Chapter 8 - Following the Tail
The gray sedan ahead of us didn't use its blinker when it turned off Route 9 onto the cracked asphalt of Mercer Road. I leaned forward slightly in the passenger seat of Vargas's black SUV, my hands resting flat against my thighs to keep from drumming my fingers. Vargas didn't say anything. His hands remained steady on the steering wheel, the gold wristwatch catching the dull ambient glow of the dashboard instrument panel. The heavy charcoal grey suit jacket he wore was draped over the back seat, leaving him in his crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the gold chain catching the occasional flash of light as we navigated the winding two-lane country roads under an overcast sky.
We had been tailing the executive for nearly twenty minutes, keeping two vehicle lengths back behind the curve of the terrain. The landscape here gave way to dense rows of skeletal pine trees and overgrown drainage ditches choked with dead brush. My pulse felt too loud in my ears, ticking in time with the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers clearing away a light mist.
Without warning, the memory of that afternoon under the highway bridge pushed its way back into my mind. The sudden roar of the rushing river water, the freezing weight of the current tearing at my sneakers, and the desperate grip I'd had on Vargas's soaked white shirt as I pulled him toward the muddy bank. I felt the phantom chill of that water again, crawling up my arms, and my breathing hitched. I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes back onto the taillights ahead.
"You alright, boy?" Vargas asked, his voice low and steady, cutting through the hum of the engine without taking his eyes off the dark road.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice tighter than I intended.
Vargas didn't press it. He tapped the indicator stalk, though he didn't need to. The executive’s sedan had just slowed down significantly, its brake lights flaring red against the damp tree trunks. We were approaching the old county line, where the paved road deteriorated into an unpaved service road bordered by rusted cattle gates and tall weeds. The sedan's tires crunched audibly over loose gravel as it turned down toward the abandoned boat slip on the edge of the reservoir.
Vargas immediately reached down and clicked the dashboard switch, plunging our SUV into sudden, absolute darkness. The headlights died, leaving us guided only by the pale, slate-gray light filtering down through the thick canopy overhead. The sudden lack of illumination made the interior of the cabin feel smaller, tighter. I instinctively braced my hand against the passenger door handle as Vargas eased our vehicle off the shoulder, cutting the engine entirely and letting us coast silently fifty yards behind the trailing dust cloud.
The sedan rolled to a stop near the edge of the weed-choked concrete ramp where boats used to launch before the county condemned the property a decade ago. Its engine died, and a moment later, the driver’s side door creaked open. A tall man in a tailored dark overcoat stepped out, his shoes crunching against the gravel as he adjusted his collar against the damp evening air.
May you like
We sat in the suffocating quiet, watching him pace back and forth near the rotting timbers of the old boathouse, checking his watch while the mist settled heavier over the black water of the slip.
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