Chapter 3 - Mile Marker 72
The engine of Judith’s Lexus hummed violently as the speedometer crept past eighty-five. Rain was beginning to mist across the windshield, turning the early morning gray of Interstate 40 into a slick, reflective ribbon of black ice and spray.
Beside me, Judith was clutching her chest, hyperventilating into a brown paper grocery bag she’d pulled from the glove compartment.
"Dispatcher five-four-nine," the speakerphone crackled from my dashboard mount. The voice of Officer Higgins was tight, professional, but laced with rising urgency. "We have two patrol cruisers en route from the McDowell County barracks. We’ve flagged the silver Mercedes SUV, plate ending in Echo-Six-Seven. However, caller, we have a major complication."
"What complication?" I shouted over the road noise.
"Our units clocked him at ninety-two miles an hour passing Exit 81. When Deputy Vance initiated pursuit lights, the vehicle accelerated. The driver is actively evading."
"No!" Judith screamed into the phone. "Tell him it's his mother! He thinks Clara is setting him up! He thinks it's a domestic dispute!"
"Ma'am, keep the line clear," Officer Higgins barked. "He’s refusing to yield. He’s weaving through morning freight traffic on the right shoulder. At this speed, on wet asphalt, if the tire integrity is compromised as you reported, we cannot perform a PIT maneuver. It would be fatal."
I grabbed the phone. "Officer, you have to back off. If you push him, he’ll try to outrun you into the mountain curves. That’s where the lateral load will rip the sidewall apart!"
"We’re already losing visual, ma'am. He just took the ramp toward Route 9—the old pass."
My stomach dropped through the floorboards.
Route 9 wasn't the interstate. It was a treacherous two-lane mountain highway with switchbacks, sheer drop-offs, and rusted guardrails that hadn't been reinforced since the late seventies. It was the scenic route Grant always took when he wanted to show off the handling of my German-engineered cars.
"He's going to the overlook," I whispered.
"The cabin," Judith gasped, tears stripping away her makeup until she looked like an old, ruined ghoul. "He bought a cabin out there three months ago with Tessa. He told me it was an investment property. Oh God, Clara... he thinks he’s running away with her."
"He's not running away," I said, slamming my foot deeper into the throttle. "He's driving directly into a slaughterhouse."
My phone chimed with an automated text alert from the Mercedes telematics portal:
*WARNING: LEFT REAR TIRE PRESSURE CRITICAL. 14 PSI. DRIVER ACTION REQUIRED.*
Then, six seconds later:
*WARNING: LEFT REAR TIRE PRESSURE 0 PSI.*
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The blue tracking dot on my digital map suddenly violently pivoted forty-five degrees off the road vector, shuddered, and stopped dead.
***
