Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗
She would not think of those things. The future mattered, not the past. They were already planning on building a new home. Jacob wanted a larger house than the one that had burned, but Renee wasn’t sure she wanted something so big and empty. However, the nest wouldn’t be empty forever. After all the pain and sacrifice in their lives, they were due some happiness.
She flipped the vacuum cleaner switch then stooped to check the floor. When Jacob came home after visiting a job site, he often tracked mud across the carpet. She had asked him to take off his boots at the door, but the apartment had no foyer and she was just as bothered by the dirty boots sitting out in the open as she was by the footprints. She tucked the vacuum cleaner in the closet. In the new house, she promised herself, the closets would be deep enough to keep everything out of sight.
She checked her watch. Twenty minutes to get to the office by the end of lunch break. She’d been unsure about working for M & W, but Jacob’s enthusiasm had won her over. Now she was glad she’d taken the job, because she saw her husband several times during the day and they often ate lunch together. Twice they’d even sneaked away to the apartment and had daytime sex just like in the early years of their relationship. A suffused glow had been born inside her, a feeling that she was rebuilding him. She now had a noble purpose, one that would help heal the wounds caused by the loss of her children. The saving of one man might make up for her failure to save two children. Maybe that counted in God’s eyes.
As the last act of her daily ritual, she placed a fresh flower on the mantel by Mattie’s urn. A laurel, because the species had just broken into seasonal bloom and grew from black mountain soil. Rich and full of life, the opposite of the gray ashes inside the ceramic shell.
“Wish me, Mattie,” she whispered. “Wish me that you’re in a better place.”
She bowed her head slightly and crossed herself, then went out into the Thursday sunshine. As she unlocked her car, she noticed an out-of-date, rusty Chevrolet beside hers, one of the wide gas guzzlers popular when her parents were young. It was an ugly green, with faded gray primer on one fender and bald tires. The windows were tinted to a shade much darker than was allowed by law. She’d never seen the car in the parking lot before, and new tenants were required to register their vehicles with the M & W office. Perhaps the car belonged to a visitor.
She was backing out of her space when the green car’s engine rumbled to life, accompanied by a belch of black smoke from its rear. She waited, giving the car room to exit in front of her, but the car didn’t move.
So much for random acts of kindness. She waved to indicate that she was going ahead then eased forward. The Chevy lurched, cutting her off. Renee slammed the brakes, her restraint harness digging into her shoulder, stopping her car inches from the Chevy. She frowned toward the tinted windshield, uneasy because she couldn’t see the driver’s face.
Irritated, she motioned the Chevy forward again. The Chevy idled unevenly.
Renee rolled down her window and leaned her head out. “Please,” she shouted. “I’m in a hurry.”
She looked around the apartment complex and considered hitting her horn. That would disturb the tenants’ peace, though. Rudeness was out of place at Ivy Terrace. Instead of waiting, she backed up and steered around the Chevy.
It shot a few feet forward, the engine rasping with mechanical emphysema. Renee accelerated past, veering in a wider circuit toward the parking lot entrance. Once she was clear, she slowed then looked in her rearview mirror to see the Chevy rumbling up behind her. She cut onto the highway without stopping and the Chevy followed suit, its tires squealing from the inertia of the heavy steel chassis. Renee gripped the steering wheel with all her strength and glanced down at the speedometer. She was already ten miles over the speed limit in the residential zone, but the Chevy was weaving close behind her, its approach steady.
Renee wasn’t an aggressive driver, but fear caused her foot to nudge down on the gas pedal. Houses blurred by on each side of her, the tall oaks along the street forming a tunnel, and cars in the oncoming lane gave her a wide berth. She checked the mirror again. The Chevy was within twenty feet, its dented grill like the grin of a chrome cannibal. A signal light was just ahead, changing to yellow. Renee measured the distance, held her breath, and floored it, shooting through the intersection under the red.
The Chevy ignored the stop signal, bouncing as it came after her. A car horn blared, and a man emptying cans into a garbage truck jumped back onto the curb. An Amoco gas station was just ahead on the right. Renee slowed as if to pull in. The Chevy crossed the double yellow stripes into the oncoming lane and edged alongside her flank.
Renee’s window was still down, and her hair whipped about her face, briefly blinding her. Over the busted muffler of the Chevy, she heard music, and it was like a scene out of those old Smokey and the Bandit movies with Burt Reynolds as the lead-footed moonshine runner. The bass line thumped and the guitars jangled, and a half-familiar male voice wailed something about blisters, great big blisters on his heart.
Renee figured the Chevy would pull in beside the gas pumps and trap her there, or maybe run her down if she dashed for the inside of the convenience store. But that notion was just as crazy as the idea that she was in a car chase. She eased off the pedal and took the right turn just before the gas station. The Chevy braked, its wheels smoking, and cut around a pickup and a caved-in telephone booth in the gas station parking lot. Her pursuer made up the lost ground in less than thirty seconds. Renee was afraid to push the Subaru past 70 on the narrow two-lane, though she was now in a rural area and therefore less likely to be blindsided from a driveway. But a remote stretch of road also offered fewer witnesses if the Chevy’s driver forced her off the pavement.
She glanced in the mirror again, desperate to see the face of her tormentor. The black glaze of windshield gave away nothing. But if the Chevy were chasing her, what would it do if it caught her?
She might finally see Joshua’s face.
And she might get some answers.
The best way to conquer fear was to face it, even if it killed you in the process.
The terrain swept steeply upward to her right, the slope covered with second-growth forest. To her left was a spread of pasture, the grass almost blue with summer ripeness. A herd of Black Angus steers dotted the field, heads all pointed toward the shade of the trees. Renee saw a place to pull over, a dirt driveway that led to a wobbly-looking feed shed. She slowed and made the turn, checking the Chevy in the mirror, bracing in case Joshua decided to ram her from behind. She killed the engine and waited, her window open. A farmhouse sat in the notch of a valley, and the roofs of a few houses were visible in the hills across the road.
The Chevy slowed and pulled alongside her, and again she heard the country-tinged beat and the sweet whiskey smoke of the vocals. The lyrics soared into a chorus about a ring of fire, and then Renee identified the singer. Johnny Cash. She hadn’t known much about him, but had seen a television special on his career shortly after his death. “The Man in Black,” the narrator had called him.
Renee didn’t wait for the Chevy’s engine to die. She got out and rounded the front of the car, knowing she was vulnerable, almost daring the car to leap forward. She glared straight at where the driver would be sitting. She would get her answers now, with no more secrets or games. She was about to pound on the tinted driver’s-side window when the door opened.
