The Fives Run North-South Read Online Free PDF Page B

you called the police?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you have to call the police, I mean…”
    “Not tonight.”
    “Don’t you have to report these things right away? Are you sure you didn’t fire someone.” She bent down to look closer. “Will you look at these tires?”
    “Suzanne.”
    “I think we should call the police. We can wait; I didn’t put anything in for dinner yet. Maybe we can eat out again.”
    “Fine. Let’s just get going.”
    Then I heard something. No mistaking it. From the parking garage.
    “Do you think they did anything else to your car?” Suze continued. “Did you check for scratches? Sometimes people take keys and…”
    “Dammit, Suze, will you shut up. I said I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
    She stood, mouth dropped, eyes wide, then narrowed.
    Without a word she walked around my car, opened the Volvo door, and got in. I did the same. She turned on the ignition and reversed — a bit too quickly — put it in drive, and moved toward the exit. I looked back as my BMW receded, still sitting cockeyed in my parking space.
    I considered apologizing but knew it didn’t really matter. The night was shot. She’d been a bit jazzed; this little incident, while negative, had been, in her mind, a little mutually shared adventure, a derailed routine, something she tended to crave these days.
    “I’m hungry,” I said, after allowing a few miles to pass in silence. “Want to stop off at the deli and get some big salads?”
    “Whatever.”
    She shifted lanes (without checking, of course), then reached down and switched on the news.
    “It’s quicker if you take this right up here,” I said.
    She decelerated, hitting her turn signal. My mind started to fill with thoughts of Kyle Thomas. The irrational feelings from the parking lot were receding, and I chalked up that momentary loss of self - control to lack of sleep. A light dinner and a good night’s sleep would give me back my core, and I’d deal with all this crap tomorrow. Come out swinging.
    “How was your day?” I asked her.
    “Same things.”
    “Did that guy come by to fix the window?”
    “He put a board over it, says he has to order a matching sash.”
    I’d expected as much. A nice brown patch right at the front of the house to give the neighbors something to chat about.
    “Take the next left,” I said.
    “It’d be a heck of a lot easier to drive if this guy would get off my tail,” she said.
    I turned around. She was right. We were being tailgated. I realized two things immediately upon turning to look back. First, the lights were tall enough to flood our interior compartment. Tall like a truck. Or an SUV. Second, whoever was driving behind us was getting a good, illuminated view of my face turned back to look at him.
    “Jesus, that’s close,” said Suze. “I can’t see the turn.”
    I looked forward. “It’s right there. You have to slow down.”
    “What an asshole!” she yelled into her mirror. “There’s plenty of room to go around!”
    “You’re going to miss the turn!” I said.
    “Don’t yell at me!”
    I turned back, just as the lights behind us veered off. The tailgater was turning right, leaving the road. I tried to blink away the sparks in my eyes left from his bright lights. Tried to see the outline of the vehicle, to see what it was.
    Suze turned, and I wasn’t able to see what had been following us.
    But I had a good suspicion.

    When I was twelve, there was this hill. A hill and one day — that day — a truck.
    We lived in a rural town, a town where kids could just ride their bikes on the street with little worry about excess traffic (though I doubt we’d have worried about it either way). My bike - riding partner was named Kevvy. Three - speed bikes, no helmets, scraped knees in the breeze. We’d leave our homes behind and travel what seemed to be great distances. It’d probably be a ridiculously short drive if I were to retrace the path in my car today. Leaving our homes, we’d have to