Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods (25 page)

“
Uncle Buster drank it down. I checked the Caller ID and sure enough her name was there. Seconds before he looked ready to die I took off. I waited a bit and called Vivian with my spoof card. She thought it was Buster. The perfect storm.”

“That
was smart. You’re smart, Stan.”

“
Compliments won’t help. But I’m smarter than most people think. I’m gonna to leave a note in your truck. Tell them you went back to New York.”

“They won’t believe that.”

“They will.”

He had a laughing fit. When he stopped he said, “Just thought of something. Maybe the manual down there will help. ’Course it’ll be kinda dark for reading, but maybe you can get this baby started and drive out.
I did some work on it. I’m a good mechanic. Not many people know that.”

He grabbed the hanging light and unhooked it from the open hatch. The darkness was incredible. I began to cry.

Suddenly the hatch slammed shut and I heard metal, probably chains, being dropped across it. I could hear him laughing as I stood in total darkness. I heard footsteps on the roof, knew he was leaving. I screamed, begged him to let me out. Promised him every cent I had in the world. He didn’t have to know how little that was.

The last sound I heard was the garage door closing.

THIRTY-THREE

Hysteria replaced the sliver of hope I’d harbored. Tears flowed. I felt around in the dark. Cold metal everywhere. No way out. Locked. Confined. Darkness like I’d never known before. I wanted to see something, anything. I hated this darkness.

Wave after wave of panic wormed through every pore as I stood in the middle of this Sherman tank wondering when I’d be found, if I’d be found. Desolation overwhelmed me. Never before had I felt so alone.

Who would come? No one would know where to look.

I thought of Uncle Walter who had seen the tank. He had no right to it or to he coins. He would realize that and give up his fight. If Rhonda spoke to him, she’d make it clear to him. So he wouldn’t come.

Nick wouldn’t know where I was. My truck was parked by the side of the road but I knew clever and wily Stan would take care of that. I couldn’t guess where he’d leave it. The police would hunt in the area around the truck.

I missed Nick already.

I suspected that while everyone was hunting for me, Stan would steal my computer. Neat and tidy.

Everyone would wonder where I was—the aunts, Nick, Mary Fran, Rhonda, Vivian. My brother Howie would miss me, maybe even my mother, but I was not certain about her. Lori would have to cancel my resumes. Whatshisname would never get my apartment. Good.

But the aunts? Oh, God. Just thinking about them made the tears take over again and stream down my cheeks. The moisture would cause added rust in years to come.

My hand rested on the back of a seat. I slipped around and sat on it. That’s when I felt the hard piece jabbing into my thigh. I stood quickly and
touched the flat flashlight in my pocket. I’d forgotten about that. I sobbed like a baby. According to the advertisement, it was supposed to last indefinitely. God, I hoped they’d told the truth about that.

I pressed the small button and there was light. It was amazingly bright. To keep it shining, I had to keep pressure on the button. I looked around for something that might help. As I examined my surroundings, possibly the place I would die, the words ‘what a dump’ came to mind.

Everywhere I looked there were gauges, switches, pipes, chains, wires, levers and what I figured were gear shifts. On the floor in front of me I saw pedals. They looked a little like the pedals on Hannah’s car, gas and clutch. Some candy wrappers and a box of Wonka Gobstoppers cluttered a small ledge. Thinking the Gobstoppers would be my last meal made the tears flow again and gave panic a stronger foothold.

After a few minutes, I protested.
“No,” I said aloud, stamping my foot. “No. Somehow, I’ll get out of this. People will come looking for me. Nick won’t give up.”

I decided to go with that instead of despair.

I wedged my flashlight under a piece of pipe to keep it lit. That’s when I spotted the wrinkled manual jammed between the seat and what I figured was the gear shift. Something to read while I waited to be found, I thought. I’d think positive. I would be found.

I yanked it out and flipped through the pages. The ones detailing the motor were dog-eared and decorated with multiple spots and smears. Stan must have spent a lot of time fixing the motor. I tossed
it away.

For a long time I sat in the quiet of my prison, thinking. I wondered what Stan was up to. It occurred to me that Lenny must have taken the flash drive from the refrigerator.
At one point I thought maybe he and Stan were in this together, but maybe not. Lenny the gambler and computer nerd probably had a plan, and it didn’t seem to include Stan.

I was restless.

I wanted to scream, so I did. Then I screamed some more. I stamped my feet. I stopped suddenly, concerned about using up the air.

Then I picked up the manual and began to read. The more I read, the more my panic subsided. I wondered whether it was possible for me to start the tank and get
it moving. Stranger things happened. Didn’t someone once take over the controls of a plane and land it when the pilot died? Or was that only in a movie?

It didn’t matter.

I became certain that I would not molder away in this damn tank. I would not suffocate, or die of starvation either. Instead, I’d drive this sucker right through the door and into the road. I’d drive home, if I could find my way. Everybody would have to watch out for me, because I didn’t think I could watch out for them. I knew the tank pointed at the doors. I’d seen that.

I checked the gauges first, only because they were
on the next page I turned to in the manual. Gas gauge. I matched the drawing to the gauge in front of me and tapped it. If it was working, I had almost a full tank.

Stan had been busy. Okay
, the gas looked good. Now I needed to figure out how to turn this behemoth on.

I looked at my watch. It was ten-twenty. Stan would have parked my truck by now. I wondered whether he bothered with a note. He probably took my bag with the cell phone. It’s what I’d do. Ida and Nick would have called me. Ida would be alarmed and would call the aunts. She’d probably spoken to Nick, too.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Stan played this to perfection. He was a planner, a vicious and diabolical man.

I would not go quietly. I would not cry another tear. I would fight in a way he would never expect.

I spent the next few hours studying the running of the Sherman tank. I wanted to be sure that once I started it, I could take off. I was not sure how the gas supply would hold up so I had to know what I was doing.

I was hungry. I wanted a cup of coffee. I never started my day without coffee. And of course I had to pee. He’d left a bucket in here. I used it. Oh, yuck.

I continued reading. I looked from the manual to the controls and practiced by simulating the actions I’d have to take. I was grateful Hannah had insisted I learn to drive her GTO with the clutch and stick shift. This had both and I understood how to coordinate them. Two levers replaced the steering wheel. Whose dumb idea was that?

I wondered what was happening at home. It was
now after one o’clock. Ida must be frantic. The entire sheriff’s department must know and be out looking. But there was no way any of them would be able to guess where I was. Stan chose the site of his second murder well. I wondered if the note he planted would throw them off the track for long.

My life was forfeit if I failed.

To prevent failure, I memorized sections of the manual the way I’d memorized text sections when I was studying computer science. My concentration was complete.

Above the driver’s seat was the small sealed viewing hatch. I tried to open it without success. I took a piece of pipe from the floor and pounded on the hatch. The pipe slipped and sliced my hand. My hands were bloody by the time it gave a tiny bit. I peeked into the darkened garage. I’d see better when I was through those doors.

I took off my jacket and sweater to get to the white long-sleeved shirt. I removed it, ripped it into strips and wrapped my bloody hands.

It was two-fifteen. I was as ready as I could be.

First I released the parking brake, and then I hit the starter switch. The engine turned over. There was no time to cheer, but I was conscious of an internal rush. I quickly pulled the choke lever back all the way. The engine caught and I pushed in the clutch pedal. The noise was horrific, multiplied a hundred times as it bounced off cinderblock walls.

My heart soared. With great care, I partially closed the choke.

I let the engine warm up while I watched the gauges. The oil pressure finally hit forty pounds, the temperature one-sixty. I was ready to take off.

Down on the clutch
. With both hands on the gear shift, which was so stiff I thought I’d never get this tank into gear, I pulled with all my might until it dropped into place. Easy on the gas. Easy. Up on the clutch. Feel for the friction point. Gas.

In a rush of power that about took my
breath away, I crashed through the garage door.

Light. I could see light through the sliver of open hatch in front of me. I plowed out toward the road, crashing into trees and branches and anything in my way. The power was incredible. Wonderful.

Steering was not so wonderful. Using levers was different than using a wheel. Why didn’t they do wheels in this contraption? Everyone was used to wheels. Even though I’d practiced the movements in the garage, the difficulty quotient doubled when the engine was engaged.

I aimed for the road. I wished I could see better, but that wasn’t possible. I should have made the hatch opening larger. Too late for that. But all in all, this was going well.

It was time to shift.

If I could have seen better, I would not have chosen this particular moment to shift. Several large trees loomed ahead.
Bumpy doesn’t begin to describe the ride when a tank is in lurching mode. I think there are some crazy amusement park rides that were designed by former tank drivers.

My foot slipped off the gas pedal.
Without enough gas to the motor, it would stall. I risked a glance down. I banged my head on the gauge panel, but found the gas pedal and pressed it as far as it would go.

The tank lurched forward.
I kept the pedal pressed to the floor. I was moving well, but a little faster than my ability to control.

S
econds later I saw Buster’s house dead ahead. How on earth?

It was like a second entity took control. Its name was Panic.

I yanked the levers this way and that in an effort to straighten out and avoid crashing into the house. I overcompensated on the left. I considered using the brake, but I couldn’t chance it.

I finally yanked the steering stick so hard in the opposite direction that the tank swung around. However, the turn wasn’t sharp enough to keep it from plowing into Buster’s old truck that still sat in the driveway. The tank
went over it, smashed that truck like it was a pile of tin cans. Metal on metal. The noise was incredible.

As it rolle
d over the truck, it lifted on the right side. I slid left. To avoid tumbling off my seat I braced against the left steering stick.

That was a mistake. Without meaning to, I turned the tank left.

“Too far,” I yelled.

Next thing I knew the Sherman was making toothpicks out of the deck that bordered one side of the house. Omigod. I pulled the stick to compensate. Wrong stick. This was so hard to keep straight. Why not a wheel? What was the designer thinking?

I clipped a back corner section of wall. I heard a loud noise but couldn’t see what happened. It sounded like part of the house collapsed.

I had to get down to t
he road. Had to. Attempting a 180, I pulled the right stick as far as it would go. Success. I could see the road at the end of the driveway.

I timed the next lever pull.

Almost.

I crossed the road and was in the woods on the far side.
I worked the levers like a mad woman. Finally I was back at the road and I straightened out.

I headed home, I think. I figured I was traveling about fifteen miles per hour. In a few hours, I’d be home. I prayed the gas would hold out or someone I knew would come along.

I was driving a tank. Who would have thought.

Finally, this
was going well.

I’d gone a few miles when I spotted a green, dumpy SUV through the hatch slit. Stan? He must have gotten rid of my truck. He was heading toward me. If he managed to maneuver around me, or alongside me, he might be able to climb on the tank. I’d seen it in the movies. It might be possible in real life. He’d unhook the chain, open the hatch and I’d be road kill.

No and no. I would not die like this, not after all my work. With a quick lever pull to the left—practice makes perfect, or at least better—I caught the edge of his vehicle. I couldn’t see, but I thought I’d knocked it off the road. Instead of continuing, I made another 180 and faced him and his damaged truck. He was trying to start it. Lenny was in the front seat beside him. He must have followed Stan so he could drive him back.

T
his time I aimed directly for them, slowed and pushed the vehicle into a boulder. Seeing him working furiously at the door, I knew I had to push harder. Had to trap him.

I eased forward. Stan felt the full might of
the Sherman M4A3 tank ramming his SUV into the woods until it was flush against a boulder. His eyes went wide. I stopped. There was no way he could escape. I would sit here until someone came along.

The murderer wa
s trapped between a rock and a hard place, that hard place being the mighty Sherman and the five-foot-five woman he’d tried to murder in the Maine woods.