Doubleback: A Novel (15 page)

“It’s a light sensor,” Sechrest said. “It turns on whenever there’s motion in the back.”

“Great. Nothing like being sitting ducks.”

“It’ll turn off as soon we’re out of range. You can’t see it from the front, anyway. The trees mask it. That’s how my brother was able to sneak out.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Georgia shook it off. “All right. Your turn, Sandy.”

Sechrest handed the shotgun down to Georgia, who propped it against the house.

“Arms first,” Georgia said.

Sechrest promptly got stuck.

“Shrug your shoulders one side at a time. And try to angle your body. Even an inch at a time is progress.”

Sechrest grunted with the effort but made scant headway. They were losing time. Georgia grabbed Sechrest’s arms and pulled. The woman wriggled and squirmed and moaned as the metal window frame scraped her skin. Finally, she managed to shove through the window. Like Georgia, she collapsed on the ground.

While Sechrest was pulling herself together, Georgia tried to come up with a plan. They couldn’t escape in her Toyota—they’d run straight into their pursuer. Sechrest’s neighbor’s cabin was on one side, a densely wooded area lay on the other. Castle Rock Lake was directly ahead.

A gust of wind blew her hair across her face. She pushed it behind her ears. “What’s on the other side of the woods?” Georgia asked.

“The main road. But not for a mile or so.”

“What’s down at the lake?”

“A dock. We share it with our neighbors.”

A thump and rustle sounded from the front of the cabin. Then something jiggled. He was rattling the door knob.

Sechrest gripped the shotgun. “Shit!” She whispered. “He’s trying to get inside!”

“Is there a boat?”

More rattling. “A dinghy down by the dock. Why?”

Georgia started jogging toward the dock.

“We can’t take the boat. Talk about sitting ducks!”

“Come on.” Georgia persisted.

As they approached it, she heard the crash of wood splintering. He’d broken in. They didn’t have much time.

The dock was dimly lit by the light from the back of the house. Georgia made a quick visual sweep of the dock. She spotted a rusty life preserver and an old tarp crumpled against the edge. The dinghy lay upside down a few yards away. An idea occurred to her. She ran to it and started to turn it over. “Sandy,” she hissed. “Help me.”

“I told you. We can’t go out. He’ll come after us. Or shoot us from shore.”

“Trust me.” She didn’t have time to explain.

Sechrest’s fear must have been stronger than her need for clarity because she came over and together they flipped over the dinghy. As they dragged it down to the water’s edge, Georgia turned around. A chill raced up her spine. The light at the back of the house had gone off, but the beam from a flashlight was bobbing and weaving through the bathroom window from which they’d just escaped. Another minute and he would be outside with them.

Sechrest turned and saw the flashlight beam. “Oh god! Oh god. Oh god!” Her frantic whispers sounded like a broken record.

“Sandy, get it together. We
are
going to make it.” Georgia raced back to the dock, grabbed the tarp, and threw it into the dinghy. Suddenly light kicked on from the back of the house. The motion sensor. She turned around. The figure was outside, clearly silhouetted against the light. A man. He lifted his left hand and spread the fingers to shade his eyes against the glare. His hand looked like it was missing most of his index finger.

Her jaw clenched. Although she and Sechrest were far enough away to be out of the light, she could tell from the tilt of his head he was trying to figure out where they were. She veered across the lawn toward the cabin of Sechrest’s neighbor.

“What are you doing?” Sechrest squeaked.

Georgia grabbed a fistful of gravel and threw it as far as she could toward the neighbors’ cabin. The effect was instantaneous. The man sprinted in the direction of the sound.

Meanwhile, Georgia ran back down to the dinghy. Together she and Sechrest pushed the dinghy to the edge of the water. Too late Georgia realized she needed something to prop up the tarp. She didn’t see any oars, and she didn’t have time to look. A long tree branch would work, but there was no time for that either.

The shotgun. She could use that as a stake. “Give me the shotgun,” she ordered.

“Are you crazy?”

“Sandy, it’s our only chance. I’ve got a 9 millimeter.”

“Yeah, but what does that leave me with?”

Georgia forced herself to remain calm. “A shotgun will only work if you’re within range of your target. In a few seconds we won’t be. Look, there’s no time to argue. If you want to live past the next two minutes, hand it over.”

Sechrest didn’t move for a moment. It seemed interminable. Then she passed the gun to Georgia.

Georgia propped it up against the thwart seat. It was sturdier than she’d expected She draped the tarp over it. Maybe it would fool their pursuer into thinking a person—or two—was in the dinghy. At least for an instant.

As if on cue, the figure reappeared at the side of the house. Georgia pushed the dinghy into the lake. It started off at a sharp angle. She fished out her keys from her jacket pocket. “We need to split up. You run like hell through the woods to my car. It’s facing the main road. Start it and get out.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll cut through and meet you on the main road.”

“But what if—”

“No what-ifs.” Georgia cut in. “Just go.” She looked over her shoulder. The man had come back to Sechrest’s yard and was making his way toward the water. “Now!”

Sechrest sprinted toward the woods faster than Georgia thought possible. Georgia cut across the yard away from the man, heading into the woods fifty yards away. She was quickly shrouded by trees and brush, and she knew she couldn’t be seen. She started counting seconds, hoping Sechrest would make it to the Toyota before she reached sixty. One minute. That was all they had.

She was up to thirty when she heard a burst of machine gun fire. Fuck! The asshole had an assault rifle! He was shooting at the dinghy. If she and Sechrest had been on in the boat, they would be mincemeat by now. Which meant the diversion had been the right move. But how was she supposed to compete with an assault rifle? Compared to its firepower, her Sig was about as effective as a matchstick. She picked her way through the forest, trying to avoid tree roots and underbrush. Thorns and branches scraped her arms.

A car door slammed. An engine sputtered to life. Sechrest was in the Toyota. Georgia kept thrashing through the woods. Sandy needed to floor it. Their pursuer was undoubtedly headed toward the car.

The engine noise swelled. Another burst of machine gun fire. Georgia heard the clang of metal on metal. He was close enough to shoot at the car! The Toyota barreled down the dirt road. Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. She kept counting. By fifty-seven there were no more shots, and Georgia could barely hear the car. Did that mean Sechrest was out of range of the assault rifle? Was she safe? She wouldn’t consider the alternative.

chapter
18

“T
here are issues,” the woman said. I watched her pick up her drink and take a dainty sip. “Financial issues.” “Really?” Her companion leaned forward. The woman nodded. She was wearing too much lipstick and mascara. “Bob is very active with the church. We know too much.”

Mac came back to the table, interrupting my eavesdropping. He was carrying a pitcher of beer and two glasses, neither of them all that clean. When I pointed that out, he set them down with a thud. I poured.

It had been a long day. We started at dawn with some B-roll of cornfields, their tender stalks swaying in the morning breeze. Things deteriorated, though, when we taped at the Voss-Peterson ethanol plant. The oven-like heat not only made us slow and sluggish but triggered worries over the equipment. When video gear feels hot to the touch, and more alarming, soft, it’s time to take precautions. We covered the gear with towels and hurried through the set-ups in record time. Sweat poured down my back, plastering my t-shirt to my skin. Luckily, I keep a change of clothes in the car.

We were ready to wrap when Fred Hanover horned in. He’d been with us most of the day, but had refrained from insinuating himself into the shoot. After lunch, though, he must have talked to a higher-up, because suddenly he started running back and forth, asking us to shoot here and there and everywhere. He reminded me of an ADD kid in need of Adderal. After about his tenth suggestion, Mac and I locked eyes, and I pulled Fred aside.

“Fred, I know you’d like us to shoot everything in the plant, but we don’t have the time or money.”

“But you’re here,” he said sourly. “Why can’t you just point the camera at the holding and denaturing tanks, for example? They’re a critical component, and they’re right here.”

“It doesn’t work that way. You know that. For each scene we need to decide how to shoot it, set up the equipment, rehearse the shot, then tape. It all takes time. For example, we’d love to see them filling up or emptying, but you told us that wouldn’t be possible. In that case, all we’d have are exteriors of the tanks, which, frankly, aren’t very compelling visuals.” I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.

He lower lip protruded below the sparse collection of hair he called a mustache. I was having trouble believing this was the same man, compared to his gregarious manner the first time we met,

Ultimately we added two set-ups, including exteriors of some tanks he begged us to shoot. It wasn’t great video, but I persuaded Mac it was worth it. We were “clean and green” for a change. This was a corporation engaged in something benevolent for the greater good of the planet. We could be accommodating.

By the time we finally did wrap around five-thirty, the dry t-shirt I’d put on was soaked. The crew headed north in Mac’s air-conditioned van, but neither Mac nor I could face the ride home without a drink. We took my Volvo and headed towards Funks Grove and Shirley. North of the towns, not far from the place where we’d had lunch, was Tom’s Bar, a one-story shack with wood siding and dirty windows. We parked in a diagonal space next to a pickup.

The sun was still high in the sky, but inside the shades were drawn, and it took time for my eyes to adjust. There was a battered bar in front, and a juke box ground out country music. A sour smell hung in the air, as if years of alcohol fumes had saturated the few tables and chairs in the room.

Aside from the two women immersed in church gossip, only a couple of young men hung out at the bar. They were wearing fatigues and dark t-shirts, and their hair was cropped close to their skulls. The table behind us was occupied by another group of men in t-shirts and jeans, some with suspenders. They looked like farmers.

I swilled my beer. Usually I drink wine, but I figured Chardonnay was too pretentious for this crowd—even the Churchies were tossing back what looked like shots of bourbon. “We got a lot of good stuff today, Mac. I really liked the dolly shot you did past the vats.”

“It should cut well.”

“Don’t forget we have the Voss-Peterson CEO interview on Thursday.”

“Do we come back here to shoot?”

“No.” After deciding the plant manager with the taciturn expression wouldn’t be the best spokesperson, I’d set up an interview with Voss-Peterson’s CEO. “He’ll meet us at VP’s Chicago offices. “It should only take half a day.”

“Where are their offices?”

“In Deerfield.”

“Halleluiah.”

I lifted my glass in a toast. “And no Fred Hanover.”

“Amen.” We clinked glasses. “He has the hots for you, you know.”

I almost spit out my beer. “I don’t think so.”

Mac rubbed it in. “He does.”

“It will be a cold day in hell—”

I stopped as the two women’s voices drifted over. “What are you bringing to the church supper?”

“I guess I’ll do macaroni salad.”

“I’m bringing fried chicken.”

“That sounds good,” I whispered to Mac.

Mac sniffed.

“Hey, we’re downstate. Farm country. Pitchers of beer, wholesome food and people.”

“These wholesome people are probably ethanol millionaires,” Mac said. “Do you know what’s happened to the price of corn?”

“After decades of farmers surviving on subsidies, not knowing if they were going to make it year to year, they deserve a break, don’t they?”

Mac shook his head. “What do you get when you cross an optimist with a liberal?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Someone who can’t wait for Big Government to screw them.”

I rolled my eyes and got up.

“Where are you going?” Mac asked.

I gestured to the men behind us. “I’m thinking we ought to talk to some of these millionaire farmers. Maybe interview them for the show. You know, happy farmers give thanks to Voss-Peterson because they’re finally getting top dollar for their crops.”

Mac looked over. “Those particular guys don’t look much like millionaires. And now that I’m noticing, not very happy either.”

“Let’s find out.”

It was Mac’s turn to roll his eyes, but I ignored him. Five men and a boy of about sixteen were at the table. I went over and put on what I hoped was an amiable but professional smile. “Hello. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”

Blank stares were my response. I turned around to Mac. His eyebrows rose. Everyone in the bar was watching me. I took a breath, introduced myself, and told them about the video. “I thought it might be interesting to have some comments by farmers who grow corn. I’m looking for statements about the effect of ethanol production on your business. And Voss-Peterson’s role in it, if it’s relevant.”

When I mentioned Voss-Peterson, they traded surreptitious glances, and their bodies stiffened. I started to get nervous, and when I’m nervous, I talk too much. I kept blathering about the video, Voss-Peterson, ethanol, and finished by saying, “I’d love to buy you all a round while we talk. If that’s okay.”

More glances, this time directed at a man with long silver hair and a spider web of reddish veins on his nose. He seemed to be the leader of the group. He twirled an empty shot glass, looked at his friends, as if to say, watch this, then shifted his gaze to me. “Who are you again?” His voice was cool.