The tires spun a little as Nolan slipped onto the highway. He gripped the wheel and let off the gas. The sleek pony car seemed to protest the driver like an unbroken horse. It felt wrong driving his father’s car, but it also felt so right. The dormant power of the car made his heart race. He could imagine the whistle of the turbo when it engaged. If he wasn’t careful, that power could get away from him on the wet pavement.

  Nolan turned his focus to choosing a way out of town by which he was least likely to encounter sheriff’s deputies. Or Tara. Nolan switched off the headlights and blinked his weary eyes.

  He felt a pang of guilt over leaving her stranded in the rain. But she had lied to him. Of all the cracks in his relationship with his father, it was the man’s lies that drove them apart. The old lines of “it’s for your protection” or “you wouldn’t understand the truth” got old fast. On one hand, his father had treated him like a child, but on the other, like a hardened soldier.

  Nolan glanced at the speedometer and swore. He was getting distracted and would surely be caught. As the sleek Buick slid along the dark streets, Nolan turned the power knob on the police scanner mounted below the ashtray. He dialed it in and listened for information about the deputies’ whereabouts.

  The series of back streets he was taking used to be the main street in town. Before the college, the hospital, and a string of factories crammed in the ‘Industrial Park’. Now they were just narrow alleys the street sweeper never graced. They were dark, seldom used and, apart from the occasional overturned trash can, hazard free.

  Up ahead, he saw the backside of one of those Dollar Store iterations. His turn was just beyond that building. With a little luck, he could dash onto the old logging road and be racing up the mountain before anyone knew he was gone. The weight of his situation hit him as he crept along the dark streets. He had fled from custody, impersonated a medical doctor, broken into two places, and shot a sheriff’s deputy. All in about three hours. News of Nikki’s death had stunned him. Put his brain on a kind of autopilot. Instead of grieving for his friend, his rational mind had retreated. The part of his mind trained to act had eagerly taken over. His father would be proud.

  Nolan clenched his jaw and his hands ground the rubber of the steering wheel. In his fuming, he almost missed the ugly tan-colored 2010 Crown Victoria nestled beneath a tree at the end of a short cul-de-sac. He had seen the car in his periphery and didn’t turn for a better look. Instead, he let the part of his brain he was about to scold take over again.

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  Nolan spooled down the front windows a crack and took the next right-hand turn. He heard tires crunching on gravel and the V8 of the Crown Vic churn. Nolan mashed the accelerator.

  The Grand National’s rear tires spun on the wet pavement for just a second before the limited slip differential and the wider Michelin Power Sport tires surged the car forward. Blue lights shattered the night behind him, but Nolan didn’t look back.

  Another cruiser, an Impala Interceptor, driven by a city police officer, slid onto the street ahead of him. More blue lights blazed as the Impala sped toward him.

  Nolan calculated their plan in less than a second and whipped the Buick in a tight turn down a street to the right. The turbo whistled as the Grand National sped down the tiny street. He made another right turn as the Impala turned onto the street he was leaving, the Crown Vic right behind.

  Gripping the wheel tightly, Nolan slipped his left foot on the brake and applied pressure while he continued to accelerate. Just as his pursuers appeared behind him, he braked harder and made a treacherous turn. As the Grand National skidded, Nolan came off the brake and accelerated, spinning tires to power him out of the turn.

  There was a roadblock ahead, Nolan knew. That’s why these cops were herding him toward the highway. His third right turn put him heading the direction he wanted to go, with more than a block between him and his pursuers. The turbo screamed as Nolan mashed on the gas. Instead of turning onto the highway that lead out of town, Nolan blew through the intersection at the highway and blasted across onto another side street.

  Nolan killed his headlights and manually downshifted the Buick to slow down. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Impala slide onto the highway, followed by the Crown Vic, and both sped west. Once the cars were gone, he braked to a halt and released a long-held breath. He rolled his window down fully and listened for sirens. They hadn’t used them when the chase began, but now he heard them fading into the distance.

  He eased forward until he saw the next cross street. Briar St. He eased onto the street and followed it until he came to a stop sign. Widowmaker Hill Road read the cross street sign. It would adopt a state-assigned number and name designation once he was out of town, but he knew it was the pass up Klack Mountain.

  Nolan cycled a deep breath and pulled onto Widowmaker Hill Road and began his ascent.

  Had Nolan not spooled up his windows, or let thoughts of self loathing distract him, he might have seen the sleek blue Nissan 370Z pull onto the road behind him.