Blood Echoes by Thomas H. Cook

to him that he might be just as expendable to them as the Aldays, and because of that, he labored as best he could to keep his self-control.
    Meanwhile, through the long aimless night following the murders, Carl and Wayne jabbered incessantly as the stolen green Caprice crossed and recrossed the Georgia-Alabama line, before, without any stated reason or explanation, Carl suddenly veered it westward into Mississippi.
    Nor had these ramblings been uneventful. Just on the western out-skirts of Jackson, as they had found themselves cruising along a deserted two-lane blacktop road, they’d seen a car approach, slowing as it neared them.
    As it drew closer, they could see that it was a Mississippi State Patrol car. Carl continued driving, staring straight ahead until the two cars passed. Then, from the rearview mirror, he could see the patrol car come to a sudden brake-slamming halt, then make a hard doughnut turn in the middle of the road.
    â€œThey spotted us,” Carl said to Wayne who sat, as always, in the shotgun position of the front seat.
    Billy and George, both still drowsy with the long ride, straightened up immediately, their eyes darting toward the rear where they could see the patrol car closing in behind them, its lights flashing.
    Wayne glared at Carl. “What are you going to do?”
    Carl slammed his foot on the accelerator. “Let me know the first road you see coming up on the right side,” he said grimly.
    It came up only a few minutes later, a dirt driveway that led up to a rickety, unpainted wooden house. Just behind them, the patrol car had disappeared behind a curve in the road just long enough for Carl to make a hard, brutal turn into the drive, skidding wildly as the back tires spun to the left, lifting clouds of grit and dust as they churned up the dark driveway before coming to a stop.
    Once the car slid to a halt, Carl and Wayne leaped out and took up positions behind it, their guns already leveled at the driveway, while Billy and George hunkered down, cowering together in the back seat, both too petrified to leave the car.
    Seconds later the patrol car sped by, its siren blaring as it raced past the driveway before disappearing entirely into the night.
    Carl lowered the shotgun and laughed. “That’s one lucky bastard,” he told Wayne.
    Only a short time later, still vaguely heading west, the green Caprice pulled into yet another small Mississippi town. As it approached a four way stop, the men inside saw a police car edge its way into the intersection. Glancing to the right, they saw a second patrol car ease into the intersection, then to the left, a third.
    Genius was hardly required for Carl and the others to suspect that more than mere coincidence was necessary to explain such a sudden convergence of law enforcement on a single, isolated intersection.
    In the complete silence that fell inside the Caprice as it continued to roll toward the intersection, Billy and George remained in the back seat, sitting motionlessly while waiting to see what Carl and Wayne would do.
    In the front seat, neither of the two men discussed the issue. Instead, they sat stiffly and silently, staring straight ahead as Carl gently pressed down on the accelerator and let the car cruise smoothly through the intersection.
    Any relief that might have swept through the shadowy interior of P. C. Mincus’s Chevy as it glided through the intersection was to be short-lived. For in a gesture fully characteristic of the reckless bravado with which Carl attempted to live out his fantasies of outlaw grandeur, he suddenly punched the accelerator, cut the wheels to the right, and careened so violently around a nearby corner that the car had gone up on two wheels for an instant before slamming back down on the hard pavement once again.
    From the back window, a thunderstruck Billy and George could see one of the patrol cars jerking forward and backward as it struggled to maneuver itself out of the narrow