Northern Lights by Raymond Strom

Author:Raymond Strom
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

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I didn’t want to be alone so I set out toward Jenny’s, but halfway there I noticed a familiar truck trailing me so I veered off course. It was Svenson, and I knew he was after me when I made four rights around the same block and he was still there. I zigzagged through the streets back toward the Arlington and he fell off my trail a couple times but was quick to pick it up again, the last time screeching to a stop as I crossed Center. He lay on his horn as I stood there face-to-face with the grille of his truck, and then I ran down Cypress as fast as I could. Svenson floored it, took two rights without stopping, then he was coming down North First as I crossed. Behind me, he swung left and paced me at the speed I was running.

“Look at that pretty hair,” he called.

I crossed another street onto a fenced-off block that was all grass, a spare field that belonged to the middle school. Halfway down the block I cut to the fence, swung myself over, and ran to the center of the field. Dropping his speed to a crawl, Svenson drove around the block, making lefts, Confederate flag billowing. Each time he made a left I turned with him, watching, waiting for him to stop his truck and get out, climb the fence so I could turn and run the opposite way. He circled the block once. Twice. He stopped at the corner, leaned out the window to let me know he was watching, then got moving again. Three times around the block. Four. Just when I thought it might go on forever, he jumped his truck up over the curb and crashed through the fence, barreling straight toward me.

Stunned, I did not run. Svenson fishtailed to a stop, tearing up the grass with his back wheels, then jumped from the cab. He didn’t say anything, merely floated toward me with his fists before him, swung, and then I was on the ground. He dropped to his knees beside me and opened his hand. In his palm was a folding knife with an ivory handle. Sweat popped out on my forehead as I tried to struggle away from him but he held me down with one hand. When I gave up the fight, he swung a leg over me, straddling my chest with his knees on my shoulders.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, running his fingers through my hair almost lovingly with his left hand, the loose threads from the bandage tickling my neck. He sat there a moment with his hand on my head, and I thought he might lean forward and kiss me. He was beginning to remind me of Russell.

“I tried to go easy on his dogs,” he said, opening the knife with a click. “But one got greedy and ate both steaks.”

He took a thick lock of my hair and sawed at it with the knife until it came free.

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