Caught You (A Rylie Wolf FBI Suspense Thriller—Book Two)

CHAPTER ONE Lila Garrity left the Bozeman Trail Steakhouse in Buffalo, Wyoming, at a little after closing time, headed for Interstate 86, the Highway Thru Hell. It had been a long night, waiting tables, all for less than thirty bucks in tips. Her ego hurt just as much as her feet. Forcing those thoughts away, she pulled out of the parking lot onto the mostly empty streets of downtown Buffalo. She had to get to her place in Sheridan, about sixty miles down Interstate 86. Her husband and her puppies were waiting for her. Of course, Bronco and Cowboy weren’t really puppies anymore. They were full-grown Great Danes, almost as big as she was. That wasn’t saying much, since Lisa was petite in every way; but for a dog, that was some feat. And her boys wanted to go hiking in the Bighorn Mountains tomorrow morning. She’d always been a pushover where they were concerned. As she drove her old Chevy Silverado past the closed-down Hardee’s and the Quik-Mart gas station, her phone began to ring. It was her husband of five years, Sheridan’s best mechanic, Ace Garrity. “Hey, Ace,” she said when she picked up. “I’m out of that hellhole. Finally.” “Well, it’s about time. It’s almost midnight. Those Yankees treat you well?” She sighed and glanced over at the cup holder, where she’d stashed the night’s tips. A bunch of big-time New Yorkers had come in for a weekend of roughing it, part of a bachelor party. Ace had joked that “roughing it,” to them, meant not having a Starbucks on every corner. That was okay—they’d infuse her home state with some tourism cash, and that was never a bad thing. But instead of giving her the big-city tips she’d expected, they’d treated it like a regular bachelor party, getting drunk and groping her and trying to stuff a couple meager dollar bills down her shirt. “I wish.” “Aw come on, you’re teasin’. How can they resist a sweet thing like you?” “Oh, believe me. They’re too stuck up for the likes of me. They throw around their money on hundred-dollar scotches, and tip me hardly nothin’. I need to get home and get a shower to get their big-city grease off me.” “It’s waiting for you, baby,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll have a nice Rattlesnake waiting for you, too. You be careful now, girl. Drive safe.” “I will.” She could practically taste the whiskey of that Wyoming Rattlesnake as she disconnected the call, just as she was driving up the ramp onto 86. She shuddered as she put her foot to the gas pedal. Though she’d been driving this route for three years, ever since she got the job waiting tables at Bozeman, it never seemed to get any easier. Especially knowing the reputation this highway had among locals. Its name, the Highway Thru Hell, was apparently very well deserved. Normally, Lila would’ve laughed. She always did, whenever people talked about creepy stuff like ghosts and urban legends. She never hid her eyes during horror movies or got the willies when she was home alone at night. And the moniker sounded overly dramatic. But for this highway? It fit. There was something about it. There had been hundreds of unsolved murders along this stretch of road, ever since it opened in 1978. Sure, it was a big stretch, since Interstate 86 went from Seattle to Eau Claire, but these parts were some of the least populated in the whole country. Even one murder in this corner of Wyoming was too many. And there had been several. A few weeks ago, it was the case of that crazy man who was stringing people up like human sacrifices, on mile posts. He’d been caught, yes, which should’ve helped her breathe easier. But it hadn’t gotten easier. The highway was never busy, especially at this time of night. The few trees that surrounded it were leafless, skeletal, like sentries, warning her to stay out. And a strange, thick haze, the kind that hovered over a cemetery in the dead of night, always seemed to hug the road, making it eerie as hell. Not to mention the full moon, hanging silent in the sky half-obscured by sinister clouds. As she accelerated up the ramp, onto the long, flat, two-laned road, she felt like the only traveler there. Not another set of headlights to be seen. Another shudder. She reached over and turned on the radio. Kenny Chesney sang “There Goes My Life.” She sang along with the words, trying to calm herself down, wondering, not for the first time, why she had to work at Bozeman. There was another steakhouse, right in Sheridan, and they’d had a Help Wanted sign in the window. Five-hundred dollar signing bonus, too, if she stayed on a full year. It’d be a five-minute commute from their trailer. She was tempted by it, every time she drove past. It was Ace who’d mentioned it, a couple weeks ago. Back then, she’d argued. “The manager at Bozeman loves me. And he’s such a sweetheart. Plus, I have seniority there. I get to pick my shifts,” she’d told him, slapping his beefy shoulder. Usually, she picked the lunch rush. But when she’d heard a big bachelor party was coming in for dinner, she’d picked this stupid night shift, hoping those high-and-mighty Yankees would give her big tips. She’d been wrong. The Big Wyoming Steakhouse in Sheridan was looking better and better, with every passing day. I should just check it out. Maybe tomorrow, after Big Horn with the puppies, I’ll stop in and get an application. Can’t hurt to just try. Decision made, she turned up the radio and started to groove to an oldie but goodie from Alan Jackson: “Don’t Rock the Jukebox.” That was when she noticed the headlights in her rearview mirror. They were miles back, though, so far away that the headlights bled together into one tiny pinpoint of light instead of two. It wasn’t alarming. This was the interstate. Of course, there would be other cars on the road. Not many, but some. She ignored it, fastening her eyes on the road and singing louder. But the next time she glanced in the mirror, the lights were much closer. Probably only a half-mile or so back. Geez, he’s really racing. Or am I going too slow? She lowered her eyes to her speed gauge. The speed limit here was 80, and she was going 90. She couldn’t push that old Chevy truck, a relic from her daddy, any faster than that, or its transmission would probably bottom out. But this crazy guy had to have been going at least 100. Maybe 110, with the way he was gaining on her. She wrapped her hands tightly around the steering wheel and forced herself to breathe normally. She was in the slow lane. She’d simply do what her daddy always told her to do: Move to the side and let the crazies wrap themselves around a tree, if they want. No skin off your nose. But then the lights filled her rearview mirror, blinding her. He was right on her tail. So close, she found herself bracing for impact. “What the hell?” she grouched, rolling down her window and sticking her hand out, motioning for him to pass. “Pass me, dude. You want an invitation?” That had no effect. The truck—she could see it was a pick-up, now, but a big one, since its headlights were shining straight into her back window—shimmied back and forth violently in the lane, but refused to pass. She let out a huff of breath. It was probably one of those damn Yanks. There were all kinds of city people, moving out here for the wide-open spaces, thinking they owned the road. Not a one of them knew how to drive. “Personal space! What are you, afraid to get in the fast lane? Jerk!” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “What the hell does he want from me?” She did just as her father had taught her. She eased off the gas and slowed a little, still motioning for him to go around her. When that didn’t work, she checked the mileposts. She was at least two miles from the next exit. Maybe if she could get there, she could pull off, and he’d go on ahead and leave her alone. Lila blinked, squinting in the bright light reflecting off her mirror, trying to see a hint of the man behind the wheel. All she could see were two thick hands, with knob-like knuckles, clutching the steering wheel. Beyond that, a large form in shadow. It could’ve been anyone. She dropped her speed even more, hoping the guy would finally get the hint. He did. He veered sharply to her left, and she let out a sigh of relief as he moved up around her bumper. This was where Ace would’ve given the guy the finger. But she knew better. Lila had read about far too many road rage cases in the news, and she didn’t want to be one of those statistics. She wanted this to end. Now. All right, all right. Just stare straight ahead as he passes. And then he can drive as fast as he wants, away from you. She clutched the steering wheel and did just that, staring at the long, dark road ahead as the truck pulled up beside her, into the passing lane. She tried to get into the beat of the music, but she couldn’t help but notice the features of the truck. It was a gray one, and fairly nice. A shame that its i***t owner will probably wreck it with his reckless driving. For some reason, though, he seemed to have trouble passing her. She slowed even more, glancing down at the speedometer. She was only going sixty, now. And so was he. Now, they were practically drag-racing, lined up together. She sped up. He matched her. She slowed down. He matched that, too. “What the . . .?” she murmured, gnawing on her lip. She was vaguely aware that the dark tinted, passenger-side window of the truck was powering down. Begging to be looked at. No you don’t, a voice inside her said. But she couldn’t help it. Reluctantly, her eyes swept left, and a strange thing happened. She immediately wished she hadn’t looked, and yet, she couldn’t stop looking. There, in the darkened cabin of the truck, was a horrific face with a leering, psychotic grin, eyes wild. At first, she thought it was a Halloween mask, that the man was trying to scare her. But the eyes were too real. Eyes that said, You’re mine. A cold frisson of fear jolted its way down her spine. A single thought planted itself in her head. Must get away. She stamped on the gas. Before she could get past him, though, she saw him suddenly throw his steering wheel to the right. There was a sickening crunch of metal, and suddenly, her car went fishtailing. She tried to correct, to stamp on the brakes, but that only made things worse. At this speed, she quickly found herself losing control, the truck misbehaving underneath her, going in ways she hadn’t intended. She found herself careening straight for the shoulder. She tried to correct again, fishtailing more, stomping on the brakes and trying to swerve back on the road, but it all happened so fast. The wheel was spinning beneath her hands, uncontrolled, and the tires underneath her squealed like a stuck pig. Everything else was a blur around her. When she regained focus, she lost gravity. She found herself airborne. Her head scraped the cab’s ceiling and the seatbelt sliced into her shoulder as she saw, with widening eyes, the gully beneath her, illuminated by the headlights. Gripping the wheel tight, she closed her eyes and braced herself. The impact was breathtaking, making every inch of her body reverberate with the shock of it. The windshield shattered, sending shards of sharp glass spraying against her skin. The sucking sound of the airbag deploying rang in her ears as in a white wave; it pushed her back against the headrest. She tasted something chalky and earthy, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The truck juddered to a stop, she heard the ding, ding, ding of something on the dashboard. Probably the damn Check Engine light, which was always on. She found herself hanging over the airbag, gravity pulling her down to it, but the seatbelt keeping her in place. She groped in the cup holder for her phone, but all she found there were a few dollar bills. Her phone was gone. She tried to shove away the airbag. The cabin was dark, save for the light of a single headlight that seemed to reflect back at her. Her vision and brain were hazy, Half-formed thoughts idling through it—I’ve been in an accident. I need help. She reached down, toward the ground, feeling along the carpeting for her cell. When she couldn’t reach, she felt the way down the canvas strap, struggling to find the button for the seatbelt release, at her hip. When she depressed it, her body gave way, falling upon the sagging airbag, drooping toward the dashboard. It allowed her a few more inches, so that her fingertips were able to scrape the carpet in search of her phone. She wasn’t thinking, at that moment, about the man with the leering grin who’d run her off the road. Well, she had been thinking that a jerk like that wouldn’t call 9-1-1, so he wasn’t worth thinking about. Damn hit-and-run driver. She certainly didn’t expect him to have pulled over to the side of the road after the collision, not far from where she’d careened off the highway. So when the door was ripped open, she’d expected someone else. A passing traveler, maybe, ready to jump into action and help her to safety. She didn’t expect the person to reach in, tangle his hand in her long hair, and tear her from her seat. Barely conscious, she felt herself being dragged into the cool air of night, then thrown unceremoniously on the hard ground. “What . . .?” she managed, her vision swimming. She saw the dark sky. She felt the hard ground. She ached. All over, she ached. She tried to roll over into a fetal position, but then he grabbed her by the hair again, tearing strands from her scalp. She yelped as he yanked her away. Up. Up the embankment, toward the highway. Lila saw the tires of the pick-up in her tilted vision. Coming closer, closer. The pain turned to numbness. Everything in her body felt swollen, especially her tongue and her head. She couldn’t bring herself to scream, or to even think of words to say. He brought her around to the back of the truck. It was a relief when he let go of her hair. She rolled over on the hard surface and stared up at the starry sky. Then he pulled something over her, closing her in. Locking it. A tonneau cover. Ace always wanted one of those for his pick-up. Then the truck started up, and the engine roared underneath her. She felt the gravel on the side of the road, pinging against the truck’s tires, and closed her eyes. She let the rhythm of the truck’s engine carry her away.