"We can cut it," Pitt said in determination. He snapped the wheel to one side and then back again to dodge a car entering the two-lane highway from a side road. "Until they're certain they're being chased, they won't drive over the speed limit and risk being stopped by a cop. The best we can do is keep them in sight until the state police can intercept."
Pitt's theory was on the money. The charging Stutz began to gain on the limousine.
Mancuso nodded through the windshield. "They're turning onto Highway Five along the James River."
Pitt drove with a loose and confident fury. The Stutz was in its element on a straight road with gradual turns. He loved the old car, its complex machinery, the magnificent styling, and fabulous engine.
Pitt pushed the old car hard, driving like a demon. The pace was too much for the Stutz, but Pitt talked to it, ignoring the strange look on Mancuso's face, urging and begging it to run beyond its limits.
And the Stutz answered.
To Mancuso it was incredible. It seemed to him that Pitt was physically lifting the car to higher speeds.
He stared at the speedometer and saw the needle touching ninety-eight mph. The dynamic old machine had never been driven that fast when it was new. Mancuso held on to the door as Pitt shot around cars and trucks, passing several at one time, so fast Mancuso was amazed they didn't spin off the road on a tight bend.
Mancuso heard another sound above the exhaust of the Stutz and looked up from the open chauffeur's compartment into the sky. "We have a helicopter riding herd," he announced.
"Police?"
"No markings. It looks commercial."
"Too bad we don't have a radio."
They had drawn up within two hundred meters of the limousine when the Stutz was discovered, and the Lincoln carrying Loren immediately began to pick up speed and slip away.
Then to add to the growing setback, a good ole farm boy driving a big Dodge pickup truck with two rifles slung across the rear window spotted the antique auto climbing up his truck bed and decided to do a little funnin' to keep the Stutz from passing.
Every time Pitt pulled over the center line to overtake the Dodge, the wiry oily-haired driver, who grinned with half a mouth of vacant teeth, just cackled and veered to the opposite side of the road, cutting the Stutz off.
Mancuso pulled his little automatic from its ankle holster. "I'll put one through the clown's windshield."
"Give me a chance to bulldog him," said Pitt.
Bulldogging was an old-time race driver's trick. Pitt eased up on the right side of the Dodge, then backed off and came at the other. He repeated the process, not trying to force his way past, but taking control of the situation.
The skinny truck driver swerved side to side to block what he thought were Pitt's attempts to pass.
Holding the Stutz at bay after numerous assaults, his head began to swivel to see where the old classic car was coming from next.
And then he made the mistake Pitt was hoping for.
He lost his concentration on a curve and slipped onto the gravel shoulder. His next mistake was to oversteer. The Dodge whipped wildly back and forth and then hurtled off the road, rolling over in a clump of low trees and bushes before coming to rest on its top and crushing a hornet's nest.
The farm boy was only bruised in the crash, but the hornets almost killed him before he escaped the upside-down truck and leaped into a nearby pond.
"Slick work," said Mancuso, staring back.
Pitt allowed a quick grin. "It's called methodical recklessness."
The grin vanished as he swerved around a truck and saw a flatbed trailer stopped on the blind side of a curve. The truck had lost part of its cargo, three oil barrels that had fallen off the trailer. One had burst and spread a wide greasy slick on the pavement. The white limousine had missed striking the truck but lost traction in the oil and made two complete 360-degree circles before its driver incredibly straightened it out and darted ahead.
The Stutz went into a sideways four-wheel drift, tires smoking, the sun flashing on its polished wheel covers. Mancuso braced himself for the impact against the rear of the truck he was sure would come.
Pitt fought the skid for a horrifying hundred meters before the black tire marks were finally behind him.
Then he was into the oil. He didn't touch his brakes or fight the car but shoved in the clutch and let the car roll free and straight over the slippery pool. Then he eased the car along the grass shoulder beside the road until the tires were rid of the oil, then resumed the chase only a few seconds now behind the Lincoln.
After the near miss, Mancuso was amazed to see Pitt blithely carry on as if he was on a Sunday drive.