Chapter 35
Scott was far from an expert pursuer. He didn’t have the slightest clue how to properly follow a target without being noticed and found out. He knew that he had to stay behind, far enough behind so that the driver being followed wouldn’t become suspicious, which would happen if the same vehicle remained in the rearview for an hour long trip. So, hands sweaty and heart pounding, he remained far back from the yellow Porsche, sometimes too far, causing him to almost lose sight of the bright colored car.
But he was able to keep up. Barely. Even on the highways and freeways that he was forced to travel. I-80 and I-480 especially. There was a lot of traffic, even for a weekday and Scott had trouble keep his sights on the bright car, while also remaining a safe distance. Scott’s breath tightened each time an exit would appear and he was too far to pursue if the Porsche chose to take it. Luckily, the driver never needed those exits.
Luckily.
Upon passing by Twinsburg, Bedford, and Garfield Heights, he knew that Bam had been right about their destination. And as some cities do, Cleveland seemed to come out of nowhere. It was like what Scott heard about Manhattan. One minute the driver is going over a massive bridge, which seemed to face only an empty horizon, and then suddenly the view is filled with skyscrapers and the homes and workplaces of millions of people. Cleveland didn’t really compare to Manhattan, though, just like Youngstown, which is often called a city, didn’t compare to size of Cleveland. By comparison, it was apples to oranges to watermelons.
Bam had told him that he would be lead into Cleveland, but beyond that point, she didn’t know any more details about the destination for the meeting. Tightening his grip on the wheel, Scott was able to keep the yellow Porsche in his windshield while weaving in, out, and between the tall structures.
Overhead he could see dark clouds building, coming in from what appeared to be the direction of Lake Erie. The clouds seemed to be thick and full of lake water. They were obviously heavy, pregnant with moisture, ready to drop their load right on the heads of those in the city.
Scott was both glad and mad to see rain rolling in. Rain would give him cover, a thin wall of water to hide behind, but it would also infringe upon his own abilities, his own senses. He hoped that the rain would hold off until they made it to the meeting. But even then the rain or possible storm would cause problems. And he was already scared and shaken at the possibilities of things to come, because Scott was far from his comfort zone, a safe area of life that he had left when he shot and killed his roommate.
What is safe?
He no longer knew.
He no longer knew a lot of things.
He could still turn back, Scott told himself. Nothing has happened. He could go back and get Bam and they could flee for Canada. From there….the world was open to them. The police and Ashe Walters wouldn’t know where to find them. They wouldn’t know where to look. Bam and he could become ghosts, a string of mist in a large world.
He shook his head.
Then he would be nothing but a killer. A killer who fled the country.
The meeting wasn’t taking place in the inner city, Scott realized it when the buildings began to grow shorter and shorter and more spread out. The yellow Porsche was leading him to the other side of the city, away from downtown.
Continuing to follow the yellow Porsche, Scott noticed that they were heading for the lake. He could see the large body of liquid appearing in the distance. He had never been to the ocean, either Pacific or Atlantic, but he imagined that looking out onto the ocean was the same as looking out onto Lake Erie. It was vast, seemingly endless. No wonder people used to believe that they would fall off once they reached the blue lined horizon.
Maybe Cleveland was like a mini-Manhattan, equipped with its own little ocean.
Lake Erie became more and more immense as Scott followed the yellow Porsche up E 9th street. He had the illusion that if he continued directly forward that he would be able to drive right up to and into the lake. He wondered how deep it would be and how far Bam’s car would sink. Would it sink in, never to be found?
He doubted it.
Cleveland-Hopkins was the main airport in the city, providing flights from the large airlines like Southwest and United. It was almost like a town unto itself, with a massive terminal and what might be miles of runways. But there was another airport, Burke Lakefront Airport, just past the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway. It was a lesser airport, and Scott didn’t know much about it. He figured that it most likely handled smaller crafts, like cooperate flights and private planes. And it was most likely where the yellow Porsche was heading. They were heading right for it.
Was the man in the yellow Porsche taking a plane? Slight panic. Scott knew that he couldn’t follow him if he left the ground.
He sighed in relief as they passed by the airport and continued to drive. A minute later, the yellow Porsche activated its turn signal and Scott followed it off of Rt. 2. He was happy to leave the highway behind. A few more minutes of driving and they had finally reached their destination. Kirtland Park.
Another park.
Scott sighed again.
From the outside, Kirtland Park resembled a wooded land more than a populated park, due to the thick trees that seemed to cover the park. But signs existed that revealed that it was indeed a park, one better, happier than the last park he had been in. There didn’t seem to be any vagabonds hanging around cans of burning garbage and twigs. Through the trees, Scott could even make out what might be a pavilion in the far distance. He could also see what might have been a playground for children, shapes and outlines of swings and a metal jungle gym stood out against the green of the trees.
Scott was directly behind the yellow Porsche as it pulled off the main road into the park. A large wooden sign stood at the foot of the road, spelling out KIRTLAND PARK in large, thick black letter. Once beyond the sign, he immediately began to look for parking lots, because he had become too close to the vehicle and risked exposure.
If he didn’t do something quick he would absolutely be noticed.
Only a minute after turning, the narrow park street forked and Scott found himself turning in the opposite direction of the yellow Porsche. A parking area, nearly empty, sat on the right and he had no choice but to abandon the car. He couldn’t tell how long or wide the park was, but he hoped there weren’t too many nooks or crannies that the man in the yellow Porsche could hide in.
He groaned.
He swore.
Frantically, Scott jumped from the car, taking the handgun with him. And as he did so, the sky decided to open up on him, dropping an onslaught of rain. It was cold, feeling as if a bucket of water that was just above freezing was dumped onto his head and shoulders. It chilled him to the core.
He swore.
The rain became harder and he heard cries from a group of parents and children, who had been playing on the nearby playground, the one he had seen from the main road. At once, the parents and children scattered toward their vehicles. Scott turned his head away from them, toward a stretch of woods.
Peering through the trees and rain, Scott witnessed the flash of brake lights. The red light glimmered in the pouring water. They were small and low to the ground, coming from what was mostly like a sleek sports car. On faith, he decided that the flash had come from the back of the yellow Porsche.
Tucking the Browning into the back of his jeans, Scott pulled his baseball cap down and took off down a concrete jogging path. The path twisted like a snake through the trees, back and forth, back and forth. He tried to avoid the forming puddles. He didn’t want to take the chance of slipping and falling down. One wrong step and the moisture could bring him down.
The path began to slither in an undesired direction, one away from where Scott saw the red brake lights. Leaving the jogging path, he began to make his own trail directly through the trees as rain continued to roar all around him.
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His breaths began to come quicker and quicker.
Suddenly, the road and the yellow Porsche was there. Scott’s heart stopped. He came to a stop so quickly that he almost slid. Without full pause, he put himself against a tree, hoping that there had been no one around to witness his arrival. With his body planted against the bark of the tree trunk, he waited and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the pouring rain.
Taking a moment to peak around the tree, Scott saw that the yellow Porsche was not alone. A black SUV was parked in front of it, both cars pulled to the side of the road. The other half of the meeting, he assumed. Meaning that there was another person or group of people to worry about, possibly having guns of their own.
He began to tremble, before shaking it off. He had already known that the man in the yellow Porsche was having a meeting. He had known there would be other people. He had known.
Turning his body, Scott put his hands against the rough bark and looked around the other side of the tree. Another, smaller playground could be seen. It was quant and empty, having only a set of swings, a teeter-totter, monkey bars, and a narrow building, most likely bathrooms. Through the veil of rain, he tried to make sure that the playground was in fact empty.
That was when he heard the voices. They were a low rumble within the rain. Scott had almost missed them, but somehow the vibrations of the noise were centered out amongst the other ruckus. Focusing on the voices, he could tell that they were coming from direction of the bathrooms, from the opened door on the side facing the road.
Should he wait?
Should he make a move?
Before he could make a decision, five men came walking out of the building, two of the larger men were holding wide umbrellas for the rest. The only face that was familiar to Scott was that of the man from the yellow Porsche. Squinting, he could see that face clearly, even in the almost blinding rain.
“I got you,” Scott whispered.
He pulled the gun from the waist of his pants.