Suddenly I noticed a black SUV in my rearview mirror, following close on my bumper. There was the silhouette of a man behind the wheel, but I couldn’t make out his face.
I traveled behind the Lexus, keeping an eye on the BMW ahead and the SUV behind. The SUV accelerated, coming closer.
It made me edgy. Was he FBI? Did he work for GVO? Or was he just an impatient local driver? He couldn’t pass me because the road was winding. He wouldn’t be able to see the orange neon placards, so he might not know it was a funeral.
I told myself to stay the course. The SUV began to tailgate me, only a foot from my bumper. Was he following me, the funeral cars, or the road to Kennett?
Alarmed, I fed the car some gas. The SUV sped up.
When I slowed, the SUV slowed.
My thoughts raced. If the driver was FBI, he could be trying to talk to me, to get me back into WITSEC. They couldn’t arrest me, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I checked the BMW ahead. It was still in line. So was the Mercedes. The chrome grille of the SUV filled my rearview mirror. I still couldn’t see the driver’s face, the sun glaring on his windshield.
The road wound its way through horse pastures, then a field of cows. I was feeling more and more unnerved. My hands gripped the wheel. I flashed on being tailgated that night on Coldstream Road.
I blinked my eyes clear. I felt my teeth grinding. My heartbeat accelerated. We came to a fork in the road. I didn’t want to leave the line of funeral cars. I had to see where the BMW was going or where Big George lived. I continued forward.
The SUV honked, loud. I jumped. Either the SUV driver was an FBI agent, trying to get my attention. Or a GVO guy, who knew I didn’t belong. Or a civilian losing his temper.
In the next moment, the SUV drove up and tapped my bumper.
“No!” I gripped the wheel. The driver of the Lexus looked back, his head wheeling around.
I couldn’t afford to draw attention. Ahead on the right was a road. I wanted to follow the BMW, but I didn’t know if I could. The Lexus slowed down, the driver twisting in the seat. I could see he was on the phone, his head down and to the right.
I was in trouble. The road to the right was getting closer. I couldn’t keep following the funeral. It was too dangerous.
I turned right, watching the BMW drive away.
I glanced in the rearview mirror and froze. The SUV was still behind me, accelerating. He had to be following me.
My mouth went dry. I hit the gas and the SUV did the same. The road plunged into a tall cornfield. I accelerated, the SUV on my tail. Birds flapped squawking from corn rows.
The SUV driver leaned on the horn, harder.
A bolt of terror electrified me. Whoever was driving the black SUV wasn’t FBI. Running civilians off the road wasn’t procedure in any book. The SUV had to be GVO.
I floored the gas pedal. My car struggled to accelerate to seventy-five miles an hour, then eighty-five. I clenched the wheel, straight through the cornfield. Bugs hit my windshield. My tires rumbled on the dirt road. Stones pinged the car.
My heart hammered. The cornfield went on and on. I didn’t know if we were going toward town or away.
Boom! The SUV slammed into my fender, harder than before.
My neck jolted. My teeth clenched. I slammed the pedal to the floor. The engine whined in protest. It couldn’t go any faster.
The cornfield ended ahead. I raced toward a fork at the finish. The curve to the right was gentle. To the left was sharper, more dangerous at speed.
I had a choice. I throttled the wheel. The car rattled. The tires bobbled. Sunlight spilled in the clearing. The open road zoomed toward me.
At the last minute, I cranked the wheel to the left, braking just enough not to crash. I took the dangerous way, hoping it was less predictable. I skidded, fishtailing. I struggled to control the car. I narrowly avoided hitting a pasture fence across the street.
I checked the rearview. The SUV wasn’t behind me anymore. He’d bet I’d go right.
I raced away, orienting myself. I was heading toward Kennett Square. I would be in civilization soon.
I glanced in the rearview. The SUV was stopped on the road, his taillights red. He must have been trying to decide whether to come after me.
I flew ahead, keeping one eye on the rearview. The SUV didn’t follow.
I left him behind. My heart pounded all the way into town.
I tried to puzzle it out, my mouth bone dry. The SUV had to be with GVO, a bodyguard keeping a lookout for the FBI or maybe even a rival.
You’re in over your head, Bennett.
Why did the old man say that? Had he been trying to warn me? Had he spotted the SUV driver? Did he know the SUV driver would chase me? Or was the old man connected with whoever drove the SUV?
I didn’t have answers.
But I was already getting another idea.
Chapter Thirty-Six
My heartbeat returned to normal. The SUV wasn’t following me anymore.
I drove through Kennett Square, looking for the limos or funeral cars. The town was a few charming blocks of artsy boutiques, organic restaurants, and quaint brick rowhouses, their windows thick with muntins and authentically bubbled glass. There was a small business district, where brightly colored banners hung from gas-lit lamps and tall oak trees shed dappled sunlight on sidewalk cafés.
I had been here plenty of times. When the kids were little, I had taken them for the annual Mushroom Festival; the surrounding farms produced over half the mushrooms sold in the country. The town’s demographics were an uneasy mix of undocumented workers who worked on mushroom farms, and the well-heeled horsey set that rode with Cheshire Hunt and owned horse farms where Olympic riders trained.
I drove through the center of town. People went to and from the bank, lawyers’ offices, and a drugstore. There was no traffic except for a fleet of empty school buses rattling uphill toward the high school. I kept my eyes peeled for the GVO funeral cars.
The ice cream store on the corner had a line of customers on this balmy day. Allison loved the place, and Lucinda would take her after away games at Kennett or Unionville. I put them both from my mind, on a mission.
I drove past the brick clock tower, then spied the sign that read colon funeral home, in front of a beautifully maintained colonial house with a wraparound porch. It had been the funeral home the Verias used for Junior. On the side of the building was a parking lot, and three limos lined up in front of a few regular cars.
On impulse, I pulled in to the parking lot. I adjusted my sunglasses, left the car, and hustled toward the front door, which was propped open. I went inside, and there was no one around. Immediately to my left was an open doorway through which I heard the noise of a vacuum cleaner. The cloying fragrance of refrigerated flowers wafted from the room, and I guessed it was where Junior’s wake had been held. Outside the room was a lectern with a white guestbook, closed.
I opened the guestbook and wasn’t surprised to find the pages blank. The members of a criminal organization weren’t supplying their names and addresses. I ducked inside the room.
The room was a long, carpeted rectangle, empty except for a man in a blue jumpsuit pushing a vacuum that was so loud he didn’t hear me enter. White folding chairs had been lined up against the wall between ornate floor lamps, and at the front of the room was a display of flower arrangements on wrought-iron shelves.
The man looked up, shutting off the vacuum cleaner. “Can I help you?”