Cornwall 01 - Dudleytown (MM) by L.B. Gregg

Author:L.B. Gregg [Gregg, L.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Five

Phelps herded Ricky back to the car. Metal ground against metal as the hinge moved, and it set my teeth on edge. The car door shut. Within seconds, the crappy engine turned over. And over. And on the third try it caught. He had a shot starter.

Also they were only using the one door, which meant he was confident Ricky’s injury left him harmless and stupid. Or, given the sound of the car, only one of the doors worked.

My heart skipped as we lay inside our snug little furrow. It was a good thing we kept low, because the car didn’t budge—though the headlights flipped on. Then the brights. Finally, the parking lights. Those stayed lit. Phelps skulked inside his vehicle— waiting? Sending Morse code messages with his headlights? Slapping Ricky around?

Trying to text his partner? Good luck with that.

He idled in the road and pale light funneled over the narrow space above us, the glowing fog shrouding us like a low hanging cloud.

We were trapped, unless we were going to storm the car, which would be seriously stupid. I didn’t even have to ask Shannon what he wanted to do, because we had to rescue Ricky from that fucking lunatic. What we needed was a plan—other than run like hell and find a phone.

Phelps said his partner was MIA. Why would anyone meet in Dudleytown? What were they? Lumberjacks? I dismissed the obvious reasons people trekked up here in the dark of night. Sex. And Phelps didn’t strike me as a Ghostbuster or a burn out. He struck me as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

That dude was no cop.

But the word partner? Cops had partners. So did businessmen. Doctors. Lawyers.

And we all had sexual partners. Whatever kind of partner Phelps hoped would show, he wasn’t coming because I figured we’d hit him with the Jeep. It was black as pitch on Dark Entry Road. Cliffs and boulders the size of busses lined the road. This was Connecticut. We were lousy with ledges. Rock formations were plentiful—I’m sure Ricky could bore us to death with the geological reasons why, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine one wrong step sent that poor fuck plummeting.

Phelps’s partner, and no shit, he meant partner in crime and not pas de deux partner—had fallen much as Shannon and I had. Only he hadn’t stuck his landing as well.

Perfect timing, though. Phelps warned us not to take any back roads and that bastard dropped like a rock at exactly the right second for us to nail him. Splat.

So, where was the real Trooper Phelps?

I shoved that thought away, because the words Prison Transport Accident continued to haunt me.

I watched this movie on Hulu once where a serial killer disguised himself as a cop and drove around butchering people. He tricked women by flashing his lights and then pulled them over on deserted back roads. As soon as they climbed into his car expecting safety—wham-o—he stripped them naked and gut them with a Bowie knife.

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