"Christensen, Jan - Why I Quit Jogging" - читать интересную книгу автора (Christensen Jan)

I panicked.

With difficulty, I dragged her to the trunk and pushed her in with the man I now recognized as her husband.

After closing the lid, I looked around. We were on a dirt road in a densely wooded area I wasn't familiar with. No traffic noise filtered through the trees, and only an occasional bird could be heard in the stillness. I had no idea how far from civilization we were, and I didn't feel like jogging down the path to find out.

I got into the old Lincoln Continental and started it up. Still a beauty, I judged it to be at least fifteen years old. Because the car was so big, it took two tries to turn around. I figured I'd head back the way we came and would eventually come to a road I recognized.

My head hurt a bit, and my back was starting to stiffen up. The reality of what had happened to me began to sink in, and my hands shook so badly for a moment I thought I'd have to pull over. Grasping the steering wheel firmly, I gave myself a little pep talk about how everything would turn out okay. Right.

It started to rain. Darkness had arrived, and I looked at the dashboard clock. It was almost eight. My wife, Jill, would be wondering where I was. Soon the rain made visibility poor. Slowing down to a crawl, I kept doggedly on. I wished I knew where I was, and I wished there weren't two bodies in the trunk!

The wipers worked hard at clearing the windshield. Then I saw a stop sign ahead and recognized the street--an access road to the freeway. Turning right, I was soon able to get on the highway and head toward town. The rain even let up a little.

I was going about sixty when the back left tire blew.

The car bucked and swayed as I hung onto the wheel with all my strength. Somehow I maneuvered the big car to the shoulder. I still, to this day, don't know why I didn't just abandon it right there and hitchhike home. Maybe being run over had addled my brain. I had some vague notion of driving to the police station and dropping off the bodies like a good citizen. Anyway, I knew where the lug wrench was and hoped the spare was in its cover on the outside of the trunk. Hopefully there was a jack, too.

The rain had changed to a mist. Looking around first to see if anyone was slowing down, maybe thinking of stopping, I got out. After I had removed the spare from its kit and determined that it wasn't flat, I opened the trunk, grimacing, trying not to look at the two bodies tangled together.

As I got out the wrench and jack and put them on the ground and closed the trunk, a pick-up truck came to a stop behind me. A guy in cowboy boots, black cowboy hat, jeans and a t-shirt that said, "This Space for Rent," approached me, a big grin on his face.

"Looks like you've got a problem," he said. Just what I needed--a friendly good Samaritan. He probably wouldn't be happy until he helped with the spare, then put the blown tire back in its cover and the tools in the trunk. How was I going to get rid of him? Sweat joined the mist on my face and rivulets of water ran down into my eyes. I swiped at it with the back of my hand, and when I looked at the guy again, he had a gun in his big fist. He was still grinning.

"Okay, give me your wallet."

I could feel my shoulders slump.

"I don't have a wallet with me," I told him.

"Driving without a license?" he smirked. "You can get arrested for that. Ha, ha! Stop kidding around and give me your wallet."

"Really. I was out jogging, and I never take my wallet with me--"

"So you stole the car while out jogging? How'd you do that?"

"No, no," I said. "Look, it's a long story. The woman who owns the car accidently hit me. I guess she thought I was dead, so she put me in the trunk with her husband. But when she opened it, I jumped her, and she hit her head on a rock and it killed her. Now she's in the trunk, too. I don't have any money. Sorry."

The guy was backing away from me. "You crazy, or what?" he asked, the grin now a frown.

"No, no. Come look," I said as I went to the trunk and opened it with a flourish.

He gave a strangled cry and started running back to his truck, hands over his head, gun pointing skyward. Cars whizzed by, the drivers oblivious. Grit and pebbles sprayed me as he took off and maneuvered back onto the highway.

No one else stopped to "help," and it didn't take me long to change the tire. By then I was having second thoughts about driving to the police station. What if I got blamed for both killings? What were the chances of them believing the whole fantastic story?

I was still trying to decide what to do when I got off the highway and headed toward the police station. I guessed I could pull over and leave the car, then call the cops when I got home. Better yet, I could drive the car to the Burlson's house. Just as I realized my fingerprints were all over everything, I came to a stop sign.

Carefully, I looked right and left. As I glanced in the rearview mirror, there was a loud crunching sound, and my neck snapped back. There was no head rest in the old car, and the pain was excruciating. I sat, stunned, a minute.