Chapter 4 - The Junction at Highway 4
The rain began just south of Chehalis, a thick, gray curtain that turned the evergreens along Interstate 5 into ghostly silhouettes. The digital display on Brennan’s dashboard showed the tablet's signal flickering, the battery warning icon flashing red. Madison’s device was down to seven percent.
"We’re losing the ping," Brennan said, his hands steady on the wheel but his eyes darting to the map overlay. "The last handoff was five minutes ago near the Toutle River bridge. They’ve slowed down to sixty, probably because of the visibility."
"They're preparing for the turn," Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Watch the signs for Exit 39. That’s the Longview junction. If he stays straight toward Portland, we can get the state patrol to flag him at the state line. If he goes right, he’s heading into the hills along the river, and there’s no cell service out there for thirty miles."
"Come on, Maddy," Brennan muttered under his breath. "Keep that thing alive for two more minutes."
As if answering his prayer, the screen flashed. The blue dot moved off the main blue line of the interstate, curving sharply to the west onto a secondary road marked in thin gray thread: State Route 4.
"He took the river road," Brennan said, swinging the Tesla into the right lane, bypassing three semi-trucks with a sudden, silent burst of speed that pressed Arthur back into his leather seat. "He’s trying to disappear into Wahkiakum County."
"It’s an old logging route," Arthur said, his memory of Washington state topography pulling up details from a three-week shoot he’d done back in '88 for an action movie involving a log-flume chase. "The road follows the northern bank of the Columbia. Lots of tight corners, lots of blind drops, and the shoulders are nothing but mud and river rock this time of year. If he’s driving a standard SUV, he’s going to have to slow way down."
"What’s he driving?" Brennan asked.
"A grey Lincoln Navigator," Arthur recalled. "Rental plates. I noticed them last night when they parked behind my truck. It’s got a heavy wheelbase, but it’s top-heavy. In this weather, he’s going to be fighting the hydroplaning every time he hits a puddle."
They made the turn onto Highway 4 ten into the chase. The landscape changed instantly, the wide four-lane comfort of the interstate giving way to a narrow, two-lane ribbon of asphalt hemmed in by steep, rock-strewn hillsides on the right and the wide, dark expanse of the Columbia River on the left. The rain was heavier here, coming off the water in sheets that threatened to overwhelm the wipers.
"The signal is gone," Brennan announced, the map screen suddenly graying out over the Castle Rock sector. "Tablet's dead. We’re blind, Dad."
"We don't need the signal," Arthur said, reaching down to adjust the passenger side mirror. "Look at the tracks on the asphalt. The rain’s coming down hard, but the water hasn't filled the tire grooves in the mud on the right shoulder yet. See that? Someone took that last bend too wide and kicked up the gravel."
Brennan slowed the car slightly, his headlights catching the fresh, jagged white stones scattered across the dark wet asphalt of the lane. "That’s a big vehicle. A wide track."
"That’s him," Arthur said. "He’s rushing. He knows we’re behind him, or he knows the bank is about to flag the wire transfer. Keep it at sixty, Brennan. Don't flash your high beams. If he sees an electric car in his rearview, he’ll know it’s you."
They drove in silence for another twelve miles, the road twisting deeper into the timber country. The river on their left was wide and slate-gray, its surface broken by whitecaps from the rising wind. It felt like the edge of the world, the kind of place where a man with a million dollars could slip onto a fishing boat and disappear into the Pacific shipping lanes before anyone realized he was gone.
Suddenly, Arthur leaned forward, his hand touching the dashboard. "There."
A quarter-mile ahead, through the gray mist and the spray from the road, the square, red taillights of a large SUV flickered through the trees. The vehicle was braking frequently, its rear end swaying slightly as it negotiated a series of sharp, downward S-curves leading toward the river flats.
"Is that the Navigator?" Brennan whispered, his foot hovering over the accelerator.
"That's it," Arthur said, his pulse steadying into the familiar rhythm of a technical director watching a stunt unfold. "He’s struggling with the weight. Brennan, I want you to pull up behind him, but don't pull even. Stay in his blind spot on the driver's side. If he looks in his mirror, he’ll just see a low-profile sedan."
"What’s the plan, Dad?"
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Arthur reached into the back seat, pulling out a heavy yellow nylon tow strap he’d brought from his truck, along with a small, industrial-grade steel shackle he always kept in his pocket for good luck.
"The plan is to give him exactly what he wants," Arthur said, his eyes cold as he watched the Lincoln ahead of them. "He wanted a show. He wanted a big production where he gets to walk away with the prize. I’m going to show him how we handle a scene when the director loses control."
