E.J. nodded pensively. “Okay, let’s explore that. The sooner, the better.”
“If we can make this a win-win, then let’s settle this case. But I have to have something to offer my client.”
“True … and she has to have something to offer us. My client needs that flash drive back. No settlement can happen without that.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll speak with her and get back to you.”
E.J. started to stand. “Good, but let me be clear. No flash drive, no settlement.”
I stood up, shook his hand, and left the conference room. This weird corporate headquarters was starting to make my nerves crawl, anyway. In the parking lot, I fired up the ignition, looked at the sharp corners of the angular building and its black reflective windows. I returned my visitor pass at the gatehouse and left the grounds of Benton Dynamics.
Back on the road to the highway, a dark unmarked van appeared in my rearview mirror, but it stayed back at least one hundred yards. I sped up. It kept pace with me. I slowed down as I approached Ocean Highway, and the van fell back. Sunlight reflecting on the windshield prevented me from seeing the driver or anyone sitting in the passenger seat. Unusual, but not a serious concern yet.
I drove away from the direction of my office in Bridgeford and toward the sparsely populated countryside, figuring that the van would probably head toward town. Turning around in a mile or so to go back home was not a big deal. The van followed me. When I took a side road that had access back onto Ocean Highway a quarter mile away, the van slowed and then continued behind me. At that point, I was certain the dark van was following me.
9
I sped down the side road toward Ocean Highway with the dark van pursuing me. The business card that Sheriff Tompkins handed me at the end of her interrogation had to be somewhere, and eventually I found it in the pocket of my sports coat. I grabbed my phone and dialed her number. All the while, I did my best to keep my eyes on the narrow two-lane road.
“Sheriff Tompkins,” she answered like a bulldog poked with a stick.
I pressed the speakerphone button. “Hey, Sheriff. This is Bryce Seagraves. You said to call if I ran into a problem. Let me ask you something. You got anyone following me?”
“No, why?”
“Well, your department shadowed Marisa Dupree yesterday. Someone is following my car right now.”
“Not us,” she replied.
I was not sure that I believed her.
She asked, “What’s going on?”
“I just left Benton Dynamics. Discussed the Dupree case with their lawyers. When I got back on the road, a van started following me. He’s still on me.”
“Where are you?”
I scanned the horizon. “Just south of Benton Dynamics, about to get back on Ocean Highway. That closed gas station with that big pumpkin stand is about two hundred yards away.”
“I know where you’re at,” she said, sounding curious and concerned. “Are you sure somebody’s tailing you?”
“Yeah, and if it’s your deputies, okay. No problem. I get it.”
“It’s not us.”
“Well, Sheriff, you were psychic. I need help.”
“All right then,” she said, her voice suddenly serious and commanding. “Keep driving. Don’t stop, and come directly here to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“How about sending someone out here?”
“Yeah, but not right away. Nobody’s around there. Probably fifteen minutes before we can get to you. Come back to town.”
“Yeah, all right,” I replied, feeling completely alone between the fallow fields on each side of this gray ribbon of asphalt.
As I approached the turn back onto Ocean Highway, the dark van accelerated and closed the gap between us, fast enough that I thought the driver was trying to rear-end me. I chucked the phone onto the passenger seat, grabbed the gear shift, and floored the gas pedal. I sank back into my seat as the engine roared. The tires screeched as I turned off the side road back onto Ocean Highway. My Barracuda thundered down the main road, but the van took the same turn and matched my speed in the fast lane.
My six-speed transmission had double overdrive, and knowing that the police were not nearby, I decided to leave the van in the dust. The speedometer needle crossed eighty-five miles per hour as I headed in the direction of Easton. The van filled my rearview mirror.
Weaving around a produce truck and a bronze-colored sedan, I used the traffic to block my pursuer. I accelerated up to ninety. The leafless trees and harvested fields became a gray-brown blur outside my side windows. A trickle of sweat ran down my temple, but I ignored it. My hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Tires squealed behind me. The dark van maneuvered between the other vehicles on the road and kept pace. My heartbeat throbbed in my neck and chest.
The traffic light turned yellow at the approaching intersection. Red brake lights beamed on the back of the cars slowing down in front of me. Both lanes would be blocked.
If I ran the red light from the shoulder, the cross traffic would prevent me from going straight through. I pulled into the right-turn lane, veered hard onto the connecting road, and nearly spun out as I avoided smashing into a pick-up truck with the right of way. The pick-up driver swerved toward the median and blew his horn, but somehow I did not broadside him. The dark van continued to follow me, but slowed as he approached the turn. A westbound road was a mistake. In less than two miles, this back road would dead-end at the Chesapeake Bay. I had to make a U-turn or be trapped. In my rearview mirror, the van negotiated the turn. I floored the accelerator.
A yellow sign warned drivers to slow down at the
