Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

light caught his attention, the gas gauge indicator on the dashboard. He needed a gas station. He snapped on his seatbelt and pulled out onto Trapelo Road. Just across the intersection, a red panel van with a dented roof pulled out after him.

The warning beep stopped but the orange light flashed every thirty seconds. McNulty followed Trapelo Road west toward the I-95, four junctions north of the cloverleaf junkyard and one junction south of the Concord Turnpike. He skirted the top end of Hardy’s Pond, then it was a long smooth ride to Mike’s Exxon, a half-mile from Santander. McNulty drove at medium speed in high gear to preserve gas but reckoned there was enough to get him there. Warning indicators usually give you ten miles to find a gas station.

He activated cruise control, still thinking about Harlan DeVries and the million-dollar donation. There was no traffic coming from the other direction and he wasn’t paying attention to his rear-view mirror, so he didn’t notice the red van until it filled his rearview mirror and revved its engine. Houses drifted by on either side of the road. They passed a sports field on the left. Then the van lunged forward in an extra burst of speed and slammed into the back of McNulty’s car.

McNulty was about to curse the careless driver when he saw red. Glossy red that had once been dull grey. He put his foot down and pulled away but the red van sped up and rammed him again with a slight sideways turn. They locked fenders and the back of his car was dragged across the road. He slammed on his brakes and the impact was more complete when he downshifted and hit the gas. The fenders disengaged. The car accelerated faster than the van and McNulty gained vital distance, but not for long.

The passenger window wound down in his rear-view and an arm came out. The gun was small and black and ugly. McNulty swerved to the driver’s side and the gun disappeared. The van swerved as well but couldn’t get over far enough to bring the gun to bear again. McNulty mounted the sidewalk and took out two mailboxes. The van followed, caught up, and rammed the car again. This time the force spun McNulty around and the van overtook him on the inside. The car did a three-sixty, ending up behind the van. The van skidded to a stop. The passenger door opened and this time the gun was held in two hands, strong and level at McNulty’s windshield.

There was no time to think. McNulty floored the gas and aimed straight for the van. The man with the gun dived back into the van just as the car scraped the side and smashed off the open door. McNulty skidded across the road, mounted the opposite sidewalk, then leveled out and picked up speed. The gunman wasted no time collecting the door, and then the van came after him again.

The warning beep sounded again. Several lights flashed on the dashboard. Oil and water and battery warnings. The offside wing had buckled and was pinching the front wheel. Smoke and steam spiralled out of the wheel well, and the friction slowed his escape. The red van again came roaring up behind him.

They came out of the tree-lined residential area onto the final stretch before the I-95. An electricity substation flashed by on the right just before Mike’s Exxon, which was now a Gulf filling station. McNulty didn’t have time to ponder whether Mike might fix his car because the van put on a last burst of speed that crushed his rear fender and popped the trunk. The rear window shattered and the back of the car slid sideways, forcing McNulty to overcorrect. The car swerved left, then skidded right and left the road.

A shiny black car pulled away from the nearest gas pump, then made a sharp left when the driver saw McNulty coming. A shocked face looked out from the service station window. A dog yelped.

McNulty took out the first pump and a floral display and hit the central post supporting the newly painted Gulf canopy. The airbag deployed and hit him like a punch to the chin. Gasoline spurted out of the ground. Heat from the fractured engine and the sheered wheel well added to the sparks from severed electric lines. The van sped past onto the highway cloverleaf.

McNulty was dazed but conscious. The fumes told him what would happen next. The sparks made it come true. Mike’s Exxon became a Gulf fire as the gas station exploded and scared the dog again.

THIRTY-NINE

McNulty woke up in a hospital bed with the sun streaming through his window. In the Maxwell Blum Emergency Pavilion at Newton-Wellesley Hospital just south of Waltham. He knew it was the Maxwell Blum Emergency Pavilion because it was written on everything from the bedding to the paper cups. The rest he pieced together as he drifted in and out of consciousness as the day wore on. Dreams and memories mingled until he wasn’t sure what he remembered and what he had made up. There had been the examination room and an ambulance, heat and a fire truck, something to do with a dog, and a lot of shouting.

He came awake with a start. Wide awake this time. His arm jerked the needle taped to a vein. He tried to scratch his nose but the arm wouldn’t move. When he raised his head he found out why. He was fastened to the bed with leather straps.

“The dog pulled you out of the car.”

“The one I nearly ran over?”

“Didn’t seem to hold a grudge.”

After the rush of medical staff had disappeared, Amy Moore was sitting next to the bed. There’d been a lot more shouting when she’d raised the alarm. The patient was awake and trying to struggle free of his bindings. The doctor explained McNulty’s injuries and a nurse removed the drip and the tabs monitoring his