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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 49 из 160And why was I tagging along? Did I just want to prove to myself that it was him, the him, that he was out here prowling and I was not crazy? And if I was not crazy-how had I known? What was going on in my brain? Perhaps crazy would be a happier solutionafter all.
An old man shuffled in front of my car, crossing the street with incredibly slow and painful steps. For a moment I watched him, marveling at what life must be like when you moved that slow, and then I glanced ahead at the refrigerator truck.
His light had turned green. Mine had not.
The truck accelerated quickly, moving north at the upper end of the speed limit, taillights growing smaller as I watched, waiting for my light to change.
Which it refused to do. And so grinding my teeth-steady, Dex!-I ran the light, narrowly missing the old man. He didn't look up or break step.
The speed limit on this stretch of Biscayne Boulevard was thirty-five. In Miami that means if you go under fifty they will run you off the road. I pushed up to sixty-five, moving through the sparse traffic, desperate now to close the distance. The lights of the truck winked out as he went around a curve-or had he turned? I moved up to seventy-five and roared past the turn for the 79th Street Causeway, around the bend by the Publix Market, and into the straightaway, searching frantically for the truck.
And saw it. There-ahead of me-
Moving toward me.
The bastard had doubled back. Did he feel me on his tail? Smell my exhaust drifting up on him? No matter-it was him, the same truck, no question, and as I raced past him he turned out onto the causeway.
I squealed into a mall parking lot and slowed, turning the car and accelerating back out onto Biscayne Boulevard, southbound now. Less than a block and I turned onto the causeway, too. Far, far in front, nearly to the first bridge, I saw the small red lights, winking, mocking me. My foot crashed down on the gas pedal and I charged ahead.
He was on the up-slope of the bridge now, picking up speed, keeping the distance steady between us. Which meant he must know, must realize somebody was following. I pushed my car a little harder; I got closer, little by little, a few lengths closer.
And then he was gone, over the hump at the top of the bridge and down the far side, heading much too fast into North Bay Village. It was a heavily patrolled area. If he went too fast he would be seen and pulled over. And then-
I was up the bridge and onto the hump now and below me-
Nothing.
Empty road.
I slowed, looking in all directions from the vantage point at the top of the bridge. A car moved toward me-not the truck, just a Mercury Marquis with one smashed fender. I started down the far side of the bridge.
An old man shuffled in front of my car, crossing the street with incredibly slow and painful steps. For a moment I watched him, marveling at what life must be like when you moved that slow, and then I glanced ahead at the refrigerator truck.
His light had turned green. Mine had not.
The truck accelerated quickly, moving north at the upper end of the speed limit, taillights growing smaller as I watched, waiting for my light to change.
Which it refused to do. And so grinding my teeth-steady, Dex!-I ran the light, narrowly missing the old man. He didn't look up or break step.
The speed limit on this stretch of Biscayne Boulevard was thirty-five. In Miami that means if you go under fifty they will run you off the road. I pushed up to sixty-five, moving through the sparse traffic, desperate now to close the distance. The lights of the truck winked out as he went around a curve-or had he turned? I moved up to seventy-five and roared past the turn for the 79th Street Causeway, around the bend by the Publix Market, and into the straightaway, searching frantically for the truck.
And saw it. There-ahead of me-
Moving toward me.
The bastard had doubled back. Did he feel me on his tail? Smell my exhaust drifting up on him? No matter-it was him, the same truck, no question, and as I raced past him he turned out onto the causeway.
I squealed into a mall parking lot and slowed, turning the car and accelerating back out onto Biscayne Boulevard, southbound now. Less than a block and I turned onto the causeway, too. Far, far in front, nearly to the first bridge, I saw the small red lights, winking, mocking me. My foot crashed down on the gas pedal and I charged ahead.
He was on the up-slope of the bridge now, picking up speed, keeping the distance steady between us. Which meant he must know, must realize somebody was following. I pushed my car a little harder; I got closer, little by little, a few lengths closer.
And then he was gone, over the hump at the top of the bridge and down the far side, heading much too fast into North Bay Village. It was a heavily patrolled area. If he went too fast he would be seen and pulled over. And then-
I was up the bridge and onto the hump now and below me-
Nothing.
Empty road.
I slowed, looking in all directions from the vantage point at the top of the bridge. A car moved toward me-not the truck, just a Mercury Marquis with one smashed fender. I started down the far side of the bridge.