Read Online Brainstorm by Margaret Belle - Free Book Online Page A

and
accepted the new job. She took what she wanted from her desk (the pancake
makeup went into the trash), packed a few of the outfits I’d loaned her, and
all of Carrie’s files (with my blessing). I walked her to the door and watched
as she drove out of the parking lot for the last time.
    Feeling lonely already, I called a cab and went to the
hospital to get her car out of hock. Then a quick trip through a drive-thru
netted me a cheeseburger and a diet soda for lunch. I was close to an hour
behind Harley, as I headed north to Oswego on I-690W, a healthy forty-five
minute drive from Syracuse. It was a beautiful spring day and even though there
was a chill in the air, I lowered the windows a little. After driving all
winter with them rolled up, it was always a thrill to hear the sound of the
tires on the wet, spring pavement. It sounded loud and messy – like freedom,
and it lifted my spirits.
    About fifteen minutes into the trip I noticed a truck
behind me; one I’d seen back at the fast food place. Not nervous, but cautious,
I got off at the next exit and drove half a mile to the offices of a radio
station where I often had meetings. The truck exited too, but as I pulled into
the parking lot, it caught up to me and passed by. I watched until it was out
of sight. Great , I chided myself. Paranoid much?
    I pulled back onto the road and headed again toward the
highway that would take me toward Oswego. Within five minutes, the truck
reappeared in my rear view mirror. Now I knew that whoever it was, was
following me, and it had to be Carl. I’d never seen him, but since I was
driving Harley’s car, it made sense that he would think she was behind the
wheel. It’s illegal to use a cell phone while driving in New York, but I dialed
Jack’s number. It went to voice mail and I left a message saying I was being
followed, and that I was going to turn around and head back to Syracuse to
avoid leading Carl to Harley, if that was who was driving the truck.
    I took the next exit and circled around to pick up the
highway again, but headed in the opposite direction, toward home. The truck did
the same. My throat tightened and my heart raced as the truck sped up and
closed the gap between us. Was he going to drive right into me? Would he try to
run me off the road? That’s what always happened on TV. It was my only
reference since I’d never been in a situation like this.
    The truck backed off, then sped up, coming close enough
that I couldn’t see its headlights in my mirror, then it backed off again. It
swerved into the passing lane and pulled up even with me, then slowed down and
pulled in behind me again, this time ramming into my bumper. The steering wheel
jerked in my hands as I felt the truck push me along the road.   I swerved into the passing lane to try and
break contact, but he changed lanes too, and rammed into me again. I called
Jack a second time and pleaded with him to pick up, but there was no answer.
    Ahead, a line of cars appeared, and I sped up and pulled
into the right lane, wedging myself between a sedan and a delivery van. The truck
continued to follow me, but did not attempt to close in on me again; most
likely he was waiting for the chance to make another move.
    Once off the highway, I drove on busier roads to the
police station and pulled into the driveway, which was full of officers and
canine units. The truck drove on by. I tried to catch a glimpse of the driver
so I could give Jack some kind of a description, but the windows were tinted,
something that had escaped my attention before. I hopped out of the car and
went to an officer, to tell him about the truck. He said he could look for it,
but without a description of the driver or the license plate number, there was
no way to prove that any gray truck he found was the right one; not even if it
had tinted windows.
    As I was getting back into Harley’s car, Jack pulled into
the parking lot. I called to him and he walked over to where I was. I