The Camaro Murders Read Online Free PDF

Hildersham,” Lightfoot says to me. It’s like he wants me to give him a good enough reason.
    I don’t look at him, but can feel his glare trying to provoke a fight out of me. “I was in the area,” I say, “and figured I’d stop by to make sure everything was squared away.”
    â€œHmmpf.” Lightfoot is mocking. “Yep, everything’s squared away just fine.”
    â€œWhy’s the room all tore up?” I ask as we step onto the porch.
    â€œNot sure,” Lightfoot says. “I found the old man down the cellar. I’d say he threw a fit and then took a fall.”
    I’m not impressed with Lightfoot’s police work, but he’ll be the one filling out the report. There’s a lack of evidence to support any foul play. There’s no weapon and it sounds like no obvious wounds on the body, otherwise Lightfoot would’ve said something.
    Out in the driveway, I turn to look at the unlit house like I expect to see some damning evidence, but there’s nothing. No heads peeking out the window, no telltale signs of forced entry. Just the falling snow collecting on the edge of the porch…
    â€œI ain’t standin’ out in the cold anymore,” Lightfoot says. That’s his equivalent of “good night.” He marches toward his cruiser and backs out of the drive by the time I reach mine.
    The motor is nearly cold so I crank the heat before putting the shifter into reverse. With one arm over the passenger seat, I look over my shoulder as I back out of the drive, and see another vehicle saunter past the house a bit too slow for regular traffic. Not that there is other traffic…
    My gut says to take note of the make and model. I watch it roll by, and see it’s a Chevy Camaro—black. Now why does that bother me? Wait—the vagrant…I remember what the vagrant said.
    â€œAll’s I saw was a Camaro—black and screamin’ like the wind.”
    I whip the cruiser out into the road and flip on the lights. The fresh powder denies the tires the grip they need, and the cruiser shimmies a bit before finding a sure footing. I gun it as the Camaro picks up speed.
    Siren blaring, I’m in pursuit as the Camaro’s taillights go up and over a rise. I clear it in a few seconds, the cruiser’s 5.0 liter bellowing, and see the suspect vehicle about a quarter mile ahead.
    â€œDispatch,” I say into my radio, “this is car number three. I’m in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle heading south on Old Brinson Road. Stand by.”
    Barbwire and fence posts line the open fields on either side of the road. They melt into a blur as the needle slingshots across the dash. I play loose with the gas; one wrong move and I’ll end up in a ditch.
    A quarter mile down the road and the needle is buried. I’m gaining on the Camaro. The taillights grow larger until I’m sure I have him, but then they ignite in a flash of red as the driver mashes the brakes.
    There’s no way I can stop in time; I won’t have enough traction. I stomp on the brake pedal and the tires skid. The rear of the cruiser starts to give, and I try to compensate with steering.
    I correct the fishtail, but I’m nearly on top of the other car. The rear of the vehicle dominates my field of vision. I brace for impact, but it never comes.
    The cruiser comes to a halt several feet beyond where we should’ve hit. There’s no trace of the Camaro anywhere. Not in my rearview…not on the roadside. The white fields are empty.
    The radio is crackling as I step out of the cruiser and wonder what the hell just happened. I look back the way I came. Nothing but a few wisps of the exhaust… I must be losing it. It’s hard to choke back a laugh of disbelief, and the frigid air is more biting than it was before.
    I get behind the wheel again and radio the station. “Dispatch, this is Hildersham. Cancel that—I’ve lost the