I urged my old Jeep onward, but as the miles passed, the taillights ahead grew smaller and smaller. When they were barely pinpricks, I knew I’d never catch him. Pounding my steering wheel in frustration, I eased off the gas. No sense in blowing a valve or some other crucial engine part on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. I pulled my purse onto the seat, and started feeling around inside for my cell phone. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I didn’t know how Kenny was involved. But I intended to call Maddie to tell her not to open her door to anyone—including her husband.

Picking through the purse, I felt the sharp point of a metal spike on the collar. I pulled it out, hearing the clink-clink-clink of the chain attached. I was fuzzy on the details of how and why people got a sexual kick out of being leashed and dragged around like a dog. In my experience with dogs, even they don’t seem to enjoy it that much.

If the spiky collar was sharp, it would be nothing compared to the knife I’d also dropped in my purse. I wanted to find my phone, but I didn’t want to sever a thumb. With a hand on the wheel, I dumped the purse’s contents on the passenger seat. The phone slid under the seat.

Slowing, I ducked down and felt around under there. I encountered an empty cup that once held sweet tea from the drive-thru; and something soft I hoped was a dirty sock. With the phone finally in my grasp, I straightened up again. Bright lights shone in my rear-view mirror.

“Where’d you come from?’’ I muttered into the night.

I moved to the right, so he could pass me. He sped up, staying glued to my bumper. When I pressed the on button on my phone, the screen lit. I quickly glanced at it. No bars. Not good.

Behind me, the driver revved his engine. Lights flashed, blindingly bright. We were alone. This stretch of highway, leading north through ranches and citrus groves, was deserted. I felt for the tire iron normally stashed under my seat. Almost at the same moment, I remembered leaving it in Henry’s minivan that morning, after we confronted Kenny.

The headlight glare compromised my ability to see who was behind me. But my ears were perfect, and I knew the sound of gunfire when I heard it. A shot pinged off my right bumper. Another pop, and the mirror on the driver’s side shattered. Shit. That was close.

I hunkered down as much as I could and started watching the dark shapes of trees and brush along the shoulder of the road. Somewhere along this desolate stretch was an abandoned cow pen. Rarely used and almost overgrown, the dirt-road cutoff to the pen was hard to see. I prayed I hadn’t passed it.

With the black night all around me and the high beams behind me, I couldn’t be sure what type of vehicle was chasing me. My four-wheel-drive Jeep, though, could handle rough terrain. And there it was, just ahead: A bullet-riddled sign from a long-gone ranch, a forgotten cattle brand in barely legible red. On splintered legs, only a few feet off the ground, the wooden sign served as target practice for local yahoos.

I spun to the right, plunging off the road and through thigh-high brush. I cut my lights. The Jeep went airborne over a small rise I remembered, and then clattered over the rusty grate of a weed-choked cattle guard.

On the other side, I took my foot off the gas and jounced for a hundred yards or so over a rutted dirt road. I rolled to a stop and cut the motor. At first, all I could hear was my own ragged breathing. Then, I heard the sound of an engine slowing. I heard tires on pavement, then on the rocks and grass of the road’s shoulder. Was the car stopping? No, now the tires rang over pavement again. The driver had U-turned. Gaining speed on the highway, he was headed back in my direction.

I re-started the Jeep. The rutted drive intersected a sandy cattle trail. I made a hard left, gunning it through the dirt. The Jeep fishtailed a bit, before the tires gripped ground. Behind me, I saw a crazy dance of headlights over pasture. My pursuer had found the cut-off, and was bouncing up and down over the rutted drive. I kept going, all my attention focused on getting away. The note on Maddie’s door had threatened death for someone in my family. I was afraid to think about how all this might end.

An engine whined behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror. The reflected glow from his headlights was dimmer now, and no longer bouncing. I kept driving. The other engine screamed; tires spun. I guessed he’d gotten stuck in the sandy trail. Slowing, I kept my eyes fastened on the rear-view. Even if his tires were snared, he might still come after me on foot.

I watched—boot on the gas, hands on the wheel, eyes on the mirror. I saw nothing … until I felt the jolt of my Jeep ramming head-on into the galvanized steel of a pasture gate.

forty-three

In the morning, I couldn’t tell if the aches in my body were from the Jeep vs. gate collision, or from passing an almost sleepless night on the splintery floor of an abandoned storage shed.

I rolled my shoulders. My spine cracked. My left elbow and knee pulsated with pain. I must have smacked them on the steering wheel when I slammed into the padlocked gate. Or, maybe they got bruised when I clambered over it, slipped on the top bar, and tumbled to the ground. It was funny how something that seemed so loose and sandy when you drove over it felt like concrete when you fell on it.

After the wreck, I hightailed it through the woods on foot until I found the old shed. I had no idea if I was being followed. But I figured the safest option was to seek a hiding place and wait it out. I’d kept a vigilant watch, clutching a rusty wrench I found in the corner of the shed. But I must have dozed off for an hour or two sometime before dawn.

Now, I peered outside through a grimy, cracked window. Light was just beginning to edge the sky. Shadows and shapes around the shed were turning into familiar objects: A fence post, encircled with a rusty snarl of barbed wire. An ancient stock tank, upside down and peppered with the bullet holes of target shooters. Mist rose from a cow pond in the distance. I was lucky I hadn’t run my Jeep into that instead of the gate.

Limping, I made my way back to the scene of the crash. The Jeep listed to the left: Both tires on that side were flat. My satchel of a purse and most of its contents were still on the passenger-side floor, where they’d fallen when I struck the gate. I’d been in a rush, and hadn’t wanted the encumbrance of a big purse bouncing against my side as I tried to run. Groping in the dark, I’d located wallet, keys, and phone. Those, I stuck into various pockets. Everything else I left where it fell.

The black leather collar and leash were gone. So was the knife. It probably came in handy for the pursuer to slash my tires.

I climbed onto the gate again, more carefully this time. More painfully, too. I balanced gingerly at the top, a foot on either side of the highest slat. I aimed my cell phone until one bar appeared. First, I called my lawyer cousin and told him to hustle up Kenny for a trip to the police station. Then, I hit the speed dial for Carlos.

_____

I swatted with one hand at mosquitoes, and flagged down my fiancé with the other. Driving one of the police department’s marked SUVs, Carlos pulled onto the dirt-and-weed-choked shoulder of the highway. I sneezed as a dusty cloud engulfed me. He leaned across the console and opened the passenger door, but didn’t apologize for the dust storm kicked up by the SUV. His grim expression and that familiar vein throbbing at his temple almost made me turn around and run.

“Tow truck’s on the way.’’ He spit out the words, looking like each one cost him dearly.

“I’m sorry …”

He thrust out his wrist, giving me the silent signal for “talk to the hand.’’

“But …”

“Don’t even start. There is no possible excuse. You could have been killed.’’