LET ME BREATHE, page 9
Bert sighed. “A guy that hauls waste from the chemical plant.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ashley marveled at the network of storage tanks, metal piping, and structures resembling smokestacks that towered into the sky as Wyatt piloted the SUV along the access road skirting the grounds of Savendyne Chemicals. The man Bert Gowen thought he recognized in the parking lot of the waste treatment facility worked as a driver for the company. Although Bert insisted that he hadn’t been able to get a clear view of the man’s face, the suspect that he’d identified seemed more than viable.
Curtis Crick, a forty-year-old, divorced local, possessed a long list of prior arrests. Convictions from narcotics possession, shoplifting, and domestic assault marred his record. Seven months earlier, the man had been let out of prison on parole.
Although Crick’s name didn’t appear on the list of persons holding keys to the treatment plant or landfill, he delivered waste to both locations. He worked for a small independent trucking firm. A life-long resident of Sparks County, he enjoyed a sense of camaraderie with the treatment facility’s day-shift workers, often joining them after hours at Wally’s Place—the bar where Hannah had been abducted.
It was possible that Crick had taken the opportunity to steal a key from one of the inebriated men and had then made a copy. Crick also knew the layout of the grounds of the treatment plant and was aware that the workers on the night shift seldom left the comfort of their office.
The suspect had the means and opportunity to murder both Hannah and Trina, but what could have been his motive?
As they neared a fork in the access road, Wyatt glanced at Ashley. A sign indicating that the chemical plant’s office lay to the right and that shipping and receiving were located to the left stood in the middle of the fork.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Ashley knew the proper procedure would dictate they head to the office, show their credentials, and ask to speak with the plant manager. Then they could request permission to interview Crick at the site. But following procedure could end up wasting a lot of valuable time.
A sly smile lifted her lips. “I believe that I’m thinking the exact same thing that you’re thinking,” she said.
With a nod, Wyatt veered to the left.
The road stretched along the side of a tall, blue, windowless, metal-sided building. After a few seconds, a covered loading dock appeared. As they approached, Ashley watched a man driving a forklift hoist a black barrel into the trailer of a semi emblazoned with the Savendyne logo. She wondered what was inside the drum. Was it filled with chemicals or hazardous waste?
Wyatt must have been pondering the same question.
“The truck’s cab is empty,” he stated.
If Crick was the driver of the semi, he was obviously still somewhere inside the plant.
Rounding a bank of stacked wooden pallets, Wyatt brought the SUV to a halt and cut the engine. Ashley heard the forklift beep as the hard-hat clad driver backed up and then swerved around, disappearing through one of the building’s wide loading doors.
She hesitated, her fingers on the passenger door handle.
“Do you think it’s okay for us to just walk right in?” she asked.
Wyatt grinned. “That’s the plan.”
Feeling a bit apprehensive, she followed him up the ramp of the loading dock. When they reached the semi’s open trailer, Ashley peeked inside. The black drums that packed the interior of the trailer bore labels that read: acetone.
“Maybe it’s possible that Crick hauls the chemicals as well as the waste,” she said.
Wyatt shrugged. “Could be.”
The rumble of heavy machinery startled her. Ashley and Wyatt both jumped back, out of the way. The forklift burst through the door, and then the red-haired driver hit the brakes.
“Who the hell are you?” the red-haired man yelled as he killed the forklift’s engine.
Wyatt unclipped his badge from his belt.
“TBI. I’m Agent Clark and this is Agent Hope. We need to speak with Curtis Crick.”
The man’s lips thinned as he eyed Wyatt’s creds.
“Yeah, well, Crick ain’t here.”
Somehow Ashley knew that the man would claim that. Was it true, or was the man covering for Crick?
Wyatt asked, “Where can we find him?”
The red-haired man shrugged. “Not sure,” he barked, his eyes like flint. “Now get the hell outta my way. I got a job to do.”
Wyatt stepped in front of the forklift. “It’s a crime to interfere with a criminal investigation. If you know where he is, you’d better speak now.”
The red-haired man hesitated as though he was digesting the warning.
“On the highway,” he spat out. “Crick’s hauling a load of waste.”
“To the landfill or the treatment plant?”
Ashley realized that Wyatt was testing the man. When a liar is given a multiple-choice question, they most often choose the last option they hear. She and Wyatt knew that Crick hadn’t headed to the treatment facility, or they would have met him along the way.
“The landfill,” the man said.
Wyatt seemed satisfied with the answer. “How long has he been gone?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes maybe?”
That didn’t sound like too much of a head start considering Crick’s heavy load. With the way Wyatt drove, they’d likely catch up with him.
“Does his truck look like this one?” Wyatt motioned toward the semi.
The red-haired man shook his head. “He ain’t driving a big rig. It’s a flatbed trailer with side rails.” The man sighed. “Now, can I get back to work?”
With a nod, Wyatt moved away from the forklift. Ashley followed him back out to the SUV.
As they sped onto the access road, Wyatt’s cell phone chirped. It was his text message notification. Without slowing the SUV, he pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.
Again, Ashley wished that he’d park on the side of the road if he planned to tap out a message. But instead of replying to the text, he shoved his phone back into his pocket.
A cloud settled over Wyatt’s face as he stared through the SUV’s windshield in silence.
She wanted to ask him again if he was okay, but she knew that he’d just change the subject, rejecting her offer of help. He’d probably never tell her what was troubling him. It was none of her business anyway. They were work partners. Nothing more.
When they hit the highway, Wyatt flipped on the SUV’s LED hideaway lights. Just as Ashley suspected, it appeared that he was determined to catch up with Crick before they reached the landfill. She hoped that they wouldn’t encounter much traffic ahead.
With the landscape zipping by on the other side of the passenger window, Ashley mulled over the facts of the case. The bar, Wally’s Place, seemed to be the only common denominator between Hannah and Crick. The man had a history of beating up his girlfriends. Had he met both Hannah and Trina at the bar? Maybe they’d rebuffed his advances, and he’d decided to get revenge.
The theory fell flat in Ashley’s mind. It just didn’t feel right.
Her instincts screamed that there was something unusual about the murders. Even more strange than the killer’s choice of locations. She still felt it was possible that the murderer considered the two victims to be toxic trash, but in her heart, she knew there was something more. The motivation ran deeper than unrequited love.
As they crested a hill, Ashley caught sight of a flatbed truck ahead. The high side rails corralled a half-dozen orange barrels. They’d found Crick.
The SUV ate up the ground between the two vehicles in a matter of seconds. Wyatt switched on the police siren.
Instead of pulling over, the flatbed truck lurched forward.
Crick had decided to run.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ashley couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched the flatbed truck shoot forward down the narrow highway. Crick’s criminal record proved that he’d had a problem with illegal drug usage in the past. Was the man high now? She guessed that he’d have to be if he thought he could outrun Wyatt’s SUV. The flatbed truck, loaded with waste drums, stood no chance.
Wyatt stomped the accelerator.
“Well, this should be fun,” he said, his tone sarcastic.
Anxiety rippled through Ashley’s body as a realization hit her. Crick’s erratic behavior implied that he was guilty. He might believe that he didn’t have anything left to lose. Was he planning to crash the truck, to go down in a blaze of glory? Suicide by cop could be achieved without the use of a firearm.
But if Crick caused an accident on the highway, he risked taking innocent lives along with him.
“Crick obviously has some metal issues,” Ashley remarked, “and I have a feeling this won’t end well.”
“You and me both.”
A blue pickup soared toward them in the opposite lane. Although the SUV was almost close enough to tap the flatbed truck’s bumper, Wyatt couldn’t do anything about it. At the moment, it was impossible to swerve around and cut Crick off. The oncoming traffic was too heavy. They would just have to ride the truck’s tail until the highway cleared.
It appeared Wyatt had other plans.
He grabbed the radio mic. “This is TBI Special Agent Wyatt Clark,” he stated.
The Sparks County sheriff’s female dispatch officer answered.
“Go ahead, Agent Clark.”
“I’m in pursuit of a suspect on Devonshire Highway, heading east, mile marker 79. I’d like to request assistance. The suspect is driving a white truck with a flatbed trailer. And he has a cargo of hazardous waste.”
“Roger that, Agent Clark.”
As she watched the chain of vehicles speeding past in the left lane, Ashley’s thoughts drifted to Trina. They hadn’t yet uncovered a link between the second victim and Hannah. And now Crick had been thrown into the mix. What did he have in common with Trina?
“Don’t they use a lot of hazardous chemicals to turn wood pulp into paper?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you think it’s possible that Crick hauls the waste from Broderick Paper Mill?”
Wyatt glanced at Ashley. “That could explain how Crick knew Trina.”
But it didn’t shed any light on a possible motive. And when it came to the reason for the homicides, Ashley felt stumped. If forced to choose between the three most common catalysts for murder—money, love, and revenge—she’d have to pick revenge.
What could the two women have done to Crick to provoke such an extreme hatred?
Wyatt cursed under his breath as the flatbed truck crossed the center line in front of them. Crick avoided colliding head-on with a gray sedan by mere feet before snapping back into the right lane.
“The idiot’s trying to pass,” Wyatt said.
Crick had caught up with a red SUV, causing him to slow his pace. Worry filled Ashley’s heart. The man would likely kill someone if he kept attempting to go around the other vehicle.
The driver of the SUV must have realized what was going on—likely heard the police siren—because a second later, the red SUV veered onto the shoulder of the road and then screeched to a stop. Ashley was glad the driver was out of the way and safe.
The flatbed truck raced ahead.
Wyatt hung tight to the truck’s tail.
How long would it take the sheriff’s deputies to arrive? Maybe they were setting up a roadblock or laying out spike strips farther down the highway. Ashley just prayed their efforts to stop Crick would work.
The barrels in the truck’s trailer rocked as Crick cut the wheels to the right and jetted onto a narrow side road. The truck claimed the center of the pavement as Wyatt’s SUV kept pace behind.
Wyatt slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
“Dammit! The road’s not wide enough for us to go around. We can’t cut him off.”
And Ashley realized that if Wyatt bumped the rear of the trailer, Crick would lose control and crash. The toxic chemicals could be spilled.
There had been no sign announcing the name of the side road. No way to identify their location.
Ashley checked the SUV’s navigation system. They weren’t connected to the satellite service. Maybe there was some type of interference from the mountains. She pulled out her phone, intending to use the maps app. No cell service.
“Do you know what mile marker we were at when we made the turn?” she asked.
Wyatt sighed. “No.”
She hoped the sheriff’s deputies would hear the SUV’s siren and figure out where they’d gone. Otherwise, they were on their own.
Where was Crick leading them? Having been born in Sparks County, he was certain to have family in the area. Were his relatives waiting along the road up ahead, their rifles poised to fire?
A knot formed in the pit of Ashley’s stomach.
“You do realize that we could be driving into an ambush, right?”
Wyatt nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that. But what else can we do?”
Ashley knew that giving up the chase wasn’t an option. Crick could disappear into the mountains, taking the truth of what had happened to Hannah and Trina with him.
The flatbed truck fishtailed as Crick whipped around a curve. The barrels of waste teetered back and forth, sliding toward the end of the trailer.
Wyatt slowed, putting a little more space between the SUV and the truck. He was obviously preparing for one of the drums to break loose. What if the lids popped off? Lethal chemicals could douse the SUV. Chemicals that could spew into the vehicle’s ventilation system and then into Wyatt and Ashley’s lungs.
Plumes of dust shot out from the trailer’s tires as Crick veered left onto a gravel road. Rather than just trying to lose Wyatt and Ashley, he seemed to be driving toward a specific destination. There was no way to know what lay ahead. The knot of tension in Ashley’s stomach grew as she realized that her fears would likely prove true.
They were headed straight for a fight.
And no doubt, Ashley and Wyatt would be outgunned and outnumbered.
Walls of limestone flanked both sides of the gravel road as they topped a small hill. Below, the road snaked into a series of switchbacks as it climbed once again. They were working their way up the side of a mountain, moving farther and farther from civilization.
The police radio crackled to life.
“Agent Clark, please update your location,” the sheriff’s dispatcher said.
Wyatt asked Ashley, “Can you get that?”
He probably feared that if he took his eyes off of the road, for even a split second, the drums of toxic waste would fly off the trailer and hit the SUV.
She keyed the mic. “This is Special Agent Ashley Hope. We’re not sure of our exact location. The suspect left the highway and made a right onto an unmarked side road. He then took the first left onto a gravel road which runs up the side of a mountain. We haven’t seen any distinguishing landmarks.”
As the words left her mouth, Ashley realized that her directions would likely be of no help. Sparks County was filled with gravel roads running along the sides of the mountains.
“The deputies will try to find you, Agent Hope.”
Ashley had the sinking feeling that if the sheriff’s deputies did arrive, it would be too late.
She grabbed the passenger door handle as the SUV jerked around a hairpin curve, swinging her body toward the center console. The gravel dust that clouded the air outside the windshield had finally seeped through the heating vents. The taste hit Ashley’s tongue, making her want to gag.
Ahead, the trailer juddered as Crick approached the next crook in the road.
The flatbed truck swerved to the left. The momentum propelled the waste drums toward the right. The barrels wobbled and then one of them toppled over the trailer’s railing.
A scream caught in Ashley’s throat as the orange drum bounced on the gravel, and then flew straight toward the SUV.
Wyatt yanked the steering wheel.
Flung to the side, the seatbelt bit into Ashley’s chest, stealing her breath. Her shoulder banged against the passenger door and pain shot down her arm. The barrel missed them by just a few feet as the SUV lurched across the road and then ground to a halt, almost tipping into the ditch.
“You hurt?” Wyatt asked.
For an instant, Ashley’s voice failed her. “I’m fine,” she managed to squeak out.
Wyatt floored the gas pedal and resumed the pursuit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ashley rubbed her shoulder and flexed the fingers of her right hand, her gaze focused through the windshield on Crick’s weaving flatbed trailer. When Wyatt had cut the wheel of the SUV to avoid the barrel of toxic waste bouncing toward them, she’d hit the passenger door hard. Now, her arm throbbed.
Crick’s tires kicked up clouds of dust as he sped forward up the center of the narrow, gravel road, determined to evade arrest.
The remaining drums of waste rocked back and forth, bumping the metal rails lining the sides and end of the trailer. At any moment, another barrel might tumble over and crash into the SUV. Wyatt kept a car length’s distance between the two vehicles just in case. Ashley hoped that it was enough room—that if one of the drums did break loose, Wyatt would have time to react.
As the spindly road climbed higher along the side of the mountain, Ashley’s fear that Crick was leading them into a trap grew. They hadn’t seen a farm, or a mobile home, or a cabin, or any signs of life for miles. Only limestone bluffs, cedars, and hardwood trees. But the man seemed to know exactly where he was heading.
Stories she’d heard during her childhood in Laurel County flooded Ashley’s mind. Tales of state lawmen who’d ventured into the mountains searching for moonshine stills. Instead, they’d met the grim reaper. Their bodies had never been found. She guessed Sparks County was the home of similar legends—the locals just as vengeful toward law enforcement.
Regardless of the nature of a crime—including murder—mountain folk protected their own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ashley marveled at the network of storage tanks, metal piping, and structures resembling smokestacks that towered into the sky as Wyatt piloted the SUV along the access road skirting the grounds of Savendyne Chemicals. The man Bert Gowen thought he recognized in the parking lot of the waste treatment facility worked as a driver for the company. Although Bert insisted that he hadn’t been able to get a clear view of the man’s face, the suspect that he’d identified seemed more than viable.
Curtis Crick, a forty-year-old, divorced local, possessed a long list of prior arrests. Convictions from narcotics possession, shoplifting, and domestic assault marred his record. Seven months earlier, the man had been let out of prison on parole.
Although Crick’s name didn’t appear on the list of persons holding keys to the treatment plant or landfill, he delivered waste to both locations. He worked for a small independent trucking firm. A life-long resident of Sparks County, he enjoyed a sense of camaraderie with the treatment facility’s day-shift workers, often joining them after hours at Wally’s Place—the bar where Hannah had been abducted.
It was possible that Crick had taken the opportunity to steal a key from one of the inebriated men and had then made a copy. Crick also knew the layout of the grounds of the treatment plant and was aware that the workers on the night shift seldom left the comfort of their office.
The suspect had the means and opportunity to murder both Hannah and Trina, but what could have been his motive?
As they neared a fork in the access road, Wyatt glanced at Ashley. A sign indicating that the chemical plant’s office lay to the right and that shipping and receiving were located to the left stood in the middle of the fork.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Ashley knew the proper procedure would dictate they head to the office, show their credentials, and ask to speak with the plant manager. Then they could request permission to interview Crick at the site. But following procedure could end up wasting a lot of valuable time.
A sly smile lifted her lips. “I believe that I’m thinking the exact same thing that you’re thinking,” she said.
With a nod, Wyatt veered to the left.
The road stretched along the side of a tall, blue, windowless, metal-sided building. After a few seconds, a covered loading dock appeared. As they approached, Ashley watched a man driving a forklift hoist a black barrel into the trailer of a semi emblazoned with the Savendyne logo. She wondered what was inside the drum. Was it filled with chemicals or hazardous waste?
Wyatt must have been pondering the same question.
“The truck’s cab is empty,” he stated.
If Crick was the driver of the semi, he was obviously still somewhere inside the plant.
Rounding a bank of stacked wooden pallets, Wyatt brought the SUV to a halt and cut the engine. Ashley heard the forklift beep as the hard-hat clad driver backed up and then swerved around, disappearing through one of the building’s wide loading doors.
She hesitated, her fingers on the passenger door handle.
“Do you think it’s okay for us to just walk right in?” she asked.
Wyatt grinned. “That’s the plan.”
Feeling a bit apprehensive, she followed him up the ramp of the loading dock. When they reached the semi’s open trailer, Ashley peeked inside. The black drums that packed the interior of the trailer bore labels that read: acetone.
“Maybe it’s possible that Crick hauls the chemicals as well as the waste,” she said.
Wyatt shrugged. “Could be.”
The rumble of heavy machinery startled her. Ashley and Wyatt both jumped back, out of the way. The forklift burst through the door, and then the red-haired driver hit the brakes.
“Who the hell are you?” the red-haired man yelled as he killed the forklift’s engine.
Wyatt unclipped his badge from his belt.
“TBI. I’m Agent Clark and this is Agent Hope. We need to speak with Curtis Crick.”
The man’s lips thinned as he eyed Wyatt’s creds.
“Yeah, well, Crick ain’t here.”
Somehow Ashley knew that the man would claim that. Was it true, or was the man covering for Crick?
Wyatt asked, “Where can we find him?”
The red-haired man shrugged. “Not sure,” he barked, his eyes like flint. “Now get the hell outta my way. I got a job to do.”
Wyatt stepped in front of the forklift. “It’s a crime to interfere with a criminal investigation. If you know where he is, you’d better speak now.”
The red-haired man hesitated as though he was digesting the warning.
“On the highway,” he spat out. “Crick’s hauling a load of waste.”
“To the landfill or the treatment plant?”
Ashley realized that Wyatt was testing the man. When a liar is given a multiple-choice question, they most often choose the last option they hear. She and Wyatt knew that Crick hadn’t headed to the treatment facility, or they would have met him along the way.
“The landfill,” the man said.
Wyatt seemed satisfied with the answer. “How long has he been gone?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes maybe?”
That didn’t sound like too much of a head start considering Crick’s heavy load. With the way Wyatt drove, they’d likely catch up with him.
“Does his truck look like this one?” Wyatt motioned toward the semi.
The red-haired man shook his head. “He ain’t driving a big rig. It’s a flatbed trailer with side rails.” The man sighed. “Now, can I get back to work?”
With a nod, Wyatt moved away from the forklift. Ashley followed him back out to the SUV.
As they sped onto the access road, Wyatt’s cell phone chirped. It was his text message notification. Without slowing the SUV, he pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.
Again, Ashley wished that he’d park on the side of the road if he planned to tap out a message. But instead of replying to the text, he shoved his phone back into his pocket.
A cloud settled over Wyatt’s face as he stared through the SUV’s windshield in silence.
She wanted to ask him again if he was okay, but she knew that he’d just change the subject, rejecting her offer of help. He’d probably never tell her what was troubling him. It was none of her business anyway. They were work partners. Nothing more.
When they hit the highway, Wyatt flipped on the SUV’s LED hideaway lights. Just as Ashley suspected, it appeared that he was determined to catch up with Crick before they reached the landfill. She hoped that they wouldn’t encounter much traffic ahead.
With the landscape zipping by on the other side of the passenger window, Ashley mulled over the facts of the case. The bar, Wally’s Place, seemed to be the only common denominator between Hannah and Crick. The man had a history of beating up his girlfriends. Had he met both Hannah and Trina at the bar? Maybe they’d rebuffed his advances, and he’d decided to get revenge.
The theory fell flat in Ashley’s mind. It just didn’t feel right.
Her instincts screamed that there was something unusual about the murders. Even more strange than the killer’s choice of locations. She still felt it was possible that the murderer considered the two victims to be toxic trash, but in her heart, she knew there was something more. The motivation ran deeper than unrequited love.
As they crested a hill, Ashley caught sight of a flatbed truck ahead. The high side rails corralled a half-dozen orange barrels. They’d found Crick.
The SUV ate up the ground between the two vehicles in a matter of seconds. Wyatt switched on the police siren.
Instead of pulling over, the flatbed truck lurched forward.
Crick had decided to run.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ashley couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched the flatbed truck shoot forward down the narrow highway. Crick’s criminal record proved that he’d had a problem with illegal drug usage in the past. Was the man high now? She guessed that he’d have to be if he thought he could outrun Wyatt’s SUV. The flatbed truck, loaded with waste drums, stood no chance.
Wyatt stomped the accelerator.
“Well, this should be fun,” he said, his tone sarcastic.
Anxiety rippled through Ashley’s body as a realization hit her. Crick’s erratic behavior implied that he was guilty. He might believe that he didn’t have anything left to lose. Was he planning to crash the truck, to go down in a blaze of glory? Suicide by cop could be achieved without the use of a firearm.
But if Crick caused an accident on the highway, he risked taking innocent lives along with him.
“Crick obviously has some metal issues,” Ashley remarked, “and I have a feeling this won’t end well.”
“You and me both.”
A blue pickup soared toward them in the opposite lane. Although the SUV was almost close enough to tap the flatbed truck’s bumper, Wyatt couldn’t do anything about it. At the moment, it was impossible to swerve around and cut Crick off. The oncoming traffic was too heavy. They would just have to ride the truck’s tail until the highway cleared.
It appeared Wyatt had other plans.
He grabbed the radio mic. “This is TBI Special Agent Wyatt Clark,” he stated.
The Sparks County sheriff’s female dispatch officer answered.
“Go ahead, Agent Clark.”
“I’m in pursuit of a suspect on Devonshire Highway, heading east, mile marker 79. I’d like to request assistance. The suspect is driving a white truck with a flatbed trailer. And he has a cargo of hazardous waste.”
“Roger that, Agent Clark.”
As she watched the chain of vehicles speeding past in the left lane, Ashley’s thoughts drifted to Trina. They hadn’t yet uncovered a link between the second victim and Hannah. And now Crick had been thrown into the mix. What did he have in common with Trina?
“Don’t they use a lot of hazardous chemicals to turn wood pulp into paper?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you think it’s possible that Crick hauls the waste from Broderick Paper Mill?”
Wyatt glanced at Ashley. “That could explain how Crick knew Trina.”
But it didn’t shed any light on a possible motive. And when it came to the reason for the homicides, Ashley felt stumped. If forced to choose between the three most common catalysts for murder—money, love, and revenge—she’d have to pick revenge.
What could the two women have done to Crick to provoke such an extreme hatred?
Wyatt cursed under his breath as the flatbed truck crossed the center line in front of them. Crick avoided colliding head-on with a gray sedan by mere feet before snapping back into the right lane.
“The idiot’s trying to pass,” Wyatt said.
Crick had caught up with a red SUV, causing him to slow his pace. Worry filled Ashley’s heart. The man would likely kill someone if he kept attempting to go around the other vehicle.
The driver of the SUV must have realized what was going on—likely heard the police siren—because a second later, the red SUV veered onto the shoulder of the road and then screeched to a stop. Ashley was glad the driver was out of the way and safe.
The flatbed truck raced ahead.
Wyatt hung tight to the truck’s tail.
How long would it take the sheriff’s deputies to arrive? Maybe they were setting up a roadblock or laying out spike strips farther down the highway. Ashley just prayed their efforts to stop Crick would work.
The barrels in the truck’s trailer rocked as Crick cut the wheels to the right and jetted onto a narrow side road. The truck claimed the center of the pavement as Wyatt’s SUV kept pace behind.
Wyatt slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
“Dammit! The road’s not wide enough for us to go around. We can’t cut him off.”
And Ashley realized that if Wyatt bumped the rear of the trailer, Crick would lose control and crash. The toxic chemicals could be spilled.
There had been no sign announcing the name of the side road. No way to identify their location.
Ashley checked the SUV’s navigation system. They weren’t connected to the satellite service. Maybe there was some type of interference from the mountains. She pulled out her phone, intending to use the maps app. No cell service.
“Do you know what mile marker we were at when we made the turn?” she asked.
Wyatt sighed. “No.”
She hoped the sheriff’s deputies would hear the SUV’s siren and figure out where they’d gone. Otherwise, they were on their own.
Where was Crick leading them? Having been born in Sparks County, he was certain to have family in the area. Were his relatives waiting along the road up ahead, their rifles poised to fire?
A knot formed in the pit of Ashley’s stomach.
“You do realize that we could be driving into an ambush, right?”
Wyatt nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that. But what else can we do?”
Ashley knew that giving up the chase wasn’t an option. Crick could disappear into the mountains, taking the truth of what had happened to Hannah and Trina with him.
The flatbed truck fishtailed as Crick whipped around a curve. The barrels of waste teetered back and forth, sliding toward the end of the trailer.
Wyatt slowed, putting a little more space between the SUV and the truck. He was obviously preparing for one of the drums to break loose. What if the lids popped off? Lethal chemicals could douse the SUV. Chemicals that could spew into the vehicle’s ventilation system and then into Wyatt and Ashley’s lungs.
Plumes of dust shot out from the trailer’s tires as Crick veered left onto a gravel road. Rather than just trying to lose Wyatt and Ashley, he seemed to be driving toward a specific destination. There was no way to know what lay ahead. The knot of tension in Ashley’s stomach grew as she realized that her fears would likely prove true.
They were headed straight for a fight.
And no doubt, Ashley and Wyatt would be outgunned and outnumbered.
Walls of limestone flanked both sides of the gravel road as they topped a small hill. Below, the road snaked into a series of switchbacks as it climbed once again. They were working their way up the side of a mountain, moving farther and farther from civilization.
The police radio crackled to life.
“Agent Clark, please update your location,” the sheriff’s dispatcher said.
Wyatt asked Ashley, “Can you get that?”
He probably feared that if he took his eyes off of the road, for even a split second, the drums of toxic waste would fly off the trailer and hit the SUV.
She keyed the mic. “This is Special Agent Ashley Hope. We’re not sure of our exact location. The suspect left the highway and made a right onto an unmarked side road. He then took the first left onto a gravel road which runs up the side of a mountain. We haven’t seen any distinguishing landmarks.”
As the words left her mouth, Ashley realized that her directions would likely be of no help. Sparks County was filled with gravel roads running along the sides of the mountains.
“The deputies will try to find you, Agent Hope.”
Ashley had the sinking feeling that if the sheriff’s deputies did arrive, it would be too late.
She grabbed the passenger door handle as the SUV jerked around a hairpin curve, swinging her body toward the center console. The gravel dust that clouded the air outside the windshield had finally seeped through the heating vents. The taste hit Ashley’s tongue, making her want to gag.
Ahead, the trailer juddered as Crick approached the next crook in the road.
The flatbed truck swerved to the left. The momentum propelled the waste drums toward the right. The barrels wobbled and then one of them toppled over the trailer’s railing.
A scream caught in Ashley’s throat as the orange drum bounced on the gravel, and then flew straight toward the SUV.
Wyatt yanked the steering wheel.
Flung to the side, the seatbelt bit into Ashley’s chest, stealing her breath. Her shoulder banged against the passenger door and pain shot down her arm. The barrel missed them by just a few feet as the SUV lurched across the road and then ground to a halt, almost tipping into the ditch.
“You hurt?” Wyatt asked.
For an instant, Ashley’s voice failed her. “I’m fine,” she managed to squeak out.
Wyatt floored the gas pedal and resumed the pursuit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ashley rubbed her shoulder and flexed the fingers of her right hand, her gaze focused through the windshield on Crick’s weaving flatbed trailer. When Wyatt had cut the wheel of the SUV to avoid the barrel of toxic waste bouncing toward them, she’d hit the passenger door hard. Now, her arm throbbed.
Crick’s tires kicked up clouds of dust as he sped forward up the center of the narrow, gravel road, determined to evade arrest.
The remaining drums of waste rocked back and forth, bumping the metal rails lining the sides and end of the trailer. At any moment, another barrel might tumble over and crash into the SUV. Wyatt kept a car length’s distance between the two vehicles just in case. Ashley hoped that it was enough room—that if one of the drums did break loose, Wyatt would have time to react.
As the spindly road climbed higher along the side of the mountain, Ashley’s fear that Crick was leading them into a trap grew. They hadn’t seen a farm, or a mobile home, or a cabin, or any signs of life for miles. Only limestone bluffs, cedars, and hardwood trees. But the man seemed to know exactly where he was heading.
Stories she’d heard during her childhood in Laurel County flooded Ashley’s mind. Tales of state lawmen who’d ventured into the mountains searching for moonshine stills. Instead, they’d met the grim reaper. Their bodies had never been found. She guessed Sparks County was the home of similar legends—the locals just as vengeful toward law enforcement.
Regardless of the nature of a crime—including murder—mountain folk protected their own.
