In the Dead of Night by Aiden James Page A

murders. I needed the break, really. Hell, it’d be there waiting for me anyway, once I left the euphoria of a great practice session and drove home.
    We wrapped things up by 11:40 p.m. Mongo and I shared a laugh as I helped him load his drum cases into the back of his old Suburban. Soon after, I was back on Gallatin Road and heading home.
     
    ***
     
    Traveling along I-65 southbound after midnight usually means a nice drive down a deserted highway. It’s perfect for unwinding after a long day and a productive rehearsal. I suppose that’s why I didn’t notice the dark van following me. I probably should’ve caught it early on, say at least by the time I passed downtown Nashville. But I didn’t. Not until I reached Franklin.
    Jamming to one of my personal mix CDs that features every melodic metal band I’ve grown attached to over the years, I was just getting into my head-shake to Megadeth’s “Ninety-nine ways to die” when I finally noticed the van mirroring my moves as I veered into the fast lane and then back to the middle of the highway just beyond Cool Springs Mall. I still might not have thought much of it, so lost was I in my private revelry. But it was hard to ignore the sudden high beams flashing from behind me. I at first thought a cop rode my ass.
    Cruising a few miles above the speed limit rarely gets somebody pulled over in Williamson County, and my lights were just checked the other day when I got the oil changed for the Camaro. So, that pretty much eliminated a police K-9 unit.
    “What in the hell?”
    The van drew closer…close enough for me to see the grill emblem. It was a Buick, late model…and a big sucker at that. A petrol-splurging special from a couple of years ago, right before fuel prices rose to insanity.
    “Back off, you mother….”
    I didn’t finish uttering the crown jewel of all curse phrases. Maybe it’s because I had instinctively floored the Camaro to where I had just passed ninety. Yeah, talk about a gas-guzzler giving chase…probably lost an eighth of a tank from that alone as it kept pace with me.
    Now, I’m not easily spooked, being in the ghost hunting biz and all. My initial reaction was to get really pissed. But then the van backed off…way off. Only when I exited onto another highway, I-840, did it come a little closer. In the distance behind me two small white orbs stayed on my trail.
    I figured I was just being paranoid. Hopefully in about a week I’ll return to a more rational outlook about things, and I won’t be so damned jumpy.
    I decided to slow down to seventy-five. No sense in being radar bait, but at the same time I didn’t want to provide a guided path to my home. When I came upon Arno Road, my usual exit, no lights were visible behind me. Still, I raced under the overpass and followed the road to the maze of darkened back roads that would bring me to my secluded home. The moon shining in half-cycle, I felt half tempted to drive home with the headlights off.
    Deftly navigating through sharp curves and hidden hills, I soon pulled up into the long gravel driveway that leads up to my house. I dimmed the headlights, creeping up quietly and pulling the Camaro behind my house, just in case whoever drove the mysterious van somehow figured out the general area where I lived—despite my best efforts to remain elusive.
    I cut the engine and got out of the car, releasing a low sigh as I collected my bass and tiptoed up to the back door. The kitchen light was on, and I detected a slight glow from the living room through a side window.
    Then I heard it.
    Hell, I think everyone living along our road heard it. A loud rumble from a V-8 engine, revved full throttle.
    What in the hell now?
    I crept around the side of the house, peering toward the road. There was no one visible. No truck or van.
    The rumble resounded again…louder, although I had the distinct feeling it hadn’t moved.
    I moved up quietly to our mailbox, my protective instincts in full force. I wished