Chapter 17: County Road Nine

The truck went down the gravel road with its lights off.

I sat in the back seat with my wrists tied, one man's knee in my ribs and my ribs on fire.

"Where are we going?" I said.

"Quiet," said the one beside me.

"She told you I'd be fine. I'm bleeding in your back seat."

"You're not bleeding," the tall man said from the front. "You're complaining."

We reached the end of the gravel and he finally switched the headlights on.

Right there, a quarter mile short of the house, a Jeep sat dark at the side of the road.

The driver braked.

"Whose is that?"

"Nobody's," the tall man said. "Keep going."

The Jeep's door swung open and Lark stepped out in front of it.

She had her badge on her belt and her service pistol in both hands.

She had not waited ten minutes.

"Marlow Falls Police," she shouted. "Stop the truck. Hands where I can see them."

Nobody in the cab breathed.

"She's suspended," the man beside me muttered. "She can't."

"She's pointing a gun at us," said the driver.

"Floor it."

The driver floored it.

Lark dove sideways into the ditch and the truck roared past her with the mirror an inch from her shoulder.

I twisted around in the seat and saw her get up and run for the Jeep.

"Don't," the tall man said to me. "Don't do anything dumb."

I did something dumb.

I threw my whole weight into the man beside me, and my shoulder hit his jaw, and he swore.

The driver glanced back.

The truck swerved across the center line.

"Hold him!"

"I'm trying!"

Headlights filled the rear window.

The Jeep came up behind us fast, with the high beams on and the horn leaning.

"Is that a cop?" the driver yelled.

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