Chapter 30 - The Highway Chase
"Did you get that, Abby?" Aunt Clara whispered in the pitch-black crawlspace, her hand squeezing my wrist with iron force.
"I got it," I whispered back, my voice shaking with tears of pure rage. "Every single word."
Above us, the violent crack of a gunshot shattered the night.
The blast took out the upper glass of the front window, showering shards across the porch. A scream—rough, masculine, full of pain—rang out, followed by the sound of heavy bodies tumbling down the wooden steps onto the gravel.
"Run!" Ellis bellowed from above. "Abby, run!"
Maeve shoved the iron bolt of the cellar bulkhead. The heavy plate-metal door groaned open, spilling cold, gray pre-dawn light across our faces.
We tumbled out into the freezing mud of the creek ditch. Fifty yards ahead, through the thick stand of dogwood and willow, sat Maeve’s ancient red International Harvester farm truck, parked under a rotting hay lean-to.
"Key is above the sun visor," Maeve barked, pushing Clara toward the passenger door. "Get us moving, girl!"
I threw the satchel behind the seat, leaped behind the oversized steering wheel, pulled the manual choke, and turned the key. The ancient engine coughed, spat black diesel smoke, and roared to life with the bone-shaking rattle of pure, unkillable machinery.
I slammed the floor shifter into first gear and dropped the clutch. The rear tires bit deep into the ditch bank, throwing geysers of frozen mud into the air as the truck lunged forward onto the abandoned orchard lane.
Behind us, through the rear glass, I saw the headlights of the black Cadillac whip around in the cemetery driveway. The Lincoln had been abandoned; Raymond Vance was at the wheel of his own car now, chasing us down the single-lane dirt track like a rabid animal.
"He's gaining on us, Abigail!" Clara screamed, clutching the dash.
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The Cadillac surged behind us, its massive chrome bumper gleaming in the dawn light like the teeth of a predator. Raymond's face was visible through the windshield—contorted, purple with rage, his teeth bared, looking not like a father, but like a demon let loose from the earth.
He rammed our rear bumper. The impact slammed my chest against the steering wheel, sending the old truck fishtailing across the slick clay of County Line Road.
