Vicious Circle Read online

  By the time Kat hit the field, the plane had jerked to a start. It moved slowly – a snail’s pace, really – as the engine warmed up. After traveling a few yards, the plane swiveled, heading toward the house.

  And directly toward Kat.

  She yanked her Glock from its holster. She didn’t relish the idea of discharging her weapon twice in one day. She also didn’t have much of a choice. The plane was coming at her, all the while picking up speed.

  Kat stopped, dug her heels into the field and fired twice. She had been aiming for the plane’s engine, hoping she’d get lucky and cause it to seize up. Luck, it turned out, was not on her side. The first bullet dug itself into the ground beneath the plane’s left wing. The second ricocheted off one of the propellers.

  She took a step backward. Then another. The plane was about ten yards away now. Kat could feel the air around her being tugged by the propellers, which spun in a deadly blur. Picking up the pace, Kat turned on her heels and broke out in a run. She didn’t know if Sonny was trying to kill her or simply escape. She had a feeling it was a bit of both.

  Behind her, the plane grew louder, signaling it was getting even closer. The air around her had been whipped into a frenzy, her hair flying in all directions. The shirt of her uniform came untucked and fluttered like a flag in a hurricane. The pull of the propellers slowed her down, making Kat feel like she was being dragged into their grip kicking and screaming.

  The plane was less than twenty feet away and showing no signs of stopping. She ran even harder, arms and legs pumping, heart pounding. But for every step she took, the plane covered twice as much ground.

  It was directly behind her now.

  She felt its presence – a screaming wind tunnel at her back.

  Kat needed to get away from it. Fast. She leapt to the left as hard as she could, landing face down among the soybean plants. She flatted herself against the ground as the plane’s wing moved over her, mere inches above her head.

  When it passed, Kat raised her head and watched the plane’s path. Instead of turning around to give chase again, Sonny continued to steer it in the same direction. And Kat knew where he was heading.

  The road.

  It was where they had taken off earlier that day and where Sonny intended to take off now. Kat she couldn’t let him get there.

  Climbing to her feet, she sprinted out of the field, relieved to be chasing the plane instead of the other way around. When they reached the back yard, Kat cut left. The plane moved to the right – the only direction it could go. The way Kat went was blocked by the barn, John Elliott’s truck and Kat’s Crown Vic. Even though it was the shortest distance to the road, Sonny couldn’t guide the plane there. Not unless he wanted to lose a wing.

  Kat lost sight of the plane as it rounded the far side of the farmhouse. She did the same in the other direction, hurrying to her Crown Vic. She jumped inside, started the car and plunged it into reverse. The car shot down the driveway, taking out the mailbox at the end of it. It clattered off the trunk of the patrol car as Kat jerked the car to the right. Once on the road, she continued going backwards for several yards, giving herself as wide a view of her surroundings as possible. When she was satisfied, she slammed on the brakes and shifted into drive.

  Then she waited.

  Up ahead, the plane was also approaching the road. It was going even faster now, and Sonny had a hard time keeping it under control as he made a sharp turn out of the yard. The plane swerved wildly, shimmying under the strain.

  For a moment, it looked like Sonny would lose control entirely, sending the plane into either the field on the other side of the road or directly into the farmhouse. But as soon as Kat got her hopes up, he managed to right the plane, centering it in the road about a thousand feet from the Crown Vic.

  The chase was now a duel.

  Ten

  Kat kept the patrol car where it was – a last-ditch attempt at getting Sonny to stop. She had tried shooting at him. She had tried outrunning him. All she could do know was engage him in an old-fashioned game of chicken and hope he blinked first.

  After slowing down during its turn, the plane was moving faster again. Since the road was smoother than the field, it had no problem picking up speed. Watching the acceleration, Kat gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. She was determined to wait him out. No matter how panicked and foolish he was, Sonny Duncan wouldn’t run directly into a police car.

  She hoped.

  Just to be on the safe side, she left her door unlocked in case she needed to bail out at the last minute. She prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

  Up ahead, the plane moved at a rapid clip. It bounced along the road, the wings slowly but surely being lifted by the accelerating air.

  It was time for Kat to make her move.

  Tapping the gas pedal, she inched the car forward just enough to let Sonny know it was now in motion. Hopefully, he’d spook quickly and stop.

  He didn’t.

  The plane continued to speed forward. Kat guessed it was about five-hundred feet away now. Maybe less. She kept her grip firm on the wheel. Her foot stayed on the gas pedal, despite every instinct to slam on the brakes. Under her breath, she muttered, “Please stop. Please stop.” It was half-prayer, half-chant, Kat’s voice getting louder as she and the plane got closer.

  Through the windshield, she saw the plane’s wings vibrate up and down. The propellers were almost at eye level, a spinning blur that could seal her fate.

  “Please stop. Please stop.”

  But Sonny wasn’t going to stop. Kat knew that now. Fueled by desperation, he was going to keep going, even if it meant smashing right into her car. At this point, the plane was so close she couldn’t even try to veer out of its way. One of the wings would clip the Crown Vic, no matter how quick she was with the steering wheel.

  “Please stop. Please stop.”

  The plane was almost airborne, catching wind like an indecisive kite. It was off the ground. Then back on the road a second later. Then off the ground again. Then back down. The plane’s wheels bounced and skipped, kicking up tufts of dirt and gravel.

  “Please stop. Please stop.”

  Kat yanked on the door handle and elbowed the door open. She needed to jump. Right now. It would hurt like hell, but probably not as bad as being in a car when a plane hit it. Even so, her body resisted. Her legs, numb and heavy, refused to budge. Her right arm stubbornly kept hold of the steering wheel.

  The plane was a hundred feet away. Now fifty. Now twenty-five. Kat continued to chant.

  “Please stop. Please stop. Please. Stop.”

  Sonny became airborne twenty feet from the Crown Vic’s front bumper. The plane lifted off the ground, so close Kat thought the tires were going to run right up the windshield. She ducked just in case and slammed on the brakes. A crack and a crash sounded from above.

  The plane’s wheels had hit the patrol car’s police lights and yanked them off the roof. The car rattled in response, a seismic jolt that sent Kat scrambling out of it.

  Still ducking, she turned to face the departing plane, which was still perilously low. Hitting the lights had tripped it up considerably. The plane rocked back and forth, wings dipping so low they almost brushed the ground.

  All that sudden movement sent the bag in the backseat sliding. It opened wider, the marijuana inside catching the breeze and streaming out of the plane. The leaves filled the sky, swirling onto the road like giant snowflakes.

  Still crouched next to the Crown Vic, Kat could hear Sonny’s yelps of frustration as his illicit stash got away. He reached behind him, trying to close the bag with one hand while steering the other. It was a bad move on his part. The plane tilted sharply to the right and descended. The wing hit the ground and broke – a simple snap that sent the rest of the aircraft reeling.

  With the right wing gone, the plane listed to the left, weighed down by the wing on that side. It remained in the air a few seconds more before hitting the ground and skidd
ing down the road.

  Kat didn’t move until the plane came to a complete stop. Sonny’s moans drifted out of the open cockpit. He was alive, but probably pretty beat up. He’d be in even sorrier shape once Kat charged him with numerous drug charges, resisting arrest and trying to run her down with an airplane. That last one would look particularly bad in court.

  “Sonny,” she called. “I’m coming to get you now. And just so you know, I’m pretty pissed off about what you did to my car. So if you move, I will shoot you. Understood?”

  A weak voice gave the response. “Understood.”

  An hour later, Kat sat in the station, sipping not an iced coffee but an even colder beer. Lou had brought them from home – one for Kat, one for herself – and they clinked their bottles together. Sitting with them were James and Carl. Because one was only eleven and the other was on the clock, they drank root beer instead. Still, they clinked their bottles together all the same.

  Both Landon Gale and Sonny Duncan had been picked up by sheriff’s officers and taken to the county jail. Perry Hollow’s holding cell wasn’t big enough for two. Sonny had a few scrapes and bruises but would otherwise be OK. Landon had a broken heart and a few crushed dreams. Kat wasn’t sure if he was going to recover as quickly.

  “So this whole thing was about marijuana?” Lou asked, taking a hearty swig of her Yuengling.

  “Yes and no,” Kat said. “There was also the affair.”

  “But Sonny planted the drugs because he was in need of cash?”

  “Correct.”

  In fact, Sonny Duncan was in worse financial shape than what Tom Hawkins had implied. He was flat broke and in debt up to his ears. Growing marijuana, which he later confessed he knew nothing about, was his attempt to get cash in a hurry. He had been looking for a place to plant it when he saw the unused corner of Landon Gale’s field during one of his crop dusting flights. Making it even more convenient was the fact that Landon was an organic farmer. There’d be no pesticides sprayed on Sonny’s illicit crop.

  Kat remembered what he told her in the plane. “You don’t want to ingest this stuff. And you especially don’t want to get it into your lungs.”

  It was a nice racket for Sonny. That is, until John Elliott had created the crop circle.

  “But John made the circle to tip you off about the drugs,” Lou asked. “It had nothing to do with the affair.”

  Kat begged to differ. She was certain that had circumstances been different, he would have reported the marijuana to the police the moment he found it. But there was Aimee to consider. Stupid or not, he was thinking about her the entire time.

  “So Sonny planted the drugs,” Carl said. “John Elliott found them and made the crop circle. And Landon beat him with a hammer.”

  That was the gist of it, only Kat didn’t realize how bizarre it all sounded until hearing it out loud. It made her grateful that not every day was as crazy as this one. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle it.

  “But what about the girl?”

  “Aimee? She was just caught in the middle,” Kat said. “Or started the whole thing. Depends on how you look at it. And I suspect she’ll be going back to Brooklyn very soon. Or maybe not. I really don’t know.”

  Nor did Kat care to dwell on the matter. She was still hot, she was still tired and she was still certain that she smelled not just like something dead, but like something that was dead and decomposing. In short, she needed to go home.

  “It’s been quite a day,” she said after taking one last swallow of beer. “But James and I need to get home, get cleaned up and go to bed in air-conditioned comfort.”

  She looked down at her son. “Am I right, Little Bear?”

  James nodded. “Can we get ice cream on the way home?”

  Kat stood, her joints cracking. Damn, she was sore. And she’d be worse in the morning. She wasn’t used to running around so much, and her body was certainly going to punish her for it.

  “That’s a possibility,” she said. “This kind of day calls for a stop at the Dairy Queen.”

  She reached for James’s hand and, shockingly, he let her take it. Hand-in-hand, they walked down the hallway, pausing long enough to wave to Carl and Lou.

  “Have a good night, folks,” Kat told them. “Let’s not do this again tomorrow.”

  About the Author

  Todd Ritter was born and raised in rural Pennsylvania. An editor and journalist for more than 15 years, Todd began his career as a film critic while attending Penn State University. Currently, he works for The Star-Ledger, New Jersey’s largest daily newspaper and a three-time recipient of the Pulitzer Prize. He is the author of the acclaimed mysteries Bad Moon and Death Notice. Visit his website at www.toddritteronline.com.

  Sneak Peek of Bad Moon

  JULY 20, 1969

  It was the baby, of all things, that woke her up. Not her husband. Not the police. Just the baby and his crying.

  Maggie had grown accustomed to the sound. Having two kids did that to you. Sometimes she’d accidentally sleep right through whatever racket one of them was making. But that night was different. The crying was different. It wasn’t the irritated wail of an infant who was tired or the pained whimper of one who was teething. It was, Maggie realized, a cry of terror, and the noise tugged her out of sleep, out of bed, and out of the room.

  Along the way, her bleary eyes caught the clock on her dresser. It was almost eleven. She had been asleep for more than three hours. Not as bad as some days, but not good, either. Not good at all. And despite the rest, she still felt weary as she crossed the hall to the nursery. Still utterly exhausted.

  In the nursery, Maggie flicked on the overhead light. The sharp, sudden glow made her eyes sting in addition to being bleary. It didn’t matter. She could navigate the room with her eyes closed, which is exactly what she did. The memories of hundreds of similar trips guided her—rocking chair to the right, dresser to the left, don’t stub your toe on the toy chest. Once she reached the crib, Maggie opened her eyes.

  The crib was empty.

  The crying, however, continued.

  Maggie heard it, loud and fearful. She rotated in the center of the room, looking for a possible explanation. Had the baby somehow escaped the crib and crawled into the closet? The dresser? Another room?

  It was only after two more twirls that Maggie’s sleep-addled mind caught up with her spinning body. When it did, she realized the source of the crying wasn’t in the nursery at all. It was coming from downstairs and had been the entire time. Only now it sounded more urgent, more frightened.

  Maggie left the nursery and clomped down the stairs. At the bottom, she expected to see Ken reclining in the living room La-Z-Boy, the baby wriggling in his arms. Instead, the chair was occupied by Ruth Clark, whose spindly arms struggled to stay wrapped around the writhing child.

  Ruth, who was only sixty but looked at least a decade older, lived down the street. She and Maggie were friends, but not friendly enough for Ruth to be in her house, holding her child, at almost eleven o’clock at night. Yet there she was, trying to hush the baby in the gray glow of the television.

  “Ruth? What’s going on?” Blinking in confusion, Maggie noted what her neighbor was wearing—a nightgown stuffed into threadbare trousers, flip-flops on her feet. She had dressed in a hurry. “Where’s Ken?”

  “You were asleep,” Ruth said with forced cheer. “So he asked me to come over and keep an eye on the baby. He had to step out for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  Ruth stayed silent as she pressed the baby into Maggie’s arms. He had been wrapped tightly in a blanket, which covered everything but his face. Whether it was Ken’s doing or Ruth’s, Maggie didn’t know. Either way, it was a bad move on such a muggy night. Both the baby and the blanket were drenched with cold sweat, which explained the bawling.

  The crying softened once Maggie settled onto the couch and loosened the blanket. Ruth sat next to her, uncomfortably close. She was hovering, Maggie realized. And watc
hful.

  “Did Ken say where he was going?”

  Ruth’s reply—“He didn’t”—was rushed and unconvincing.

  “What about when he’d be back?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’ll wait up for him. You don’t need to stick around.”

  “I think I should stay.”

  Maggie didn’t have the energy to protest, not that Ruth would have allowed it. The finality of her tone made it clear she intended to stay. With nothing left to say or do, Maggie stared at the television.

  What she saw astounded her.

  The screen was mostly a grainy blur—fizzy patches of black and gray. Then an image took shape through the haze. It was a figure in a bulky uniform, looking like a ghost against a background of endless darkness. The figure was on a ladder, hopping downward rung by rung.

  It paused at the bottom. It placed a foot onto the ground. It spoke.

  “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  “Sweet Lord,” Ruth said. “He’s really standing on it.”

  He was Neil Armstrong. It was the moon. And Ruth was correct—the astronaut was standing on its surface just as easily as Maggie now sat in her living room.

  Eyes fixed on the TV, she immediately thought of Charlie. Nine years older than the baby, he had been moon crazy the past year. Earlier that afternoon, when Apollo 11 actually touched down on the moon’s surface, Charlie had cheered, jumped, and cried until he made himself sick.

  He would want to see this, Maggie knew. History was taking place.

  “I’m going to wake Charlie.”

  Ruth trailed her to the stairs. “Maggie, wait!”

  Maggie didn’t stop, continuing up the stairs with rushed purpose. At the top, her bare feet made slapping sounds on the hardwood floor as she moved down the hall to Charlie’s bedroom. Ruth remained downstairs, calling up to her.