sitting right there on the counter. It’s loaded with double-ought buckshot. I’ll be back here in a few hours.”
The screen door slammed behind him and she watched him walk all the way across the yard. She liked the way he walked.
H IGHWAY 59 over toward Prairie proper was deserted in both directions. The hills and rocks and sage looked golden in the strong white light of the full moon. Franklin Dixon didn’t seem to feel much like talking so the deputy left him alone with his thoughts. Prudhomme could imagine where they were running without too much trouble. Four girls taken in the jurisdiction this month alone. Almost thirty people had been abducted along the Tex-Mex border over the past year. Four girls from Prairie alone. Vanished into thin air, every one of them. Make it five, now, most likely, with Charlotte gone.
“Pretty moon,” Franklin said after a few miles.
“Yessir, it sure is.”
“No word from that posse.”
“No, sir. Not a peep. I don’t know what in Sam Hill could have happened to ’em. They’re supposed to be back here yesterday evening.”
“I know that, Homer.”
“Sorry.”
“Taillights up yonder.”
“Semi. Yessir.”
“How fast you reckon?”
“Eighty. Eighty-five.”
“Accelerator’s the one on the right. Use it, son.”
“Bells and whistles?”
“Good Lord gave ’em to us for a reason.”
“Yessir.”
Prudhomme turned on the siren and the blue rotators and accelerated. The old Ford Crown Vic didn’t have much juice but what she did have, Homer used up pretty quickly.
“Slow down, son, you ’bout to rear end him.”
“Yessir. He’s slowing down pretty quick with those air brakes. You want me to pull him?”
“He’s a lawbreaker I believe.”
Homer hit the high beam flashers and the big truck slowed way down fast, moving toward the shoulder of the two-lane, brakes hissing.
“Sheriff, what’s your twenty?” the radio crackled.
“Hey, June. We’re on 59 and headed in. Deputy Prudhomme told me about Charlotte. You know, I just—hold on a sec, June—what the heck is this big fella doing here, Homer?”
“Beats tar out of me, he just wants to play, I guess.”
The big truck seemed to have changed its mind. It lurched along the shoulder and all of a sudden roared back up on to the blacktop and started accelerating down the middle of the road. Deputy Prudhomme stayed on his tail for a moment or two and then the gap started widening. You had to wonder what he had under the hood.
“He’s doing more’n a hundred, Sheriff. Company puts governors on them rigs, I thought.”
“Pull up alongside and move him gently over into his proper lane.”
“Yessir,” Homer Prudhomme said, and mashed the go pedal. But just as he was about to pull even with the cab, crowding him, the truck’s engine emitted a high-pitched whine and the whole rig leapt forward again, going much, much faster. The big red taillights diminished to pinpricks on the horizon in seconds.
“Well, I’ll be,” Franklin said, moving his head side to side in disbelief. “You hear that whine? Superchargers.”
“He has to be doing near a hundred forty miles an hour, Sheriff.”
“Trucks can’t go that fast.”
“Well. I dunno. This one can. We’ve lost him.”
“Ain’t lost one yet and don’t plan to start. Stay with him, boy. Do the best you can.”
“Yessir.”
“June? You still on the air?”
“Right here, Sheriff.”
“Listen, we got a race-car driver in a souped-up tractor rig out here headed south on 59. Bright red, white, and blue Peterbilt cab with a big red baseball bat painted on the trailer’s side. Some outfit called ‘Yankee Slugger.’ Never heard of ’em. Rolling fast toward the border. Get Wyatt to send a couple cars out to the intersection, will you please. Block the road and—now, what’s he doing?”
“He stopped up there on the hill,” Prudhomme said.
“June, I’m going to have to call you back. We got to go see about this
The screen door slammed behind him and she watched him walk all the way across the yard. She liked the way he walked.
H IGHWAY 59 over toward Prairie proper was deserted in both directions. The hills and rocks and sage looked golden in the strong white light of the full moon. Franklin Dixon didn’t seem to feel much like talking so the deputy left him alone with his thoughts. Prudhomme could imagine where they were running without too much trouble. Four girls taken in the jurisdiction this month alone. Almost thirty people had been abducted along the Tex-Mex border over the past year. Four girls from Prairie alone. Vanished into thin air, every one of them. Make it five, now, most likely, with Charlotte gone.
“Pretty moon,” Franklin said after a few miles.
“Yessir, it sure is.”
“No word from that posse.”
“No, sir. Not a peep. I don’t know what in Sam Hill could have happened to ’em. They’re supposed to be back here yesterday evening.”
“I know that, Homer.”
“Sorry.”
“Taillights up yonder.”
“Semi. Yessir.”
“How fast you reckon?”
“Eighty. Eighty-five.”
“Accelerator’s the one on the right. Use it, son.”
“Bells and whistles?”
“Good Lord gave ’em to us for a reason.”
“Yessir.”
Prudhomme turned on the siren and the blue rotators and accelerated. The old Ford Crown Vic didn’t have much juice but what she did have, Homer used up pretty quickly.
“Slow down, son, you ’bout to rear end him.”
“Yessir. He’s slowing down pretty quick with those air brakes. You want me to pull him?”
“He’s a lawbreaker I believe.”
Homer hit the high beam flashers and the big truck slowed way down fast, moving toward the shoulder of the two-lane, brakes hissing.
“Sheriff, what’s your twenty?” the radio crackled.
“Hey, June. We’re on 59 and headed in. Deputy Prudhomme told me about Charlotte. You know, I just—hold on a sec, June—what the heck is this big fella doing here, Homer?”
“Beats tar out of me, he just wants to play, I guess.”
The big truck seemed to have changed its mind. It lurched along the shoulder and all of a sudden roared back up on to the blacktop and started accelerating down the middle of the road. Deputy Prudhomme stayed on his tail for a moment or two and then the gap started widening. You had to wonder what he had under the hood.
“He’s doing more’n a hundred, Sheriff. Company puts governors on them rigs, I thought.”
“Pull up alongside and move him gently over into his proper lane.”
“Yessir,” Homer Prudhomme said, and mashed the go pedal. But just as he was about to pull even with the cab, crowding him, the truck’s engine emitted a high-pitched whine and the whole rig leapt forward again, going much, much faster. The big red taillights diminished to pinpricks on the horizon in seconds.
“Well, I’ll be,” Franklin said, moving his head side to side in disbelief. “You hear that whine? Superchargers.”
“He has to be doing near a hundred forty miles an hour, Sheriff.”
“Trucks can’t go that fast.”
“Well. I dunno. This one can. We’ve lost him.”
“Ain’t lost one yet and don’t plan to start. Stay with him, boy. Do the best you can.”
“Yessir.”
“June? You still on the air?”
“Right here, Sheriff.”
“Listen, we got a race-car driver in a souped-up tractor rig out here headed south on 59. Bright red, white, and blue Peterbilt cab with a big red baseball bat painted on the trailer’s side. Some outfit called ‘Yankee Slugger.’ Never heard of ’em. Rolling fast toward the border. Get Wyatt to send a couple cars out to the intersection, will you please. Block the road and—now, what’s he doing?”
“He stopped up there on the hill,” Prudhomme said.
“June, I’m going to have to call you back. We got to go see about this
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