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.
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
Tom 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.
“I noticed you fixed the safety latch, too,” Tom said. He pushed against the well-oiled mechanism and saw how it easily disengaged the latch. “I wouldn’t want you to break your diet by sneaking out,” Tom continued. With one hand he bent the release rod back and forth, using the hole for leverage. He twisted the metal until it snapped off. Tom made sure it couldn’t be opened from the inside.
“One more part of the diet I forgot to mention,” Tom said before he left the cooler.
Sullivan cast Tom a doleful expression. He was still rubbing at his throat and looked to be on the verge of tears.
“The best way to ignore hunger pangs is to have something more painful to focus on.” Tom took a step
