Repo Madness (40 page)

The lights slowed and then, with a long lazy sweep, turned down Rogan's driveway.

We had run out of time.

Within fifteen seconds his headlights had found my truck. Rogan stopped dead in his driveway, idling there. What was he thinking? His vehicle was a Hummer, one of those gigantic military transports. In the dark it looked like a massive evil beast, the steel bars welded to the front of an open fanged mouth. I turned away from it, staying to the shadows, not looking back even when Rogan stepped on the gas and surged ahead. By the time he halted at his front door, I was already down at the lake, pulling the sled, headed out onto the ice.

Out toward Shantytown.

*   *   *

Rogan had tied a stout cord to the right and left sides of the sled's handle, and I soon figured out why—with that loop of rope around my waist, I didn't have to twist back to grip the handle. I couldn't afford to drag it walking backward—I needed to keep my eye on the one shanty out there that had a light on in a small window. All the rest of them were dark, like sleeping pachyderms.

We were making slow but good progress. I was reminded of hitting the tackle sled at football practice—then, as now, it was about getting my legs under me and driving forward.

“He's probably found the mess we made of his kitchen by now,”
Alan worried.

“Oh, you can count on that. He's trying to figure out what to do next. He knows we're gone, but he doesn't know where—though the ice is the only place anyone would look, unless he thinks we're hiding in the woods.”

“Is that what he will do next? Come search for us?”

“My opinion? No. He'll run. He's got to have thought about it, that one day this could happen, that he could be discovered. He's figured this out. He's not Blanchard; he's got a plan.”

“Good. Let him run.”

“That's how I feel.”

I stopped to catch my breath. The shanty with the light on looked as if it were fading away from me. I was headed straight into the wind, and the snow swirling around was making visibility almost impossible. “Whoever it is in that shanty, they probably have a cell phone.” I thought of something. “Oh Jesus.”

“What?”

“I don't know how Kermit's going to react when he gets my signal. What if he comes straight down Rogan's driveway?”

“Wouldn't he call the cops?”

“He doesn't know what's going on.”

“We have to hurry,”
Alan said simply, for what seemed like the tenth time that night.

I put more into it, my eyes on that little square of yellow glowing at the top edge of the shanty. We were a hundred yards away, the length of a football field. A familiar distance.

Suddenly there was light behind me, brightening the swirling snow. I glanced back.

Rogan had driven his enormous vehicle out onto the ice.

He was coming for us.

*   *   *

I made a decision. If I kept going straight, Rogan and I would get to the illuminated shanty at the same time. I jinked left, where three huts were grouped in close proximity. I doubted Rogan could see me—the storm would be reflected right back in his eyes. I could see him, though, and hear the roar of his engine as he came streaking across the ice.

Of the three shanties, I picked the one in the middle, which had a door secured with a loop of string. I flung it open and carried Katie inside, setting her down gently and tucking the blanket tight around her. The interior was tiny, barely large enough for her to stretch out. “Okay. You'll be safe, I promise,” I whispered to her. Then I got the wood sled and shoved it into the small hut as well, closing it back up.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't outrun him and drag her, Alan. Now I can move, draw him away.” I started running again, heading straight out onto the ice, going for the shanties in the distance.

“She'll freeze in there! She'll die!”

“If Rogan catches us, we'll
all
die.”

I looked over my shoulder. Rogan was bearing down on the shanty I'd been aiming for, the one with the lights on. I
felt
the impact as the heavy truck slammed into the flimsy hut, turning it into matchsticks. Horrified, I saw a man tumbling away from the wreckage, sprawling on the ice, a dark figure against the white.

Rogan hit the brakes and skidded a good twenty yards, drifting sideways. His Hummer rocked on its shocks when it halted, the snow pouring down in the headlights. He put the thing in neutral and revved the engine, his lights pointing back toward the hut he had just destroyed. I saw the motionless man lying in the snow.

I gauged how much distance I would have to cover to get to the poor guy and drag him to safety. Rogan would certainly see me as I emerged from the darkness. I charged forward anyway.

“Oh my God,”
Alan breathed as Rogan put his foot on the accelerator. All four of his tires spun, snow flying off the tread, but he gained speed and was moving at least thirty when he ran over the body a second time, crushing it.

There was nothing more I could do. I turned back and fled blindly into the snowstorm. When the lights suddenly lit me from behind, I knew he could see me.

*   *   *

I was out in the open, the sheds so spread out that dashing from one to another would leave me hideously exposed. The nearest hut was twenty yards away. I had to get it between me and Rogan. I sprinted as fast as I could, heading for the shadows pooling behind it. This was one of the flimsy ones, canvas and wood. “Hey, is anyone here? Can anyone hear me?” I shouted as I ducked down behind it. The wind whipped my words away.

The light was growing more intense as the Hummer came straight at the shanty I was hiding behind. Rogan had seen my flight across the open ice.

“We can't stay here!”
Alan screamed at me.

“Wait … wait … Now!” I replied. I ran straight to my left, and the Hummer hit the shanty and obliterated it. The tent material fell across his windshield, temporarily blinding Rogan, and I used the opportunity to double back, running in the direction from which he'd just come, and then heading to my right. I knew where we were; this was near where the mayor lived.

Rogan leaned out of his Hummer and removed the tarp blocking his view. Then he got back in, spun around, and crashed hard into another shanty. One of his headlights went out.

“We're nowhere near that one. Why did he do that?”

“He's having fun. It's Whac-a-Mole. He's just going to keep crashing into them until he's wiped them all out.”

“What about the one Katie's in?”

“I know,” I said grimly. “We can't let that happen. I'm going to have to keep him focused on me.”

Rogan had all the advantages—his four-wheel drive could get him moving quickly, and with his high beams on, he could light up the lake. He spun his wheel, turning a 360, and the headlights raked the ice like spotlights. I dove down as they swept by me, but then they stopped and came back, probing, and I knew he had glimpsed me. I got up and ran, throwing myself behind the nearest shanty.

“Did he see us?”

“I don't know,” I answered, gasping for air. I looked around, not sure if Rogan was facing his lights directly at me or not. “I was inside this one,” I told Alan. “The guy who sells kerosene in glass jugs.” I slammed my fist on the wall. “Hey!” I shouted. “If you're in there, get out! Get out!”

Rogan's engine roared. I gauged the headlights on the other side of the shanty as they got brighter, wondering if he knew where I was.

Yes, I realized. Yes, he did. He was coming straight at me.

 

32

If I Don't Keep Moving I Will Die

I waited as long as I could before I bolted away from my hiding place. It was the only advantage I had—I was more maneuverable, able to dodge, when he was close.

I was hoping that the kerosene shanty would be built more solidly than the others and would cause his Hummer significant damage, but the building collapsed like a house of cards, the debris bouncing off Rogan's hood and roof. He slid sideways.

I ran back the way I had come.

“Hey, McCann! Which one is she in?” Rogan shouted, the wind playing tricks with his voice. “Huh? Where is she?”

I turned and looked at him. He was waving a hand out his open window, and in the hand he clutched a lethal-looking pistol. I couldn't see his face inside the dark interior of the vehicle.

“Why does he have his wipers on?”
Alan asked.

I made it to a metal shanty and peered around the corner. He was, indeed, using his wipers.

“Kerosene,” I said. “He just drove through fifty gallons of the stuff. It's probably soaked into the snow on his roof and hood, too.”

Rogan surged forward, heading for the metal shanty. Surely, the more formidable structure would put a stop to this.

Wait. Kerosene.

“What is it?”
Alan asked, sensing something.

Rogan was coming. I ran around to the back of the metal hut, putting it between him and me, but instead of staying put, this time I headed out onto the ice, keeping in the shadows.

He didn't slam into this one. Instead he pulled up next to it.

“What's he doing?”

Rogan stayed in his vehicle, firing several shots into the shanty's body, puncturing the metal sides. The percussions sounded much weaker than the one that had sent a bullet past my head. “Is she in there?” he called mockingly, his voice barely audible above the storm.

I turned and headed for the mayor's place, heedless of the fact that I might be visible now.

Rogan fired more shots—anyone in there would be dead, the thin sheet metal no match for bullets. Then he sat there for a moment, and I could make out what he was doing in the reflection of his headlights off the sides of the metal hut.

Reloading.

I charged up the steps to the mayor's shanty and ran to the cupboard. I pulled frantically at the doors, hurling them open. Out spilled emergency equipment—bandages, food, a flashlight. I flipped on the flashlight and played it desperately around the hut. “Where the hell is it?” I cried. “It was right here!”

“What are you looking for?”

Finally I spotted the flare gun. I lost more precious time searching for shells, but then I had one, which I slipped into my pocket.

“He'll be able to see the flashlight through the window!”
Alan warned.

I turned off the flashlight and turned back toward the door.

The shanty exploded, and I was thrown against the wall. Splintered wood rained down on me. Disoriented, I dropped to the floor, which seemed to be moving sideways. When I could, I crawled back to the door. Rogan had slammed into the back end and ripped the shed in half. I fell out into the snow onto my butt, gasping, then rolled.

“Run,”
Alan urged. I got to my feet. The mayor's hut had finally administered some punishment to the Hummer: The engine was making a rattling sound. Still, it ran, and Rogan steered it toward my fleeing shadow.

I stopped and popped open the flare gun, slipping in a shell. “Okay,” I said, raising the weapon. I pointed it straight at the kerosene-soaked vehicle as it bore down on me, and pulled the trigger.

The flare shell sparked and shot out of the barrel, going straight and true into the Hummer's blunt grill, where it ignited, a blinding spot of burning light.

“Boom,” I said.

*   *   *

There was no boom. Rogan stopped, the front end of his massive truck so bright from the flare, it turned the storm into a blinding curtain. I stood transfixed in the single headlight, barely thirty yards away, and saw the dark shadow of his arm out his window just moments before he pulled the trigger. For the second time that night, a bullet shrieked past me so closely, I felt the crack of the shock wave. I dove into the snow, which had accumulated a good two inches, rolled to my feet, and dashed back toward the wreckage of the mayor's shanty.

“Why the hell didn't that work?” I panted. Rogan floored it, ignoring me for the moment and racing across the ice and flying into another tarp-covered frame, flattening it.

“Where is she, Ruddy?” he taunted into the wind. As he skidded to a stop, I could see the flare still burning an impotent bright red in his grill, etching a dancing dot in my vision when I closed my eyes.

“He's in no hurry,” I told Alan. “As long as he doesn't let me get too far away, he can keep herding me back toward the shanties, which he's destroying one at a time. I need a new plan. Nothing is working.”

“No, look. It
is
working!”
Alan shouted hopefully. I glanced over and saw what he meant: Even in the glare of the headlight, I could see blue and yellow flames flickering on Rogan's hood and roof, but they were tiny and useless. Little drips of flaming liquid were trailing off the Hummer as it lumbered forward. Then Rogan floored it again, speeding straight at me. I was too far away from the nearest shanty, caught in the open.

Dodge too soon, and he could follow my movements. Wait too late, and I'd be in pistol range.
“Ruddy!”
Alan warned. I elected to wait. Rogan's arm came out of the window. I tensed and then darted right, a quick five steps, then jinked back left, trying to get to the mayor's ruined shelter before Rogan could run me down.

Rogan had taken the feint and then, when he overcorrected, sent his Hummer into a slide. I'd always been good at faking out linebackers. He wrestled with his wheel, too busy to fire.

“He's toying with us,”
Alan said urgently.
“It's a game.”

This time, when the Hummer rocked to a stop, I saw something new: black clouds rising from his lower windshield, almost as if the glass were on fire. His wipers, I realized. They were burning, melting, and the rubber was smoking. His truck really was on fire, the fuel floating on the surface of melting snow and dripping onto the ice. It was just that the kerosene wasn't volatile enough to pose any danger.