Read Online Love Me and Die by Louis Trimble - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis Trimble
Ads: Link
It could be the redhead, I thought. And it could be someone else. Art Ditmer? He had keys to my car and camper just as I had keys to his car.
I felt a surge of excitement. I started to hit the throttle again. I pulled my foot back. I couldn’t be sure, I realized, that it was Art. My best bet was to follow until I was sure.
I cut the lights to parking. I picked up speed until I was a block behind the camper. I held that distance.
The camper was going due east at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. I had little chance of losing it at any speed. There was only the one street. Nothing crossed it but a few narrow alleys. It kept going straight east, through an area of small, square adobe shacks. Finally they disappeared and the barren
sides
of the mountains came down sharply to replace them. The street became a road. It began to kink into the mountains.
I followed the camper over the top of a pass. The flat, irrigated valley I had come through on my way to Lozano stretched below, water from sprayers making silver patterns under the light of a nearly full moon. It was very pretty. Only I was in no mood to enjoy it.
I could see a few cars crawling along Highway 2, some distance to the south. A much shorter distance to the north, the line of trees marked the course of the river. Straight ahead, the irrigated area was cut off by low hills. I remembered that beyond them was the hot, dry desert.
The camper made a sudden right turn and headed north toward the river. I followed. We were in the middle of an irrigated field, driving along a wide, gravel-topped dike. After a mile, the gravel disappeared. I could feel the ground growing soggy under the Mercedes’ wheels. I shifted down a gear.
The camper was almost to the line of trees that marked the river. Suddenly it stopped. Its lights went out. I felt the road sag badly under the weight of the car I was driving. I stopped too. I slipped the car into reverse and eased back until I felt somewhat firmer ground.
I couldn’t drive where the camper could, I knew. It was equipped with special tires for running in sand and over boggy land. From here on I had to walk if I wanted to find out who had borrowed my rig.
I opened the glove compartment and looked for something to use as a weapon. I found a three cell flashlight. I took it and climbed to the road. I started forward, keeping my eyes on the camper.
The road turned softer and boggier, as I got closer to the river. Then it rose a few feet and became firm again. I was within twenty feet of the camper now. I could barely make out someone moving around the door in the side. He was in shadow cast by the willows that lined the riverbank.
I moved closer. I could make out two persons now. One of them looked to be limply drunk. The redhead, I thought. I gripped the flashlight like a club. I took another step forward. I began to run as I saw the person holding up the limp figure turn my way.
I was two yards away when the limp figure came at me. I tried to pull up and swing aside. It struck the ground and rolled. My feet tripped over it. I went down. I lost the flashlight. My knees and the heels of my hands landed hard in the middle of the limp body.
I stared down into the contorted, dead face of Turk Thorne. I gagged and rolled to one side. I was in time to see the redhead heading for me. She ran with one hand pulling her skirt high up over her thighs and her legs churning like a sprinter’s. Her other hand held some kind of metal tool, and she was definitely planning to bash out my brains with it.
I yelled, “Damn it, stop showing off your legs. I’ve seen them before.”
She skidded to a stop. She stared in my direction. She said, “Jojo!” Her voice was gusty with relief.
I got to my feet and located the flashlight. I went up to the redhead. She flung her arms around my neck. I could smell rum on her breath.
“I could have killed you!” she said. She backed away and glared at me. “And all you did was make a crack about
I felt a surge of excitement. I started to hit the throttle again. I pulled my foot back. I couldn’t be sure, I realized, that it was Art. My best bet was to follow until I was sure.
I cut the lights to parking. I picked up speed until I was a block behind the camper. I held that distance.
The camper was going due east at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. I had little chance of losing it at any speed. There was only the one street. Nothing crossed it but a few narrow alleys. It kept going straight east, through an area of small, square adobe shacks. Finally they disappeared and the barren
sides
of the mountains came down sharply to replace them. The street became a road. It began to kink into the mountains.
I followed the camper over the top of a pass. The flat, irrigated valley I had come through on my way to Lozano stretched below, water from sprayers making silver patterns under the light of a nearly full moon. It was very pretty. Only I was in no mood to enjoy it.
I could see a few cars crawling along Highway 2, some distance to the south. A much shorter distance to the north, the line of trees marked the course of the river. Straight ahead, the irrigated area was cut off by low hills. I remembered that beyond them was the hot, dry desert.
The camper made a sudden right turn and headed north toward the river. I followed. We were in the middle of an irrigated field, driving along a wide, gravel-topped dike. After a mile, the gravel disappeared. I could feel the ground growing soggy under the Mercedes’ wheels. I shifted down a gear.
The camper was almost to the line of trees that marked the river. Suddenly it stopped. Its lights went out. I felt the road sag badly under the weight of the car I was driving. I stopped too. I slipped the car into reverse and eased back until I felt somewhat firmer ground.
I couldn’t drive where the camper could, I knew. It was equipped with special tires for running in sand and over boggy land. From here on I had to walk if I wanted to find out who had borrowed my rig.
I opened the glove compartment and looked for something to use as a weapon. I found a three cell flashlight. I took it and climbed to the road. I started forward, keeping my eyes on the camper.
The road turned softer and boggier, as I got closer to the river. Then it rose a few feet and became firm again. I was within twenty feet of the camper now. I could barely make out someone moving around the door in the side. He was in shadow cast by the willows that lined the riverbank.
I moved closer. I could make out two persons now. One of them looked to be limply drunk. The redhead, I thought. I gripped the flashlight like a club. I took another step forward. I began to run as I saw the person holding up the limp figure turn my way.
I was two yards away when the limp figure came at me. I tried to pull up and swing aside. It struck the ground and rolled. My feet tripped over it. I went down. I lost the flashlight. My knees and the heels of my hands landed hard in the middle of the limp body.
I stared down into the contorted, dead face of Turk Thorne. I gagged and rolled to one side. I was in time to see the redhead heading for me. She ran with one hand pulling her skirt high up over her thighs and her legs churning like a sprinter’s. Her other hand held some kind of metal tool, and she was definitely planning to bash out my brains with it.
I yelled, “Damn it, stop showing off your legs. I’ve seen them before.”
She skidded to a stop. She stared in my direction. She said, “Jojo!” Her voice was gusty with relief.
I got to my feet and located the flashlight. I went up to the redhead. She flung her arms around my neck. I could smell rum on her breath.
“I could have killed you!” she said. She backed away and glared at me. “And all you did was make a crack about
Similar Books
