Page 68 of Guess Again

Ithaca, Wisconsin Monday, August 4, 2025

SHE FORCED HERSELF TO DRIVE SLOWLY.

THE LAST THING SHE NEEDED was to be pulled over for speeding.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and blinked away the guilt that attempted to distract her.

Over time, she hoped she could forget about what had happened in the basement.

Hours and days would sand the edges of her memory of the knife slicing through the woman’s neck. Months would erase the sickening feeling that remained in her hand from when the knife struck bone and cartilage. And eventually years would wash away the sadness and swirl her melancholy down the drain of time. She regretted none of it. None of what she had done Thursday night to the elderly couple in their Lake Morikawa home. None of what she had just done in the basement in Nekoosa. And none of what she was about to do on a lonely stretch of highway. Francis had called upon her, and she knew every bit of it was necessary.

She found Highway 58 north of Ithaca and the small two-lane stretch of road where she had ditched the Range Rover the night before.

It was the route the transport van carrying Francis would take up to Columbia Correctional Institute.

Now that she saw the road in the daylight, she was even happier with the location.

Just south of the bend was a long stretch of road that ran for two miles before banking into a tight right turn where yellow traffic arrows pointed potential wayward drivers away from the guardrail and the ravine below.

The bank forced vehicles to slow from 55 mph to thirty in order to manage the curving highway. It was the perfect spot.

She drove through the bank, pulled a U-turn so that the Ford Focus was facing south, and parked on the shoulder.

The transport was scheduled for late morning, but she had no way of knowing if they were running on time.

She’d have to stay alert.

She should be exhausted after her trek back from the Mexican border the day before, but she was surprisingly awake and alert, almost buzzing with energy.

She exited the car and walked a few paces around the bend so she could see the long stretch of highway to the south.

She stood and waited.

Two hours passed but she saw no transport van.

Anxiousness and doubt began to descend, but she refused to let it deter her.

To occupy her thoughts, she went through the plan again. In the front seat of the van were two prison guards, each armed with pepper spray, a Taser, and a side arm. A 12-gauge shotgun was mounted behind the front seat. And in the holding block in the rear of the van was the man she loved.

As she played through the steps of the plan, she saw it.

Like a mythical carriage emerging from the horizon, the Wisconsin Bureau of Prisons transport van appeared in the distance, speeding through the heat fumes that rose from the highway pavement.

She hurried back to the Ford Focus and started the engine.

She crept along the shoulder until she reached the edge of the bend, then pulled out into the middle of the road, turned on her hazards, and popped the hood.

She checked her purse for the handgun she had purchased earlier in the week and adjusted the Kevlar vest she wore under her shirt.

There was no more time to go through the details of the plan again.

Ultimately, her job was simple.

Do whatever it took to get Francis out of that van.