Although Terrie had no way of knowing it at the time, Jay’s stolen car was not on its way to Seattle. Nor was it on its way to San Francisco, where Jimmy had decided to go. At the moment, the Oldsmobile, of which Jay had been so proud, was not on its way to anywhere.
Having realized the hopelessness of finding Terrie, Jimmy headed down Dead Indian Road in search of 1-5. He drove too fast, skidding around curves, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Jay. Luck played a large part in the fact that he did not crash. He wasn’t certain the big man was dead, not one hundred percent certain. Even so, there seemed to be little doubt.
And then, before Dead Indian Road flattened out, the engine sputtered and died, as dead as he feared Jay to be. One look at the gas gauge and he knew why. That damn fool, who’d been willing to rape and kill, had been so preoccupied with Terrie that he had failed to fill the tank.
Jimmy coasted to the side of the road and stopped. He sat there for a moment, his head buried in his hands. His right arm throbbed where Jay’s bullet had torn through. It was the middle of the night. Would any help come along? Did he even want it to? Or would it be better to abandon the car?
No! He had to have the car to return to San Francisco. If he drove through, he could reach the city quicker. Besides, with a bleeding arm, he didn’t want to depend on catching rides. Several miles to the southwest, he could see the lights of a town. Perhaps he could buy gasoline there.
Jimmy climbed out of the car. The guns weighed heavy in his pockets. He was considering what to do with them when the highway patrol car pulled up behind the Oldsmobile and stopped. Like a cornered animal, Jimmy was trapped in the headlights.
Terrie kept on walking. It must have seemed as though she had been on the move for hours, but it wasn’t that long. Her feet hurt. Her arms ached from carrying and dragging the suitcases.
There had not even been one house since she’d started down the mountain. Once or twice there was the sound of cars on a road nearby. It wasn’t a very busy highway. And by now she didn’t have any idea which direction to go to look.
And then she stopped. Ahead of her loomed a dark structure. It surely wasn’t a ranch. She eased forward with caution. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving. It seemed to be a vehicle of some sort. It was a truck. She breathed easier. Did she dare stop?
She stopped for a moment, and then moved on. She needed a hiding place, not a vehicle parked alongside the road
“Got problems, son?”
Jimmy stood near the back of the Oldsmobile, outlined in the lights of the patrol car as the state trooper, looking even larger than Jay, moved cautiously towards him. Jimmy’s shot arm ached and he silently prayed that the blood stain hadn’t soaked through his jacket. He felt wet blood between his fingers so he was careful to keep his right hand out of sight. The guns weighed heavy in his pockets. Why oh why hadn’t he left them on top of the mountain or thrown them away on the drive down? He damn sure could not, would not, shoot any patrolman.
Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason for him running out of gas and this patrolman showing up just then. Jimmy felt a powerful need to tell all, to let loose all the frustration that had been building and building, filling him to the bursting point. He had to have relief.
Perhaps this man would understand. Jimmy could tell him that up on that mountain was a shot man, a man who was possibly dead, and somewhere on that same mountain was a scared young girl who was undoubtedly running for her life.
It was self-defense, officer. He was going to kill me. Not only me but the young girl as well. Terrie was about to get herself raped and then shot and buried. Me right beside her. We’d rot in the ground together.
Hell, nobody would believe him.
Nobody.
“Ran out of gas,” Jimmy said, hoping his voice didn’t betray him.
“What are you doing out this time of night?”
“On my way home.”
“You going to Ashland?”
Where in the hell was Ashland? “Yeah.”
“All right, come on and get in. Not up front. Crawl into the back. We’ll see if we can find a station open. I’ll take you down but you’ll have to find your own way back. Maybe you can hitch a ride.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Adrenaline can carry a person only so far. When this is exhausted, fear can sometimes kick in and carry him a little farther. For Jimmy, it would need to carry him a lot farther. He didn’t know how far he was from San Francisco, but he knew it was many miles. He felt that if he could only get back home he would be safe.
True to his word, the trooper had dropped him off at an all-night station and left to continue his patrol.
Even though he would have liked to have had a ride back to the car, Jimmy was relieved to see the patrolman drive away. He made a five-dollar deposit on a two-gallon can and filled it with gas. On the four-mile journey back he hitched a ride part of the way and had to walk the remainder.
All the while, Jimmy felt the weight of the guns in his coat pockets. Had they been found on him, they could have tied him to the shooting, but he couldn’t risk their being found if someone happened on the car while he was gone. Now, he didn’t want to keep them on him another second. One at a time, he took them from his pockets and tossed them over the cliff, throwing them as far as he could. He poured the last of the gasoline out of the can and into the tank, then threw the can onto the floor between the seats. Then he got into the car, and headed down the mountain.
He made only one stop and that was at the same gas station to which the patrolman had taken him. There he filled the car with gas. After that he headed for 1-5 and turned south.
Terrie had still not found a ride. The night was getting colder and colder. Finally she parked the suitcases on the road and got inside the old, cold truck. It smelled of sweat, oil, old leather, and brake fluid.
She left both doors open for a short while. But then she closed them. A bear might drag her out. She rolled the windows down. Within minutes, she rolled them up again. Perhaps bears could reach in through an open window.
A sob jumped from her throat as she lay curled on the seat. There would be no sleep for her this night.
As the distance between them increased, neither Terrie nor Jimmy had any idea that they would ever see each other again, and both would have been happier had that day never come.
As the first light of morning penetrated the shadowy foliage on Dead Indian Mountain, a logging vehicle commonly referred to as a “crummy” bounced along on a road as rough as a cow pasture. Inside sat four men. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. At such an early hour the men usually had little to say. This Wednesday in late August was no exception.
Hank and Seth, older and experienced loggers, claimed the front seat while the neophytes, Mike and Larry, slumped on the back seat catching what sleep they could. There was no reason to believe this day harvesting timber would be any different from countless others, until the two men up front spotted the pair of suitcases sitting near the center of the road.
“What in the devil’s going on here?” Hank asked as he stepped hard on the brake. “Where’d them suitcases come from?”
Seth shook his head. “Damned if I know,” he said.
The squeal of brakes brought Mike awake. He bolted upright and said, “Are we there already?”
The two men up front didn’t answer. They had little tolerance for cubs