Driven Page 4

  Suddenly, unable to contain his emotions, Gavin let out a sustained yell. How could God have allowed this to happen to Grampa and those others? In his rage, Gavin almost kicked over the tombstone, but caught himself. No. He needed to leave this place and focus his anger in the right direction. He needed to get to headquarters and check his messages. Maybe Rogers had called. If not, Gavin needed to get in touch with Detective Chris Grella, who had been on vacation for the last couple of weeks. Chris was Nassau County’s answer for Brooklyn’s Detective Rogers. Unless the accident was related to a previous case that belonged to another detective, it automatically became Chris’s case and Chris was an old friend Gavin had had the good fortune to be paired up with in his patrol-car days.

  Chris would have info, and Gavin couldn’t wait to pick his brain.

  7

  Oooooh, yeahhh! Punch it, baby! punch it!” the girl screamed, a beer in her right hand and a burning joint in her left.

  Krogan held the Camaro Z28’s leather steering wheel lightly, as if he wasn’t really flying down Shore Road at 120 miles per hour. He glanced at the car’s owner in the seat beside him. The girl with a gold star earring the size of a quarter rocked back and forth to the loud, heavy-metal beat pounding through the cloudy, air-conditioned interior. The music reverberated in Krogan’s flesh.

  As always, the one from his vision had already started drinking by the time they’d met in the flesh. He’d found the waitress already in her car, leaving the restaurant’s parking lot. The nametag on the casual uniform shirt she’d been wearing when he first greeted her with the word shadahd had read “Lori,” but as usual he had known her from another time and by another name.

  As drunk as he was, he still recalled vividly the last time he’d partied with this one. She’d looked completely different then and even spoken a different language, but he knew for certain she was the same. He also recalled, just as vividly, knowing her in other times and other places—many times, each with a different face but only one name: Naphal. Krogan knew the next time they had a date she would be different again… but the same.

  He nonchalantly crushed the brake pedal to the floor and eased the steering wheel fractionally to the right, sending the midnight-blue sports car into a screeching, tire-smoking skid. The speedometer plummeted to zero and the car slid sideways to a halt perfectly in line with the driveway entrance to the Hempstead Harbor Town Dock and Marina. When Krogan punched the gas pedal again, the car momentarily vibrated in place until the spinning wheels finally caught on the hot blacktop, propelling them into the parking lot and announcing their arrival with a loud squeal and reeking smoke.

  Krogan reached behind his seat and found another cold can of cheap beer, which he immediately opened and guzzled. He opened the window, tossed the empty can, belched loudly, and nailed the gas pedal again, driving to the rear of the parking lot and stopping in front of the pier. He turned the ignition off but left the key in the auxiliary position so the music could continue to blast.

  “AC’s not working,” Naphal said, staring at the vents with narrowed, bloodshot eyes.

  Krogan shut the fan off. Without the engine running the compressor, the air conditioner couldn’t create cold air and the car was quickly getting hot and stuffy. He reopened his tinted window a couple of inches to let some of the smoke out, but not enough for anyone to see him. He didn’t care about the lack of air in the car as much as he wanted to keep the front window from hazing up. He needed a good view for the night’s grand finale.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered.

  He popped open another frosty beer and poured it over her head and onto her shirt. “How ’bout now?” he growled.

  Naphal looked down at her drenched T-shirt. The cold beer was raising goose bumps on her wet arms. She smiled. “Much better,” she slurred, then took a long hit on the burning joint.

  “Oooh! Now it’s cold,” she said, stretching her arms to the ceiling.

  Unwilling to be distracted from his primary objective, Krogan glanced back through the windshield to assess the view. Half the crimson sun had already sunk behind the trees that lined the hillside on the other side of the harbor. Along a fishing pier that jutted out from the parking lot, a few fishermen were making the most of the early evening sunlight. There was no sign of the boat.

  He returned his attention to Naphal. She was rocking erratically to the high-powered music, out of step with the beat. Or maybe he was. Whatever. They had been drinking, smoking pot, and driving wildly for the last hour or so. Normally he would have treated himself to her, but tonight he wanted to keep a watchful eye on the bay. If the Morgan forty-one was on its usual schedule, the real fun would be starting any minute.

  He took the shrinking joint from Naphal and fixed it into a small lobster claw, took a drag, then passed it back to her.

  “Cool,” she said, examining the claw with red eyes. She took another long hit, then passed it back.

  Krogan sucked loudly on the last smoldering remains, then placed the claw into the ashtray, all the while looking through the rapidly clouding window before him. Naphal coughed spasmodically, her lungs unable to hold the smoke down any longer. Still coughing, she turned and reached behind the seat for another beer. As she rotated back around she paused to look at a tattoo on Krogan’s left shoulder. It read, “LOVE HATE, HATE LOVE.”

  “I like,” she said, then slowly leaned over and kissed the dark-green letters on his shoulder. “Mmmm, you’re tasty. Where did you find this body?”

  Krogan leaned back against the headrest and grabbed her hair, pulling her toward him, but then saw the silhouette of a large boat with its sails down, motoring home across the horizon. He pulled off his sunglasses, squinted, then wiped at the fogged windshield with his left hand. There it was. He reached for the ignition key, absently pushing the girl’s head away, and started the engine.

  “Hey!” Naphal said.

  “Shadahd,” Krogan said in a deep, lusty voice. The sound of the word leaving his lips generated its own energy within him, just as it always had and always would.

  “Shadahd!” Naphal responded with a sudden enchantment, then pulled the seat belt across herself and buckled it.

  Krogan also buckled his seat belt, then looked out the front window with a cold, focused stare. His timing would have to be perfect. But of course it would be. Beside him, the girl lifted her beer and guzzled it down, then rocked aggressively to the driving riff of a lead guitar.

  The sailboat began to slow as it approached the entrance to the marina just beyond the fishing pier. As Krogan watched them, a shadow moved briefly across his view. He looked up to see an ultralight plane flying overhead. He’d seen it before. Its graceful design, colorful fabric wings, and curious flying ability were wasted on him, though; as far as he was concerned, the man was a nuisance, tying up traffic on the boat ramp and attracting the attention of boaters that should be getting out of his way. Perhaps someday soon he would deal with that idiot, too.

  He returned his attention to the boat. It was time. He shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. The rear wheels screamed in search of traction, then grabbed. As they began to move Krogan slipped his hand over and unbuckled the girl’s seat belt. The recoiling strap caught her under the arm.

  “Hey!” she said. “What are you doing?” She tried to rebuckle, but the strap had locked and she would have to let it finish recoiling before she could try again.

  The car blazed across the parking lot toward the pier. Those who had been fishing were now turning their heads. Krogan laughed as he saw their eyes widen. The Camaro’s undercarriage sparked as the car hit the pier’s entrance ramp. The fishermen dropped their poles and scrambled to get over the railing they had been leaning on. With one exception, they all jumped into the water a dozen feet below. A fat one, though, was having trouble climbing over the rail. Krogan veered slightly to give him a little help. The man had managed to get his left leg over the rail. With a loud, sickening wha
ck, the car hit his right leg as the heavy fisherman lifted it, spinning him like a giant human Frisbee into the air, his leg unnaturally loose as he twirled.

  The sailboat had just started passing by the dock about sixty-five feet out. The speeding car crashed through the railing like a sledgehammer hurled through a window, exploding the old wooden barrier into splinters and continuing on virtually unhindered.

  “Shadahd!” Krogan yelled fiercely as the car flew silently through the air. With the sun glaring directly into the windshield, he couldn’t see his intended victims very well with his natural eyes, but he saw them with perfect clarity in his mind. Experience had taught him to trust and enjoy the vision as it came. At first, he saw the moron sailor continuing to steer the doomed vessel as if he hadn’t yet connected the inevitable. He had turned his head to see where the loud noise had come from and had not immediately recognized the approaching flying mass as being a car, or even as being out of place. In quick succession his blank expression gave way to surprise, shock, and finally terror. Krogan experienced a wave of delight as he saw the fear grab hold of the man, crippling his ability to respond logically—further proof his prey was worthless. Without good enough reflexes to escape, the man would now have only enough time to see his life flash rapidly before him.

  Halfway to his target Krogan’s focus shifted to the man’s Asian-looking companion. She also had responded in frozen disbelief, gripping a nearby handrail tightly. Krogan could hear her thoughts, taste her confusion.

  In the final moment before impact, Krogan lapsed into that familiar experience, a dimension that momentarily filled his being with euphoric satisfaction—a place where time slowed and consciousness soared. A dreamlike but acute awareness of previous crashes flooded his mind. Crashes that made him feel the immortal warrior he was.

  He glanced at Naphal. She had given up on the seat belt. Both her palms were pressed against the dashboard to keep her upright in her seat as the front of the car tilted downward. Her face was relaxed and her stare trancelike. He knew she was experiencing the same acute ultradimensional reality he was.

  The front of the car had just cleared the side of the boat. The moron’s shocked, gasping face was suddenly clearly visible as the edge of the hood caught him under the chin. In his near-timeless state, Krogan savored a rush of violent hilarity as the man’s head appeared to sit on the front of the hood like an ornament before disappearing downward into the grill.

  Cracks formed in the center of the steering wheel and then opened, giving birth to the airbag, unfolding like a time-lapsed blooming flower before him. The silence fled with a rush of thunder. Naphal’s arms buckled into the dashboard as she left her seat. The top of her head touched the sunlit windshield, creating bright striking lines of light in it before breaking through a hole that became larger as her shoulders passed through. With a final jarring, wrenching explosion of sound, the car slammed into the boat.

  Silence returned as the car and boat rocked to and fro. The airbag deflated, having done its job. After a moment of stunned reaction, Krogan wearily unbuckled his seat belt. It was once again time to leave.

  8

  Gavin drew the attention of the crowd of onlookers as he screeched to a stop in the Hempstead Harbor Marina parking lot and hurried from his car. When he’d heard the news of the crash he’d turned what should have been an hour-and-thirty-minute drive into fifty-five minutes.

  Before the crash at the aquarium he had paid little attention to auto accident calls. But for the last two weeks he’d been listening carefully for them. Within moments of hearing this one he’d found himself shaking with anticipation. According to reports, the driver had mysteriously disappeared from a horrific, bizarre collision.

  Gavin’s pace was just short of a run as he swept under the yellow tape barrier that stayed the growing crowd. At his left were two ambulances with doors open and lights flashing. He wondered if there were any survivors—someone to make a connection back to the driver. He turned toward the water and stopped, his mind unable to take in what lay before him. The bizarre sight was eerily reminiscent of the monster truck spearing the viewing window of the holding tank. With a sweaty hand he tried to swipe what felt like icy-cold ants crawling up the back of his neck, then shuddered as the goose bumps continued down his spine.

  As he watched a Marine Patrol boat struggle to bring in the sailboat with its unwelcome cargo, Gavin’s hatred of the driver could not keep him from marveling. If the driver had actually been trying to hit the boat while it was in motion… what a shot. Was it just dumb luck, or was there actually skill involved? But how could there be skill involved? Even skill requires a certain amount of practice. How often could you practice driving your car off a dock into a moving sailboat? It had to be dumb luck.

  The crime scene operation was in full swing. Gavin marched up to a uniform cop trying to keep unwanted traffic away.

  “What you got?” he asked, his shield hanging in plain view from his sports jacket pocket.

  The cop motioned toward the marina. “We’re searching the boat slips. If the driver’s still alive and his body didn’t get dragged out with the tide, it’s the most likely place he’d be. The boats coming up the boat ramp are also being searched. Crime Scene’s waiting at the dock for the Marine Unit to get the boat in. They’ve been having a rough time maneuvering that thing. Guess that’s why you don’t see too many sailboat car ferries. They tried pushin’ it, then pullin’ it, and now they’re tryin’ to tie up side by side and get it to the ramp dock.”

  Gavin looked at the floating ramp next to the boat ramp. On it were a team of forensic techs and print specialists watching the awkward rig being slowly brought to them.

  “Their hopes of an undisturbed scene is shot to blazes on this one,” the cop said.

  “Anyone see the driver?” Gavin asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Maybe she did,” the cop said, motioning to a stretcher being rushed up the boat ramp. “The patrol boat pulled her out first thing.”

  As the stretcher passed by, the uniform cop told Gavin the identity of the girl on the gurney was still unknown. She had apparently been thrown and was found unconscious. Her body was badly scratched and bruised and her head was strapped into place on the gurney. Her bruised and swollen face couldn’t hide her Asian heritage. Gavin’s eyes followed her to the ambulance. He hoped she made it. Maybe she could shed some light on who this maniac was. Any information from her would have to wait, though. As soon as the van’s doors closed the ambulance sped out of the parking lot, lights flashing and siren wailing.

  “Any other survivors?”

  The cop closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not good news. The man at the helm lost his head.”

  “Literally?”

  The cop nodded. “Yup, his neck was crushed by the bumper. The head’s still missing. The girl in the car is dead, too. She might’ve survived if she’d been wearing her seat belt. They found it unbuckled and under her armpit. Looks as though she was trying to put it on.”

  Gavin frowned and looked in the direction of the wreck. “Or release it.”

  The cop’s eyebrows raised. “Suicide?”

  Gavin didn’t answer. He wasn’t thinking suicide. “Any ID?”

  “I don’t know. There was a handbag on the floor under a pile of beer cans, but we didn’t disturb it. Oh, there’s something else. On the beach there’s a guy in some kind of homemade seaplane. He saw the crash from the air but, like everyone else, didn’t see the driver leave. We’ve asked him to wait until the boats get out first; seems it takes him a while to break down his craft.”

  Gavin turned toward the beach and saw the seaplane the cop was speaking of. It looked more like a big kite than a plane. The pilot was kicked back in one of the craft’s two seats, arms folded, watching the Marine Patrol recover the sailboat.

  Gavin’s attention detoured to an unmarked car that had stopped just behind the perimeter tape. He could see Detective Chris Grella through the windshield. Finally! Maybe
now he could get some answers. Chris had been on vacation for two of the longest weeks in Gavin’s life and Gavin was glad to see him back. The man was a good friend and a good cop. A hard worker, too, running his own business of emptying construction-site Dumpsters when he wasn’t on duty. Gavin didn’t know how his friend functioned on the little sleep he got, but Chris was always alert and chipper, a devoted friend who came to Gavin’s aid without hesitation whenever the need arose.

  “Hey, Gav! What are you doing here?” Chris said with a smile as he got out of the car.

  “When did you get back?” Gavin said, figuring Chris would not have asked that question if he’d heard about the aquarium crash and Grampa’s death. Chris knew how close Gavin was to Grampa.

  “Just this morning,” he said as his gaze wandered past Gavin to the shoreline. Gavin watched Chris’s jaw drop. “Good grief! What happened?”

  “Who happened might be more like it.”

  Chris turned back to Gavin. “An EDP?”

  “No!” Gavin shot back. He didn’t want the killer classified as an Emotionally Disturbed Person. An EDP would officially require more sensitivity and understanding than Gavin was willing to give. They were looked upon as extremely dangerous and unpredictable, while at the same time insane enough to escape responsibility for their actions. As far as Gavin was concerned, this psycho was going to pay with his life.

  “What was he on? Missile fuel?”

  “That and beer. There’re cans all over the car.”

  “I hope one of ’em’s cold,” Chris replied.

  Normally Gavin might have followed up that smart remark with one of his own. But the likelihood that this was the same lunatic who had killed his grandfather had sucked the life from what little sense of humor he had.