Twice in a Lifetime (25 page)

Now firmly behind, the other driver pushed the Chrysler hard, as if it was a prized Thoroughbred. He feinted to his left before whipping around to the right, probing for an opening. For his part, Drake kept one eye on the road and the other on his mirrors, moving back and forth, blocking each attempt. He was calm, collected, and had been there before; he doubted his opponent, as skilled as he was, could say the same, and imagined he’d started to worry, sweating from more than the heat. Truthfully, Drake didn’t give a damn about the other driver. All he wanted was to win. For himself, for his future, for Clara.

Up ahead, the bridge came into view. The Chrysler’s actions grew more frantic and its driver even knocked up against the Plymouth’s bumper, but Drake wasn’t bothered; days earlier, he’d been in the same desperate position.

“Back off, kid,” he said with a grin. “I know you may not want to admit it, but this race is over.”

Amazingly, it was as if the other driver had heard him; the Chrysler suddenly fell back, finally accepting defeat. The Plymouth sped across the covered bridge, the roar of its engine echoing off the walls, the wooden planks singing beneath its tires, and Drake adding to the strange symphony by blasting the horn, celebrating and retiring at the same time.

He had won.

D
RAKE DROVE THE
Plymouth back to the starting line and again parked beside the Chrysler. The crowd had thinned and most of those who were left wore long faces, disappointed that their driver had lost; in contrast, Clara and Tommy stood just off the track flashing excited smiles. He waved, ready to celebrate, but then Drake noticed the other driver heading his way, the man’s face creased by a deep frown.

“Aw, hell,” Drake said, anticipating trouble; there were few things he hated more than a run-in with a sore loser.

He got out of the Plymouth, bracing himself for an argument or worse, but was surprised when instead the driver extended his hand. “That was one hell of a race you run,” he said. “Makes me feel damn lucky I won our first go-round.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Drake disagreed. “With that car of yours and the way you handle it, you’re going to win more than your fair share.”

After he and the other driver had finished, Drake headed for Clara. On the way, he noticed Amos collecting their winnings from his nemesis. The older man’s earlier bravado was gone; he looked heartbroken, like he might be sick, slowly counting out the bills as if he couldn’t believe he had to part with them.

“That was incredible!” Clara congratulated him, beaming from ear to ear as her arms slid around his waist, pressing herself against his body.

“Not bad for my last race,” he answered.

“Why would you stop doing this?” Tommy had wandered close, his eyes wide as he stared at the two cars. “If I could drive like that,” he added, “I don’t think I’d
ever
get out from behind the wheel.”

Drake laughed. “I said the same thing when I was your age.”

“So what happened?”

He looked at Clara and thought about how falling in love with her had changed so much, even how he felt about racing cars. Everything was different now, and he couldn’t have been happier.

“When you get older,” Drake explained, “you might be surprised…”

“Nuts to that!” the boy argued, making a sour face.

“Tommy!” Clara scolded.

“So how fast can it go?” he asked, ignoring his mother.

Drake couldn’t help but notice the change in Tommy. He remembered when he’d tried to enlist the boy’s help to fix the garage door; Tommy had been quick to anger, itching for a fight. But now he seemed more relaxed, at ease with himself and his mother. Drake hoped it would last.

“Maybe you and I can take it out in the country and find out,” Drake said to Tommy. Clara elbowed him in the ribs. “What? Just because I’m not going to race anymore doesn’t mean I’m never going to get the itch to go speeding down a dirt road!”

Now all three of them laughed.

While Drake knew there was still unfinished business ahead, like his impending talk with Amos and settling Clara’s issues with Eddie, he refused to be distracted. Nothing, and no one, was going to ruin this day.

“That’s him, ain’t it?”

Jesse pointed toward the track. Two men stood in front of the recently returned race cars; it appeared that they were counting money. Watching them, Sweet’s heart started to pound. Though he was some distance away, there was no doubt in his mind that one of them was Amos Barstow, the same son of a bitch who had stolen his money and drugs and then led them on a wild goose chase through the backwaters of Missouri.

“It’s Barstow, all right.”

Jesse let out a sigh of relief. “Good thing we got here when we did,” he said. “Any later and he might’ve given us the slip.”

Even though Malcolm had driven like a bat out of hell, they’d arrived too late to see the race. Cars and trucks had lined the road, were pulled down into ditches, and had parked between bushes, anywhere they could fit. Malcolm rolled the Cadillac slowly past as they looked closely at every vehicle, at each face, searching for the mechanic. Eventually, they’d parked and begun traipsing through the woods, ignoring the cheers and groans of disappointment from the crowd, working like hunting dogs on the trail, sniffing for the fox. When the race ended, some race-goers left, making their job a little easier. But it wasn’t until Sweet saw the black Plymouth headed toward them that he allowed himself hope that they were on the right track. Soon after, Jesse had pointed.

Sweet popped a butterscotch candy into his mouth. He savored the sweet taste, his eyes never leaving Barstow. Then he pulled his gun from his waistband.

“Hey, now,” Jesse cautioned. “Ain’t we gonna wait till there ain’t so many people around? We found him, so why not follow till we get him alone?”

Malcolm grunted; it wasn’t clear whether he agreed or not.

Sweet didn’t give a damn either way. He had been searching for the mechanic for too long to wait even one minute more. He thought of all the damage that had been done to his standing back in St. Louis, all that he’d lost, much more than just his money and drugs. It was time to settle up.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get what we came for.”

“…seventy, eighty, ninety, and that makes two hundred…”

Amos grinned. He liked the way the bills felt in his hand, a tall enough stack that it had some weight to it.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he said, not meaning it.

The other man stalked off, his shoulders slumped, his hands stuffed down in his pockets, angry and disappointed, a feeling Amos had experienced plenty of times, but he felt no pity; the man had crowed too loudly for that. Watching him sulk almost made up for Drake losing the first race. Almost.

Suddenly, a spasm began to shake his hand and he had to concentrate hard to quiet it. He needed morphine, bad. It was on his mind every second since he’d run out. One minute he was drenched with sweat, the next he was shivering so hard that his teeth chattered. He slept fitfully, sound asleep one moment but startled awake the next, couldn’t eat, and got angry at the drop of a hat. He’d come to believe that if he didn’t get a shot soon, he was going to die.

But somehow, even with all his suffering, Amos hadn’t given in to temptation and stolen Drake’s money. It was still there, buried in the bottom of his duffel bag. Three times now, he’d taken it out and counted the stacks, far more money than he held now, and considered leaving his troubles behind. But every time he had put it all back, ashamed at his behavior. In the end, his friendship with Drake had triumphed over his addiction, even if it had only been by the skin of his teeth.

Though he wasn’t out of the woods yet…

Amos still needed the sweet kiss morphine gave him. He wanted it more than ever, and that was why they needed to get the hell out of this town and go somewhere he could score. With money in his pocket, he could buy whatever he desired. Maybe he and Drake would go to Kansas City. Maybe down to either Springfield or Joplin. Hell, he’d even go back to St. Louis if there was no other choice, although he didn’t like the idea of getting too close to Sweet Woods. There was no telling what that lowlife would do if he caught sight of him.

“Good thing that ain’t gonna happen,” he mumbled.

But then, just as he was about to go tell Drake that it was time to head back to the hotel, get their things, and finally leave this godforsaken place, Amos saw three men walking toward him. He froze, his eyes blinking rapidly, thinking it a mirage induced by morphine withdrawal. But as seconds ticked by and the terrible sight remained, he knew that it was unbelievably, horrifyingly real.

It was Sweet Woods and his men. They had tracked him down. And so Amos did the only thing that made any sense to him.

He ran.

Amos hadn’t gone five feet when he heard gunfire.

One moment, Clara was laughing at one of Drake’s jokes, and the next she was being pulled to the ground, her knees hitting the dirt hard, unable to understand what was happening. A split second later, she realized that the strange sounds punctuating the early afternoon, loud enough to be heard above the crowd’s shouts and screams, were gunshots. Lying on her stomach, dumbfounded, she watched as Drake yanked Tommy down, then moved himself between them and the danger, acting as a shield; Clara imagined he was moving on instinct, memories of his time at war telling him what to do.

What in heaven’s name is happening?

It didn’t take long to get an answer. Three men ran toward them, down the length of the crude race track. One of them was dressed fancier than the others, his clothes a style she had seen in a magazine at the drug store. His arm was extended, his finger squeezing the trigger of a pistol, causing the gun to fire.

“What are they doing?” Tommy asked, rising up to take a closer look.

“Keep your head down!” Drake hissed, pushing the boy lower.

All around them, people ran, trying to escape the chaos. Clara desperately wanted to do the same but was too frozen with fear to move. Instead, she watched the surreal scene unfold. It was only then that she realized the men were chasing,
were shooting at
, Amos. The mechanic ran as fast as he could, his arms and legs churning, breath bursting from his lungs in huge gasps, his face deep red from the effort.

“Are…are they after Amos?” she asked in disbelief.

Drake didn’t answer, surely as shocked as she was.

Somehow, Amos managed to reach the Plymouth without being shot. Bumping against the passenger-side door, he pulled it open and slid inside just before a bullet slammed into the metal, while another smashed out the window, showering him with glass. Clara felt as if she was watching a movie, a gangster picture full of mayhem. When the Plymouth roared to life, she realized that Drake must have left the keys in the ignition. Seconds later, the car was on the move, its tires churning, shooting dirt and rocks everywhere. Fortunately for the mechanic, the men hadn’t been able to reach him, but that didn’t stop the well-dressed one from shooting out one of the Plymouth’s taillights.

“You’re dead, Barstow!” the gunman bellowed. “A dead man!”

“Back to the car!” one of the others shouted. “We can catch him!”

They turned and sprinted back the way they’d come, leaving chaos and confusion in their wake. But before Clara could start to make any sense of it all, Drake was on his feet, pulling her and Tommy up behind him.

“Where’s your truck?” he asked insistently.

Too stunned to speak, Clara pointed instead, her arm shaking.

“Come on!” Drake barked.

All around them, people screamed and ran, ducking behind bushes and trees. Vehicles raced in every direction as their owners franticly tried to flee; a car sped right toward them, the driver wide-eyed behind the wheel, but veered away at the last second. Finally, they reached the truck.

“Give me the keys,” Drake said.

Tommy handed them over. “Mom was going to let me drive home,” he explained, unable to suppress a smile, excited by the pandemonium. “Are we going after them?” he pressed, clearly hoping they would be.

Drake nodded, his face grim. They all jumped in the cab, Drake behind the wheel, Tommy at the other door, and Clara in between. When the engine sputtered to life, its weary pistons churning, it was a far cry from the power of the Plymouth.

“Who were those men?” Clara asked, finally finding her voice. “Why were they shooting? What did they want with Amos?”

“I have no idea,” Drake answered, coaxing the truck out onto the road, “but I aim to find out.”

Drake pulled around the corner from the hotel’s front entrance and parked. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the Plymouth sitting against the curb at an odd angle, as if it had skidded there. His hunch had been that Amos would return here, looking for somewhere to hide, the only place in Sunset he knew. Fortunately, he had been right. Still, he had no answers to the questions swimming around in his head.

A couple of other cars were parked nearby, some he recognized and others he didn’t, but of those, he didn’t know if one belonged to the mystery men; he hadn’t gotten a look at what they were driving.

“Do you think they’re here?” Tommy asked, still bubbling with excitement. He hadn’t stopped talking the whole way back to town.

Drake shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Maybe.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go take a look!” the boy replied as he started to open his door.

“No!” Clara and Drake both shouted at the same time.

“It’s too dangerous to go in there,” his mother explained. “For any of us. The only thing we should do is fetch the sheriff. He’ll know what to do.”

“There isn’t time,” Drake disagreed. “By the time we brought him back, Amos could be dead. We can’t take the risk.”

“So what
are
we going to do?”

“You two stay here,” he answered. “I’m going inside.”

“Drake, no!” Clara shouted, grabbing his arm; her voice was full of fear and worry. “They have a gun!”

“I can’t just sit here. Amos is my friend. I won’t abandon him to those thugs.” To soothe her, he added, “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Clara still didn’t look happy, but she gave no more argument.

Drake got out of the truck and squinted up at the hotel through the afternoon sun. From outside, everything was quiet, just another day, but who knew what was going on inside. Suddenly, he had a thought.

“Once I’m gone, turn the truck around so that it’s facing toward Main Street,” he explained. “That way, if we need to get out of here in a hurry, we’ll be pointed in the right direction.”

Clara slid behind the wheel. Unable to resist the urge, and not completely ignorant of the danger he was putting himself in, Drake leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss; she didn’t shy away from his affection, even with Tommy beside her.

“Be careful,” she told him for the second time that day.

“I’ll be right back,” he answered.

Drake could only hope that he was telling her the truth.

Amos reached the top of the hotel’s stairs drenched in sweat and breathing so hard that he felt faint. Panic gripped him tight, strangling his nerves. He knew that being here was a mistake, that he should have driven far away as fast as possible, letting this godforsaken place dwindle in the Plymouth’s rearview mirror, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without the money.