A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(110)

Jane slowed to seventy, took the ramp to the interstate, and seemed to fly onto the highway, taking a gradual swing and using the whole road to straighten out. She switched off the headlights and Chelsea gave a little shriek. Jane drove by moonlight, trying only to keep the car on the broad highway.

She saw that there was a sign ahead, so she turned the lights on again and made the exit onto Route 4. She could see there were no other cars coming so she accelerated into the left turn to the eastbound side and kept forcing the speed upward as much as she dared.

They were now at the outer edge of Lebanon, flying through intersections with red lights. Almost immediately they were past the big plazas and the darkened fast-food restaurants, and into the country. They passed big fields, then farmhouses, and in minutes they were driving through wooded areas. Through the trees to their right they could see moonlight on water, and then just trees again. The road began to rise and fall as they lost sight of the water.

Jane accelerated on curves and coasted into the straight sections, always hugging the insides of the curves and moving to the center on straight stretches to straighten the car’s trajectory. She was counting on the likelihood that if a vehicle approached from the west she would see the glow of its headlights in time.

After a period, Jimmy said, “I see headlights behind us coming to that last turn, moving really fast.”

Jane said, “All right. I’m going to try hard to stay ahead of them and turn off somewhere. But I think we need to prepare in case that doesn’t work. Jimmy, the pistols you saw last night are in my backpack. Chelsea, hand him my pack.”

Chelsea lifted the pack up from the floor to the top of her seat and Jimmy pulled it over and set it between him and his mother.

“What’s next?” he said.

“Take out the .45 Colt. I’ve already loaded the magazine. Find it and click it into place.”

“Done.”

“Okay. Keep your finger along the side of the trigger guard until you’re about to fire. Don’t cycle the slide yet. There’s a box of extra ammunition. Put it in your jacket. Mattie?”

“Yes?”

“There’s also a box of .380 rounds. Take out the box and the smaller pistol, the Cobra. Do you remember how to load it?”

“Yes.”

“Then now is the time. It also holds seven rounds.”

“Okay.”

After a couple of minutes, Mattie said, “Ready.”

Jane said, “Okay. Mattie, hand me the Cobra.” She held her hand over her shoulder, took the gun, and handed it, handgrips first, to Chelsea. “Hold this.”

Chelsea took the pistol. Jane leaned forward and took out the CZ 97 pistol she’d been carrying and held it over her shoulder. “Mattie, take this one.”

Mattie took it. “What do I do with it?”

“Here’s the strategy,” said Jane. “You and Jimmy are each sitting by a window in the backseat, and you each have a .45 caliber semiauto pistol. You do nothing unless the people behind us fire a gun. If they do, you charge your weapon, roll down your window, lean out just enough to aim, and fire. Try to hit the driver’s side of the windshield. If you hit the car anywhere, they’ll probably drop back or stop. If you hit a person, they’ll turn around and head for a hospital.”

“I can do that,” said Jimmy.

Mattie said, “I guess I can too, if I have to.”

“Let’s hope you don’t,” said Jane. “If you do have to fire, you’ll notice two problems. A .45 round is very loud—-deafening in an enclosed space. It also kicks, so hold the pistol tightly, and if you can, use both hands. If you drop the gun on the road, we won’t get it back.”

“Okay,” said Jimmy.

Jane drove on. She reached a town going eighty-five. Her headlights illuminated the sign that said CANAAN and it flashed past the window, then the restaurant on the right where she and Mattie had parked the car on Saturday, and the little town park where people had sold their food and crafts. In a few seconds they were past the town and in a few more they had passed the outlying businesses and were in woods again. Jane concentrated on holding the car on the curving, hilly road and not hitting anything.

“I see lights back there,” said Jimmy. “It looks like the SUV.”

“Don’t do anything yet,” said Jane.

They sped past a reflective sign so fast that reading it was an act of deciphering an afterimage. GRAFTON 5 MILES. Another sign. RUGGLES MINE 4 MILES.

“Chelsea,” said Jane. “Take my phone.”

She took it.

“Go on the Internet and find out what Ruggles Mine is.”

“Okay.”

Jane drove faster while Chelsea was working at it. “It’s hard to get a signal,” Chelsea muttered. Then, after a minute, she began to read. “Mica was first discovered in Grafton, New Hampshire, by a man named Sam Ruggles.” She scanned. “The Ruggles Mine is unique because of its enormous size. The crystal formations within the Ruggles pegmatite. . . let’s see. One thousand six hundred forty feet long, three hundred thirty-five feet wide, and two hundred and fifty deep.” She paused. “It’s also got tourmaline, amethyst—”

“Fine. Where is it?”

“There’s a map, but it’s just a turnoff a mile before we get to Grafton. On the right.”