McKean S03 The Ghost Trees Read Online Free PDF Page A

windows in the evening gloom, but McKean expressed the thought on my mind. “If that’s Sturgis, we could be in for some trouble. I suggest you drive out of this neighborhood as quickly as you can.”
    “No problem,” I replied, turning the wheel and heading northbound on West Marginal Way, “but why would Sturgis try something now?”
    McKean looked behind us as the pickup driver turned on his lights and followed. “You see, Fin, he was clever enough to realize that killing us at his home would leave an obvious and very short trail to him. Now, however, he might have decided it’s okay to kill us elsewhere.”
    I glanced in my rear view mirror, watching Sturgis follow a hundred yards behind us.
    “He may be biding his time until the moment is right,” McKean suggested.
    “I’ll fix that!” I stomped the accelerator to the floor and the Mustang’s wheels screamed. We accelerated fiercely along West Marginal Way, which was dark, empty and wet. “This V8 will ditch him,” I said confidently as the Mustang became a midnight-blue streak, powering well past the speed limit. The Ram followed, accelerating surprisingly rapidly as well.
    As we approached the on-ramp to the West Seattle High Rise Bridge, McKean said, “Try a little harder, Fin.” I tromped the gas pedal and my tires squealed as I made the turn onto the ramp. At that moment, I heard a roar like something from a monster truck rally and was dismayed to see the big Ram flying up the ramp after us and quickly closing the distance. “What kind of engine does he have in that thing?” I gasped.
    “Something very large and powerful.” McKean turned to watch the truck loom behind us. “Haven’t you got any more speed in this car?”
    I kept the accelerator pressed flat to the floorboard and the Mustang’s tires spun all the way up the ramp and onto the bridge, but Sturgis stayed on our tail.
    “I’m calling 9-1-1,” McKean barked as we raced up the center lane of the three-lane high-rise. The bridge was deserted except for my car and our pursuer, who kept relentlessly on our tail. Before McKean finished punching in the three numbers, the truck, roaring like a jet engine, caught us and edged ahead slightly on the inside lane. Sturgis wrenched his steering wheel and the side of his machine crashed into the Mustang’s left front fender, shattering a headlamp and sliding us across the wet pavement, converting our seventy-mile-an-hour momentum from forward to sideways. Headed for the concrete barrier at the edge of the bridge, I slammed my brake pedal down hard and steered right to disengage my car from the hurtling truck. The Mustang swung free and went into a dizzying pinwheel spinout, slamming sideways into the barrier at the highest point of the high-rise. We heeled up on one side and for an awful moment I thought we would flip over the brink, but we thudded back down on all four tires. The engine killed and we sat with the Mustang’s passenger side door mashed against the barricade and the left front bumper crumpled. At least we were upright.
    Sturgis wasn’t done with us. With no other cars on the bridge, he spun his rear tires in reverse, backed away at right angles to the lanes and framed us up directly ahead of the Ram’s front bumper. I could see him inside the cab, grinning like a madman. He floored the accelerator and the immense black bulk of the Ram leapt toward us. He clearly intended to T-bone us and knock us into the Duwamish River a hundred feet below.
    I cranked the key in the ignition and the engine balked, and then fired. I jammed the shifter into reverse as Sturgis closed with us. I floored the accelerator and my rear tires screeched and the Mustang pulled back an instant before Sturgis reached us. Just clipping the Mustang’s nose, the Ram struck the side of the bridge and demolished the concrete barrier. Its momentum carried it forward and it stopped half off the bridge, teetering in the gap in the abutment. I could see