Rising Heat (94 page)

I drove past my house and then edged onto the shoulder of the road. I looked for a likely gap in the trees that would accept the width of my truck. My side mirrors were fixed and didn’t fold in like Hawk’s did on his Jeep, so I had to be careful of them. I pulled off the shoulder and into a dip and stopped to look around

While I was contemplating, the headlights of a car edged over the top of the incline up ahead and headed in my direction. It was a low-slung car like a sedan, but it didn’t look familiar. As it got closer, I ducked down in my seat, my heart pounding in my chest. Maybe they didn’t see me. Or thought someone had ran out of gas, had gone into the woods to pee, or maybe to just explore.

I held my breath as it got closer, but the car didn’t slow down as it neared my truck. The minute it
whooshed
past, I sat up. A sigh of relief escaped me.

My attention focused back on the tree line, I slowly eased the truck forward, but I didn’t see anything on this side that would facilitate hiding my vehicle. I glanced to the other side of the road and saw a faint trail. A service road? I didn’t know, but I planned to take advantage of it.

Looking both ways, seeing no drivers coming in any direction, I quickly crossed the road and ventured into the shadows of the trees. If this was a service road, it hadn’t been used in quite some time. My truck bounced over tree roots, shrubs, and through the trees, much like I’d felt when venturing up to Hawk’s cabin. I didn’t stay on the faint track for long. When I was about twenty yards into the trees, I pulled off the track and hid behind a huge stand of some type of bush. It didn’t have any berries, but it was large, thick with shiny green leaves, and would provide ample shelter for my truck.

I climbed out and locked the doors, once again shoving my keys deep in my pocket. Slowly, I made my way through the tree line back toward the road. I didn’t see anything but it would be dark soon. I needed to hurry.. The birds chirped in the trees overhead. That was a good sign. I had learned that from Hawk. Thoughts of him sent a variety of emotions surging through me. Regret. Guilt. Uncertainty.

Taking a deep breath, I dashed across the road and into the cover of the trees on the other side. Once again, I waited, hidden in the deepening shadows, listening for anything, any hint that anyone was following me. It seemed like such an ordinary day. I smelled the pine, the soft loose loamy soil and molding leaves underneath my feet, and a faint, very faint, hint of skunk. Other than the birds, it was still and quiet.

I wound my way through the trees toward my house, not emerging from the tree line until I was even with my back door. I wasn’t about to go through the front door. I pulled the keys out of my pocket, fingered my house key and held it ready. With another glance around my backyard and through the trees surrounding it, I made a mad dash to the back door. I quickly unlocked it, stepped inside, and quietly closed it, locking it behind me.

Once inside, an overwhelming sense of homesickness surged through me. I wanted to collapse onto the floor in front of the door, my back to it, my knees pressed to my chest, crying with pain and longing.

I couldn’t afford the luxury. With a sense of heartbreaking nostalgia, I ventured down the hallway toward my office. I could still make out objects so didn’t dare risk turning on the light. Stepping inside, I quickly turned on the computer, reaching for my notepad as it booted up. As fast as I could, I accessed my bank, jotted down how much I had in savings, transferred it into my checking account, which my ATM card was linked to, and then quickly checked my e-mail.

I didn’t really want to do that in case there was another message from the killer taunting me in one of those messages. Still, if my clients had paid me, I would be able to transfer the funds from the holding account I had set up through PayPal directly into my checking account. Thank goodness for small favors. I had been paid, by both my clients. I quickly transferred that money to checking also, updated my figures, and then shut down the computer. I had seen a couple of queries for work, but I couldn’t get caught up in that now. My job was to get in and get out as quickly as I could.

I glanced around my office and felt a huge wave of sadness come over me. How long would it be before I came back? Would I come back? Damn it! I guess it wouldn’t do any good to dwell on my work. I had been doing that since day one. How many days had it been? I’d lost count.

With a heavy heart, I left my office, went upstairs to my bedroom and I saw the dark smudges on the dresser drawers, my night side table, and even the headboard … and then I realized. Fingerprint ink, from the night the detectives and then a forensic team had been here. The night my underwear had been found strewn all over my bed.

Bastard.

My heart pounding, I quickly stepped to the side of the bedroom window, casting a gaze quickly about the front yard around the encroaching shadows. I didn’t see anything. No traffic on the road. Where was the sick freak? I took a deep, shaky breath and headed for my closet. I had a backpack crammed into the corner, underneath my winter coats. I usually just used it when I traveled on the plane. It was large enough for most of what I like to take with me, small enough to cram under the seat in front of me so I didn’t have to pay baggage fees. I quickly filled it with a couple pairs of jeans, two long sleeved tees, and two flannel shirts. Then I stepped to my dresser drawer. The knobs were black, several smudges on the drawers themselves.

Damned bastard.

I reached into the top drawer, grabbed a couple extra pairs of socks and stuffed them into the bag. I looked around, wondering what else I should take. I wanted to take everything, but I knew I couldn’t. Without a backward glance, I hurried from the bedroom and moved to the bathroom. Grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste, I opened the medicine cabinet to pull out my prescription bottle of migraine medicine and a nearly full bottle of aspirin.

That would have to do. I headed downstairs and then turned into the kitchen. I opened one of the cupboards and grabbed a handful of granola breakfast bars, a sleeve of saltine crackers and a couple of those Cups o’ Noodles, you know, the kind you just have to add water to and then nuke? If I had to, I could eat it cold. Such a depressing thought. Having to run from my own home.

Fucking bastard. Look what he was making me do.

In less than fifteen minutes, I was out of the house, the backpack flung over my shoulder, heading back into the cover of the woods. About thirty feet in, I stopped, sheltering behind a tree. Listening. I peeked around the tree and looked back at the house, watched it for several minutes while my heart pounded so loud I heard it in my ears. I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all.

That was
my
home! Never in my life would I have pictured a situation where I had to run away, to keep away from my home. Through the trees, I could barely make out the end of the driveway. Would I ever be able to look at the end of the driveway or walk to the mailbox without seeing that patrol car there? The dead officer inside?

I closed my eyes and bowed my head, striving for calm. To be honest, I wanted to change my mind. I wanted to run back to Hawk’s office, to the police station, somewhere that offered even a hint of safety, but I knew I couldn’t. It wasn’t stubbornness. It was because doing so would only prolong this horror. Sooner or later, the stalker-killer would either be caught or I’d be dead, in which case I wouldn’t care anymore.

But one thing I did know and care about. Living. I didn’t want to die. Of that I was not confused or uncertain.

With a last look at the house, I slowly made my way back to my truck, my senses hyper-alert. Every sound, every smell, every sight of a leaf blowing in the breeze, the sound of a squirrel scampering on a tree bough high overhead, the hint of pine in the air, riddled my senses. It was like every cell in my brain was firing on all cylinders. Everything seemed so vibrant, so alive. Too bad it took something like this to make me fully appreciate things around me.

I quit feeling sorry for myself and planned my next steps. First, store my truck. I didn’t have any friends in the area so I decided to go to one of the many storage facilities on state Route 7 heading south. There, I would hide my truck, call a taxi to take me to a car rental agency, and then I was planning on heading south and west, across state lines into New York. I had a general idea that I would head into Albany, then maybe head west into Schenectady, then north again, toward Sarasota Springs. Then, depending on how things were developing in Seneca, I might spend a day or two near Lake George before heading back into Vermont.

I didn’t have limitless funds, which would definitely put a hamper on my ability to stay gone for very long. I would stay at the cheapest motels I could find, saving most of my money for gas and cheap food, if I could make myself eat, that is. And I knew I had to. I had to keep up my strength. I had to keep my brain functioning, stay alert, and keep my spirits up. I had a feeling that would be the most challenging.

I finally reached my truck, sat in it for several moments. Once again, I briefly bemoaned the fact that I was even doing this, and then I started my truck and slowly wound my way back through the trees and onto the highway. I headed south, constantly glancing in the rearview mirrors. It was turning out to be a relatively quiet travel night . Not many people on the road at all. I began to relax.

I could only hope and pray that the stalker-killer had not followed me from the airport, if he’d even known I was there in the first place. I knew at some point I would have to check in with Detective Cutter. I passed through a number of small towns as I drove south, finally took a turn-off toward a small town I’d never heard of, which wasn’t very surprising. There were so many small towns scattered throughout the rural communities of Vermont I couldn’t possibly become familiar with all of them.

I ended up on one of those quaint New England towns that seemed to capitalize on tourism. The fall colors were just beginning to turn and I wasn’t surprised to see a number of out-of-state license plates. Of course. Towns like this in Vermont were incredibly popular. People from all over the United States came to spend a few weeks enjoying the vibrant reds, yellows, golds, and maroon colors of the leaves in New England as they changed.

This was good. Maybe I too would be mistaken for a tourist. Even better, I saw a rental company, not one of the major carriers, but one that looked like it had a decent number of cars in its parking lot. I made a U-turn and pulled in. After glancing around for several minutes, I climbed out and entered the office. A nice young man answered my questions about rental costs, car sizes, and daily rates. It didn’t sound too bad. I told him I would be back in just a little while, and to please put aside an economy car for my use.

I left the rental office and then, taking several side roads that meandered away from the road along the north side and the south side of Main Street, I located a storage facility. It looked like an independent owner ran this one and a light was on in the office. It was open.

Not too many spaces, but different sizes. Hopefully, they had one that could accommodate my truck for about a week. Once again I parked my truck, went inside the office, and made arrangements for a storage shed that would hold my truck. The manager didn’t ask any questions, although he did ask when I needed it.

“Tonight, if you have one available.”

“How long will you need it?”

“I’m not sure. What’s the minimum?”

“One month.”

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll take that size shed for one month,” I said, pointing to the correct size.

After he took care of the paperwork and sold me a combination dial pad lock, whose number I automatically peeled off the back and stuck in my wallet, I asked him if I could use his phone to call a taxi. He looked at me strangely, confused. I came up with an explanation. “I’m selling the truck to my brother, but I’m not exactly sure when he’s going to arrive in town. I told him I’d store the truck here. I’ll be coming back with him as soon as he arrives.”

While the storage shed owner probably thought my excuse was lame, I didn’t know what else to say. He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, which it didn’t as far as he was concerned.

“Our local taxi service is all sevens in their phone number,” he offered helpfully.

I nodded my thanks, picked up his phone, an old-fashioned, rotary dial kind, and called the taxi company. I gave them the address and they said they’d have someone there in about ten minutes.

I hung up and nodded my thanks to the storage shed owner and got into my truck. I drove it to the gate, keyed in the entrance code, waited for the gate to swing open and then pulled in. The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside and it took me a few minutes to find the right building and locker number.

After I found it, I got out, yanked up the metal door, then drove my truck in, grabbed my backpack, rummaged in my glove compartment for anything I might need, which I didn’t. I locked up, placed my keys in my backpack, and then closed the metal door. It seemed so final, that sound. I placed the combination lock on the door, then slowly walked away.

How many things would I have to give up before my life got back on track? I dialed the key code to open the metal gate on wheels and stepped back toward the front office just as the taxi was pulling into the driveway. I lifted my hand, then climbed in.

“Where to, ma’am?”

I gave him the name of the car rental company and he nodded. I was there in less than five minutes. I paid him, gave him a couple dollars tip, and then walked into the rental office. The same young man stood behind the counter.

“You ready?”

“I am.”

I filled out the paperwork and gave him my credit card number, which had maybe five hundred dollars of credit left on it. I wanted to preserve my cash flow as long as possible. He took my card info, processed the information, asked me to sign a couple more papers, a waiver against damages, liability insurance, blah blah blah, and then took me outside to inspect the vehicle. They were about ready to close but still, the processes seemed to take forever. I finally signed off on the compact dark blue Ford Focus. He nodded, gave me several copies of the paperwork, and then handed me the car keys.