Chapter 14
The Stillwater Grill was the premier steakhouse in the county.
Forks clinked against plates, and the delightful aroma of grilled food filled the restaurant.
Our waiter brought out two bacon-wrapped filets that sizzled on hot plates.
JD and I both ordered the same thing with sides of mushrooms and grilled potatoes.
Drenched in garlic butter and covered in lemon pepper, the steak looked mouthwatering.
“Please cut into your steaks to make sure they are cooked to your liking,” the waiter said.
I did, and mine was. We both gave him a nod of approval.
That first bite was divine. It was almost as good as the Five Fathoms in Coconut Key. And that was saying a lot.
We took the opportunity to kick around theories about the cases, and wash it all down with a few glasses of red wine.
In the hills, the Stillwater Grill overlooked the town, which lit up at night. A nice, old-school bar served fine spirits, and a talented gentleman in a tux tickled the ivories. The place was packed, and it was easy to see why.
After we filled our bellies, Marcus drove us back toward the motel.
It wasn’t far, just a short drive on a faded two-lane blacktop surrounded by pines and rocky terrain.
We hadn’t been on the highway long when a vehicle pulled up to our bumper. Its headlights blasted into the cabin.
Marcus squinted, looking in the rearview. It was a truck or SUV. Headlights high off the ground. Marcus rolled down the window, reached his hand out, and waved the vehicle around. He drifted to the shoulder to give them room. Common mountain courtesy.
The highway was empty.
Just the two of us.
The desert beige truck with dark-tinted windows and fat knobby tires pulled alongside, crossing the double yellow line. The passenger window rolled down, and a submachine gun emerged.
“Gun!” I shouted.
Muzzle flash lit up the night.
Bullets spewed, peppering the glass.
Marcus jammed the brakes.
JD and I ducked for cover and drew our weapons.
Shards of glass scattered.
Metal popped and pinged as bullets drilled into body panels.
Marcus swerved to avoid the fray and plowed through the guardrail. We careened down the slope, streaking past pines, narrowly missing them.
Until our luck ran out.
SMASH!
The town car crashed into a thick tree. The hood buckled, and steam billowed from the radiator.
Airbags deployed.
The seatbelt locked out, and I slammed into it.
That would leave a mark.
The engine hissed and popped. Steam billowed from a cracked radiator.
After an impact like that, it took a moment to recover my wits.
“Is everybody okay?" I asked, my heart pounding.
I patted myself down, feeling for injuries. With adrenaline through the roof, it could mask the pain. Fortunately, I didn’t feel the wet soak of blood.
"I'm good," Marcus replied.
I looked at Jack, and he gave me a nod.
It was a miracle no one had gotten hit.
I unbuckled the seatbelt and slipped out of the car, taking cover behind it.
The beige truck had sped away into the night.
"I'm starting to get the impression that people don't like us asking questions," Jack said as he crawled out of the vehicle.
We were all a little achy and would be more so in the morning.
I called Sheriff Rollins.
He picked up after a few rings.
"It’s Tyson Wild. We spoke earlier this afternoon.”
"What can I do for you, Deputy Wild?”
“Well, you’re not going to like this.” I told him about the incident and gave him a description of the vehicle.
"I'm on my way."
I ended the call and slid the phone back into my pocket.
JD and I waited by the vehicle with weapons ready. I didn't think the truck would come back for another run, but you never knew. I didn’t want to climb up to the highway just yet. If they did come back, we’d be more exposed. At least we had cover here.
Soon, red and blue lights flickered, drawing near.
It wasn’t hard to see where we’d plowed through the guardrail. Sheriff Rollins pulled to the shoulder. He hopped out of the squad car and surveyed the damage. Then he shone a flashlight down the hill at us. The beam raked across the mangled wreck. “You boys okay down there?”
“All good,” I shouted back.
We climbed up to the road with caution, my pistol still in my hand.
The sheriff knew Marcus and gave him a nod when we reached the shoulder. It was a small town.
Rollins surveyed the car, then looked at us with surprise. "I’m not sure how you survived that."
The car was a twisted hunk of metal now, riddled with bullets and a few blown tires. It had serious suspension damage.
"Somebody was looking out for us," I said, glancing above.
"I'll say." Rollins looked at Marcus like he should have been a dead man. By all rights, he should have been.
"You can probably find some shell casings down the highway," I said.
"That's like looking for a needle in a haystack," he replied. "Don't know how much good it would do.”
"Might be able to catch a print from one of the casings.”
Rollins shook his head. "This was a professional attempt. There aren’t any prints on those shell casings. Too smart for that. You get a license plate?"
I frowned and shook my head. "Temp tags that were unreadable. They'd covered some of the letters with mud. Probably a fake tag anyway.”
He took a deep breath. "You boys are here less than 24 hours, and someone has already tried to kill you. Makes me think you're on to something."
"Me too," I said, staring at him with suspicious eyes. "Still think Michelle ran off with some guy?”
"I believe at this point I could be convinced otherwise." He didn’t like being proven wrong. "I'll call for a wrecker. You boys can ride with me back to town.”
It wasn't long before a tow truck showed up and used a wench to pull the town car back to the highway. It was totaled.
After the wreckage was secured to the flatbed, we climbed into the back of the sheriff’s squad car. Marcus sat up front. Dusty cranked up the engine, dropped the car into gear, then drove back toward the station.
I didn’t trust anybody at this point, and I really didn't like being in the back of the sheriff’s patrol car.