. A twitch at the corner of Sullivan’s mouth. It was slight. But it was there. Maybe, what Sullivan needed was some added motivation to talk. Tom turned Sullivan over and hoisted him up by his belt loop. He saw the man’s massive belly swinging below his compressed waist like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Tom pulled Sullivan to his feet.

“I’m going to put you on a new diet, Gilly,” Tom said, patting the man’s sizable midsection and purposefully using Roland’s nickname for him. “It’s called the Frozen Feast Diet. Ever hear of it?”

Sullivan’s expression shifted from a look of concern to one of panic. He began to shake, and his knees went slack. Tom kept him propped up, though.

“Unlike South Beach, you actually won’t be able to eat anything,” Tom went on, “because all the food is frozen. Get it? Frozen Feast. Works wonders.”

Sullivan tried to resist, but he lacked the strength. Tom opened the cooler door and tossed Sullivan inside. He noticed the automatic light was working again. Sullivan crashed into a shelving unit at the back of the freezer. Frozen meat and other provisions toppled on top of him.

“You fixed that shelf I had to break, I see,” Tom said. “I’ll give you one more chance. Did Roland Boyd have anything to do with Marvin’s murder?”

“Screw you, Hawkins,” Sullivan said.

Tom knew Sullivan was going to waste his time. The man might be hiding something, but he wasn’t going to reveal it without a good deal of effort, which Tom didn’t have the time to expend. For now, at least, he was done with Gilly Sullivan. What he was going to do next was purely for revenge. Tom used a frozen sausage to shatter the lightbulb, hitting it like a bat connecting with a ball. The space descended into darkness.