Three shots from the silver semi, none causing damage. Like knights in a joust, we were aimed at each other, arms extended through our respective windows. Guns instead of lances. The Magnum roared five times. The Honda’s windshield shattered on the passenger side. In less than a few seconds, the two cars passed each other in opposite directions. I slammed the shift lever into third. Vickies’s engine spinning up. Tach hitting 5500 rpms, but the car slowed quickly to 80. A quick stab at the brakes, wheel cranked to the left, perfect sliding U turn with the rear end slewing, nose once again aimed south.
The Honda was a good half mile ahead, but the CV closed the distance quickly, again burying the speedo past 140. The white Civic swerved around a slow moving truck, barreling at 100-plus into the oncoming traffic, missing a motorhome by inches before returning to the southbound lane. I smashed my hand onto the switch for the under-carriage lights. The grille of the CV started glowing blue then flashed on and off in a quick sequence. Illegal, but so cool at night.
Seeing the blue lights, traffic moved to the side as the Vic roared past, exhaust rattling house windows as we passed. The Honda was in sight and getting closer. Fast.
Until a girl on a scooter decided to cross 101.
Slamming on the brakes, the Vic shuddered. Smoke from locked up tires billowed through my open window. We stopped 10 feet in front of her. She never knew how close she’d come to being road-kill crow bait.
Sal and I watched the Honda disappear over a crest in the highway. The girl on the scooter smiled sweetly and waved as she crossed the highway.
Sal, who had been leaning against the door, feet planted on the floor, turned to look at me. “Well, that was exciting. Care for some sky diving without a parachute?”
“I’ve told you to wear your seat belt, haven’t I?”
“You don’t.”
“touché.”
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
Flipping it open, “Drago.”
It was Forte. He was talking fast. “Holy samoli, Nick. Was that you who blasted through town at 100 miles an hour? Don’t deny it. Everyone knows your car.”
“130. Maybe a bit more.”
I hit the speaker button.
“What the hell are you doing? You scared the living crap out of the mayor, and the guys at the Quick Lube thought they were under jet fighter attack! That damn side exhaust…”
“Got lots to tell you, Chief. We’ll stop by in a minute.”
“Christ, Nick, don’t make it a minute. Make it 15. That way I’ll know you rolled into town at the speed limit.”
“That’s what I’m doing right now,” I said, looking down the speedometer and lifting my foot to let the needle wind down from 80.
Forte let out a long breath. “FYI, the mayor was in the pickup you passed at 130 plus a bit. She’s already read me the riot act. Can’t wait to hear what she has to say to you.”
“She’s a nice lady. Good upbringing. Great personality. Not a mean bone in her body.”
“Ha.” Forte disconnected.
By the time Sal and I stopped at the bank, put the gold ball in my deposit box and made a quick run through the coffee kiosk, Forte was calmer. When we entered his office, he pointed at a couple of chairs. Sal and I each slumped into one and I put my feet on his desk.
“Hi Chief,” Sal said.
“Mr. Rand. So nice to see you. And the asshole you’re with is…?”
I leaned across the desk and put my hand out. “Drago. Nick Drago.”
Forte bump fisted me and leaned back grinning. “You guys are a menace. Whatcha got?”
We filled the Chief in on the assay, the Honda and my putting the gold in the bank. He listened closely, “Two and a half pounds? That’d keep me in Swiss cheese and salami for a year. And the Honda driver was the same shooter, you’re sure?”
“Like the gold, 99 percent,” I said. “Caught a glimpse of a silver semi-auto, gray hair and a hoodie.”
‘License number?”
Sal stretched out his hand where he’d written the letters and digits. Forte copied them down, buzzed Lucy to his office and gave her the slip of paper. “Run that, wouldya Luce?” She nodded and left.
“We need to talk to old man Wilson and take a look at the Madrone on his property,” I pointed out.
“Thinking the same thing. I’ll bring Billy along. Wilson’s a foul-mouth curmudgeon. The more uniforms, the better.”
Lucy returned. “The car’s a rental. Thrifty up in Coos Bay,” she said. “Rented to a Sarah Cavanaugh eight days ago.”
“The lady who told us about the Tree Man?” Sal asked. I nodded.
“You think she’s the one who shot at us?”
I shrugged. “Crazy world, Sal. If she knew about the gold ball, wouldn’t surprise me.”
Forte interrupted. “Good idea if we talked to her, don’t cha think?” He turned to Lucy and instructed her to put out an all-points for the Honda and Cavanaugh. “Also tell the Coos Bay and North Bend police we’re looking for her urgently.” Lucy nodded and left.
“We need to get up to Wilson’s,” Forte said. “If she’s the shooter, she already knows we found the ball and could be looking for the original Tree Man to see if there’s another one.”
“Whoa, amigo,” I said. “My guess is she already knew about the ball because she found one as a kid. The discovery of a second Bandon Dunes Tree Man would lead her to assuming there was a second ball of gold in that Madrone and once we found it, she wanted it.”
“To Wilson’s?” Sal said.
The three of us stood and exited the Chief’s office. On the way out he told Lucy to have Billy meet us at the Wilson farm.
A quick left out of the parking lot, falling behind Forte’s cruiser, and south on Highway 101. We were joined by a new Chevy Tahoe police SUV driven by Billy Jenkins, a big kid who I once coached in the high school baseball program. Sweet swing, could hit anything, but a disaster on defense. More errors than all the Washington National players combined.
“Do you really think that Cavanaugh lady is the shooter?”
“Sal, nothing surprises me much. Small gun, purse size. Cheap. Good for close in defense or waving at a mugger. A lady’s weapon.”
Sal nodded. “Fits.”
We reached the Wilson spread in less than 10 minutes, pulled into rutted gravel and dirt driveway parking in front of a weathered tan and green double-wide. The front door opened and a woman in her mid to late 50s came out on the porch.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a flowered apron that covered a pair of dark-blue jeans and a red denim shirt.
“Mrs. Wilson, we’re looking for your husband,” Forte said. “He around?”
Smiling,