THE TARGET by J.R. Hauptman

Title:  The Target: Love, Death and Airline Dregulation
Author: J.R. Hauptman
Publisher: Caddis Publishing
Genre: Murder Mystery
Language: English
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The hunter stood silently in the predawn darkness. He carefully kneaded the half-frozen toes within his boots by subtly shifting his weight from side to side on the carefully packed snow beneath his skis.

The rifle he carried was designed and equipped to wrench the life from a half-ton bull elk with a single shattering blow. However, it would not spill nor savor the blood of a Sawtooth monarch on this frigid morning. The quarry was much larger game.

Ivan Jasonovich crushed the packet of the chemical hand warmer and slipped it quietly into the palm of his lightly gloved right hand. He curled his fingers around the packet and stuffed that hand into the side pocket of his parka, relishing the soothing warmth. The left hand was encased in a silk inner glove within a cozy down mitten. The fingers of this hand did not require the mobility and delicate touch of the right.

Keeping still in the cold was always the worst part of hunting big game, thought Ivan. Hunting birds or small game, one could always move and stretch the aching muscles and cold-soaked appendages to keep the blood circulating. Even in a lousy duck blind there were ways to keep warm. He smiled as he recalled the wary look in the eyes of the little brown Lab bitch as he pulled her up between his legs and wrapped his arms around her.

“It’s alright Koko,” he remembered comforting the pup, “My intentions are noble. Besides, you’re spayed.”

Ivan’s hunting stand lay just below the crest of a small ridge timbered with blue spruce. It overlooked a fifty yard section of cross country ski trail bounded on both ends by right angle curves. The trail pitched uphill from Ivan’s left to his right.

Farther to his left, the terrain fell off into a somewhat steep gully which led to a small glade supporting a moderate growth of mixed aspen and spruce trees. This was the escape route which led to his truck, parked a mile distant in a copse of spruce off the side of the Forest Service road that provided access to this part of the National Forest. The tracks of his escape would not be readily discernable from the ski trail.

Attached to his boots were army surplus mountaineering skis with cable bindings. The price he had paid for them was not the sole reason for their choice. With the cable loops free of the skis, Ivan could glide cross country style, with ground eating strides and even climb hills. With Ivan’s heels locked down, he could ski downhill fairly well in the deep powder snow of the glade. The skis were designed for an infantryman, to allow him to shoot and to move.

Ivan’s ambush was set for one cold-blooded purpose, which became colder by the minute. Ivan was here to kill Carlo Clemenza.

There would be at least one bodyguard, probably two. Carlo never so much as went to the can without his goons. Chances were, they wouldn’t be very good skiers, since most of them were Texans. Ivan prayed that Carlo had hired no Sun Valley locals to accompany him this morning.

Ivan’s former life as an airline pilot had afforded sufficient time and resources for him to become an expert in both alpine and cross country skiing. He had been good enough to instruct and to race for the company ski team. Even at forty-five, his six foot frame was fit and mostly lean. He was confident that he could wax any recreational skier in the deep powder.

The cold seemed to become most bitter as the rosy glow widened in the eastern sky. It was then that Ivan became aware of another presence within his sensory range. Before his consciousness could register, he felt the hackles rise on his neck and the tingling spread down his back and into his buttocks muscles.

Was there the bare suggestion of a sound to his left rear? Without turning his neck, he deliberately focused his senses in that direction, shifting his upper torso a micro degree. His left ear strained to detect any hint of sound through the earflap of his hat in the roaring silence.

There was no sound, but the primal sensation grew stronger. He had often felt a variation of this sensation in the field in the moments before coming upon another hunter. This, however was a three-bell alarm, like have the radar from a Surface to Air Missile locked on your bird. The last time he had felt this level of intensity was years earlier, as he was on final approach to a quiet helicopter landing zone that was about to become very hot. Ivan was within the range of a human predator. Ivan Jasonovich the hunter, might soon become the prey.

* * *
Ivan had not come to Sun Valley to ski nor to kill Carlo Clemenza. The situation had evolved by chance. He had come to Idaho to hunt elk in the Bitterroot Range. Even an out-of-work airline pilot needed a vacation now and then and besides, he could use the meat, he had rationalized.

He had stopped in Ketchum on a whim. He had heard that Dirk Sloat, an old comrade and one of his contemporaries at Centennial Airlines currently owned a share of a bar in Ketchum that catered to the ski crowd at Sun Valley. It would provide a welcome break in the trip to swap flying tales and gossip over a shot and a beer.

This was not a close friendship, but like the majority of the pilot group at old Centennial, the bonds of camaraderie were welded in a special way by two bitter years on the picket lines of a labor struggle.

Richard Durkham Sloat III had learned his trade as a Navy attack pilot and had flown A-4 Skyhawks in that elite band of aviators who first flew off carriers in the Gulf of Tonkin. He was extremely handsome; he had finely chiseled features, a golden tan, pearly white teeth and jet black hair that was graying appropriately at the temples.

Ivan was quite fond of Dirk but he was secretly jealous of his good looks. Most women were turned on by just looking at the garrulous Naval Aviator. Ivan vented his jealously through needling Dirk about his choice of women. Dirk would show up with a knockout on his arm and Ivan would pull him aside and query the life long bachelor as to whether he had been blinded by love into considering marriage or had he merely failed to buy a license for his pet. Dirk would become personally defensive at Ivan’s remarks but strangely, he would not become protective of his date. Ivan suspected that Dirk actually had little use for any woman aside from getting her into the sack. Dirk was a predator of another sort.

“Anyway,” Sloat would boast, “you don’t have to be good looking when you’re suave and debonair”, purposely mispronouncing the words, “swave “ and “deboner.”

If Dirk had a vice other than women, it would be food. This endowed him with barrel chest that extended from just below his neck to a point somewhere south of his belt. he drank to nearly the point of excess, but to him, booze was merely another form of nutrition.

When Ivan drove his truck past the Hailley airport on the road to Ketchum, he noticed a Centennial Airlines DC-9 parked on the ramp. It was one of the older models inherited from Lone Star Air after the merger, but this one had a new paint job and shined like a new penny. He noted the registration number N999CA, painted in gilt-edged black paint on its flank.

“My God,” he thought; “they’re everywhere now”.

He speculated as to why Centennial might be here in the far west other than to bleed the commuter airlines that operated the marginally profitable feeder routes and ski charters to Salt Lake City and Boise.

“Probably a charter,” he mused.

“Here’s Ketchum Idaho, Old Chev,” he said aloud to his truck a few miles farther. “Now take us to Sloat’s watering hole. Should we start with the fern bar at Das Gasthaus oder Der Alt Vest Zallone?” He lapsed into pidgin German.

“Actually,” he continued. “Maybe we should start at the ski shops.”

Dirk Sloat was an excellent alpine skier, having instructed at several ski resorts both as a college student and later in his airline days. He didn’t race though; racing was too much like hard work, especially the heavy going in the bumps and ruts. But put Dirk on the carefully groomed ballroom slopes of Vail or Sun Valley and he was poetry in motion. He was even filmed once in a Warren Miller movie, skiing deep powder.

“Sitzmark Sports!” He grimaced as he wheeled into a tight parking spot in front of the shop, nearly cutting off a black BMW with tinted glass that had suddenly appeared from a side alley. “This is it!”

The perfumed scent of hot ski wax engulfed him as he entered the ski shop. The floor in the front of the shop was clogged with numerous racks of haute couture ski clothing. The checkout counter was located near the rear of the store near the rows of skis and equipment. The whine of an electric drill emanated from a doorway near the counter. That would be where the shopman was located.

Craning his neck around the doorjamb, Ivan spied the ski mechanic bent over his work bench, intently calibrating the placement of the bindings on a lovely pair of giant slalom shaped Rossi’s. A pot of hot wax simmered on a nearby table. He waited until the shopman straightened and acknowledged his presence.

“That’s a right nice pair of ‘Long Cruisers’ you got there,” offered Ivan.

“Yeah, I don’t get too many calls for two-fifteens anymore,” replied the shopman, an old-timer of at least twenty-five years.

“I won’t take too much of your time; I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Dirk Sloat who supposedly runs a bar here in Ketchum.”

“Well sir,” replied the lad; “you have just found his skis. Mr. Sloat has been screaming at me for the past two days to get these bindings mounted up. We’ve had powder snow all week. He will be here at five PM sharp to rescue these precious beauties.”
It was then about noon.

“Uh, I don’t think I want to wait that long,” said Ivan with mock seriousness. “Perhaps you could tell me how to get to his drinking establishment.”

“Try Die Schwarzwalder; two blocks over and a block north,” replied the ski mech, motioning and returning to his bench.

“Why, thank you sir.”

“Thanks for coming in,” replied the shopman, not looking up.

As Ivan headed for the door, a clothing rack loaded with racing pants caught his eye.
“Can I help you find something, sir?” A pert blonde ski bunny sporting a Rocky Raccoon facial tan appeared from nowhere.

“No thanks, I’m just admiring the Bogners,” replied Ivan. “I’m going to wait until I can get a pair for the price of a used Mercedes.”

Now I see why Sloat does his shopping here, he mused. As he turned to leave, Ivan nearly knocked down a patron who had just entered the store.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he offered as he reached out and steadied the new customer; “I wasn’t looking.”

Their gaze locked momentarily, but only Ivan’s eyes registered any reaction. The large blue eyes which stared impassively back at his were those of Carlo Clemenza.

“Quite alright,” replied Carlo politely and brushed past him toward the cross country ski equipment.

“Do you mind if I browse?” Ivan asked the bunny.

“Not at all,” she replied as she vanished.

Ivan moved toward a wall stacked high with sweaters and leaned against the counter to steady himself.

Carlo Clemenza! What in hell is he doing here in Sun Valley? A flood of emotions welled up within him. Rage and hatred, surely. Was there also fear? The pent up fury of five miserable and exasperating years swept over him. This was the person who had in fact, directed the fortunes of his life for that time and his luck had been anything but good. Six years before, he had been just another complacent, overpaid jet jockey with no complaint about life’s offerings, other than to bitch about the crew meals and layover hotels and how hard it was to hitch a free ride to the airline ski weeks.

This was the one-man wrecking crew that had taken the once proud Centennial Airlines into bankruptcy and emerged as the cut rate scavenger of the industry! This was the man, who had for all purposes, ended Ivan’s lifetime career as an airline pilot and who had thrown his life into complete turmoil.

A woodsy looking sales clerk with a nineteen-seventies mustache and wire rimmed glasses appeared in the cross country section.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked Carlo.

Ivan heard Carlo mention something about gaiters.

“Will you be skiing in deep snow or mostly on the trail?” The clerk asked, morphing into his sales pitch.

“Mm,” Carlo grunted noncommittally.

Woodsy Granola Man led Carlo to a glass shelf stacked high with the nylon leg protectors and launched into his lecture on the relative merits of gaiters.

Barely acknowledging his tutor, Carlo pulled a pair of forest green gaiters from the stack and bent to hold them against his shin. These he tossed back on the shelf and selected another pair. Satisfied now with the length and fit of these, Carlo left the lecturer in mid-sentence concerning the merits of one hundred denier nylon and strode quickly to the cash register. On the way, he picked up a pair of yellow bicycling goggles.

Carlo Clemenza paid for his purchases in cash and left the store as abruptly as he had entered.

Ivan waited by the sweaters for a minute to compose himself, then he ambled from the store. He turned the corner into the alley as a wave of nausea swept over him. As he walked to his truck, the black BMW passed in the street. Three figures were in the car which sported an Avis sticker on the rear bumper. The driver was Carlo Clemenza.

* * *
Ivan the Hunter had by now managed to slowly rotate his body nearly thirty degrees to the left. His slitted eyes were downward cast and pivoted another seventy-five degrees to their peripheral limit. He cautiously allowed his head to swing another ten degrees left. These cautious and deliberate actions allowed him to begin the survey of his left rear quarter.

He cautioned himself against looking directly at the areas he needed to evaluate. This technique he had learned from hunting big game. The game animal recognizes the power of the predator’s stare, and pinpoints his location. For safety, Ivan had to assume that this human predator had by now sensed his own presence, but he hoped the other hunter had not succeeded in determining an exact location.

His indirect observation had another advantage. It was a technique that infantrymen learned in night fighting. If one looked below and to the side of a targeted area, he could more easily discern the shapes and forms of natural or human prey. He knew certainly that he would not see the clear form of a human hunter standing in a clearing. A professional would be well concealed and camouflaged. He must search for a boot; a hand; a human part in the natural wild.

Ivan focused his attention on evaluating the terrain to his left rear. There was no area which would provide an escape route as satisfactory as the gully and glade. The opposite side of the gully was not pitched as steeply as his side. It would provide an easier, though potentially not as quick access to the glade.

The thought struck Ivan that the killer in his proximity would place a high priority on observing the ski trail. If you were a professional who possessed instincts more sharply honed than those of Ivan Jasonovich, where would you be?

He slowly and deliberately allowed his head and eyes to center on his front. By swinging his eyes to their right limit, he could observe the trail as it crested the curve on the ridge. He had selected this stand for the ease with which he could survey this complete stretch of trail from curve to curve. He had to hope that this killer had done the same. The curve on the right was some thirty yards distant; probably the limit for a bodyguard with a small handgun. Even if the killer had chosen the same view of the trail and was armed with a rifle, he would not be much more than thirty yards to his left and ten degrees to the rear.
He once again centered his eyes before initiating the slow arc to the left. At ten degrees of the arc, an area caught his attention and he concentrated his search; three large spruce, with a clump of new spruce growth near the bases of the larger trees. There was no comparable cover within fifteen yards; it must be the three spruce. His silent search took a more frantic pace.

If the killer’s stand was in the spruce, his position was most vulnerable. How to escape? He had counted on having a second or two after he shot Carlo to sling another shot down the trail. In two and a half quick steps, he could make his left one-eighty and push off for the gully. He would have no time for that with this killer, most likely one of Carlo’s bodyguards in such close proximity. He would have to attempt a kick turn; an archaic wooden ski maneuver wherein he would be required to kick his left ski up and forward and flop it down reversed; then step over and reverse the right. If executed in a smooth series of motions, he could build some energy for a racer’s start down the steep side of the gully.
Strangely, he allowed his mind to wander and he recalled a ski race here at Sun Valley years ago. Don Braddock, the macho hot shot racer from Crescent Air had ended his warm-up ritual in the starting gate by tripping himself, falling through the start wand and winding up three feet down the course; disqualified. Ivan stifled a chuckle.

The incongruity of the situation then struck him; was this simply paranoia? “Jeez”, he nearly thought aloud, “is this situation real or has my brain turned to rice curd?” Was this a practical joke played upon him by a brain grown weary of stress and abuse?

Almost carelessly, he allowed his gaze to return to the area of the three spruce. The hackles on his neck then rose to their full extent and a spasm took control of his rectal sphincter. Slightly above and to the left of the clump of new growth spruce was the hint of two symmetrically straight shadows. After all, the brain of even an old amateur ski racer should certainly be able to recognize ski tracks!

How many more professional killers did Carlo have planted along this deadly trail? Killing Carlo Clemenza was lost among the myriad of thoughts furthest from his mind. Ivan’s total being focused on his personal survival.

* * *

The whimsy of the situation struck Ivan as he made his way to Die Schwarzwalder. Perhaps he was one up on Carlo from when he cut him off with his truck as he pulled out from the alley at the ski shop. Minor chagrin took some of the edge off his triumph when he pondered that had he been a second or two later, he might have broad sided the BMW. Oh well, let’s gratefully accept the small victory, he thought. After all, the Beemer was a rental and the economic damage to Carlo would have been slight. Still, had he T-Boned the luxury car, it might have broken his swarthy little neck.

Dirk Sloat was leaning casually against the bar, crooning sweetly to a statuesque brunette seated opposite him with her legs crossed. Attired in silver-grey warm-ups and a white turtleneck, she gazed up raptly at Dirk across the bar. Her mouth hung slightly open in the beginnings of a smile and her right foot twitched furiously.

Ivan sidled up to the bar unnoticed and mumbled, “Uh, sir. Could you spare a cold beer for an old war veteran?”

Dirk turned and stared blankly for a split-second, then howled, “Ivan the Terrible Yah-Sonabitch! How in the Hell are yah?”

Sloat’s wolfish grin spread from ear to ear as they shook hands warmly. His face was evenly tanned. Dirk never wore goggles when he skied; he had a pair of lightly tinted and rimless aviator style sunglasses for that purpose.

“Name’s Ee-von Ya-so-NO-vitch and I don’t speak Yiddish. How’s your hammer hangin’?” replied Ivan, enjoying the snide airline banter immensely.

“All the time now, after fifty.” Unable to compete with the male bonding ritual, the brunette had by now split, totally unnoticed by Dirk. “What are you doing here in Sun Valley?”

“Just looking for a big, ex-Navy stud with the handle o’ Deep Sloat,” lisped Ivan.
On cue, Dirk’s left hand went to the protruded hip; his right elbow swiveled outward and the large hand dangled at the wrist. Instantly, the very picture of masculinity was transformed into that of a flaming faggot.

“If you’re seeking studs, Valle del Sol is absolutely the primo place,” Dirk hissed like a pit full of cobras.

“I came to deliver your skis,” jibed Ivan. “They fell off the Sitzmark delivery van and got run over in the street. They’ll be OK though; I repainted the tops for you, bottoms too.”

“Goddamit,” roared Dirk, his macho persona returning, “I bought those skis last week and they’re just now getting around to mounting them. I missed two days of powder waiting for them. I tried my old clunkers for a day, but got fed up and quit!”

“Actually Dirk, I’m on my way up to the Bitterroots to hunt elk,” said Ivan. “I thought I would buy both of us a double shot of cognac if you could provide something to wash it down.”
“What’ll you have, pard?” asked the big man. “You drink that German crap, don’t you?”
“Yessir, I’ll take a Beck’s dark,” answered Ivan. “I have some hot gossip for you too.”
Dirk left and returned shortly cradling two snifters of Courvoisier and Ivan’s beer and glass in his huge hands.

“Bring me a water back!” he bellowed over his shoulder.

“Ein Prosit!” Toasted Ivan, raising the snifter and swirling the cognac.

“Lint in your flight kit,” retorted Dirk as both men savored the drink and the moment.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into over at the Sitzmark,” offered Ivan.

Dirk’s features clouded ever so slightly. “Oh Carlo? Yeah, he comes up here and skis cross country to stay in shape for his marathons. They say he likes the high altitude for training.”

“I saw one of his old Lone Star ‘Nines down at the airport. Is that his?” queried Ivan.

“Yeah,” Dirk answered carefully and quietly; “He has his scabs driving him around up here in the northwest.” They are having a hell of a time up here with the service; Portland and Seattle especially. Of course they won’t pay their people anything but dirtbag wages, so they can’t keep the decent ones.”

Ivan found himself having to pry information from Dirk. “Is he up here often?”

“Prob’ly comes through here a couple times a week,” Dirk answered laconically.

Ivan was puzzled as the warmth ebbed from their meeting Usually the mere mention of Carlo Clemenza was enough to set Dirk off in an hour-long harangue, capped off by an appeal for all mankind and the universe for someone to shoot the sonofabitch. Ivan took another tack.

“How’s it going for you, Dirk?”

“Pretty good, really. The bar business is great in the winter; that is, when you can keep the local help from stealing you blind; and the summers aren’t bad. Mostly Californians and they do have some bucks,” he answered. “How ‘bout yourself?”

“Well,” sighed Ivan; “I managed to lose only half of my retirement fund in the travel agency business. The margins are much too slim; the airlines are constantly cutting the fares and the commissions go down. The corporate accounts will low ball you to death. I managed to sell out and not lose it all.”

“Are you going to go back to flying?” Dirk was listening intently.

“I have several applications out with the majors and I’ve talked to some of the non-skeds and the FAA,” Ivan replied; “Trouble is, I’m a little too old for the majors and the non-scheduled carriers don’t want to spend the money to train you if you aren’t current or qualified on their airplanes. The feds are really hurting for air carrier inspectors, so that might be the best shot.”

“It’ll work out, big fellow,” Dirk said, the warmth back in his voice.

“Hope so.” Then, regretting the next question before he had finished speaking. “Have you heard from Kristi?”

“Last I heard, she was in New York with SAS,” came Dirk’s curt reply; the storm front again crossing his countenance. Then, shifting his attention, “Here comes my partner.”
A studious looking balding man of about forty approached them from behind the bar. His mild manner and bland facial appearance was belied by the athletic grace with which he moved.

Ivan, meet my partner Charlie McDonough,” Dirk introduced them, “Charlie, this is Ivan Jasonovich.”

“Nice to meet you, Ivan,” Charlie seemed pleasant enough. “Were you with Dirk in the service or with the airlines?”

“Oh, we skied a lot together,” Ivan startled himself with his own evasiveness. His instinctual alarm system screamed for him to be on guard with this seemingly innocuous person.

Charlie was looking very directly at Ivan as he spoke to Dirk.

“Dirk, the liquor wholesaler from Idaho Falls is here. Can you take care of him while I handle the front?”

“Gotta go, old chum; are you going to stay over?” It was not an invitation.

“No,” lied Ivan; “I have to get some work done on my country before I head into the back country; I want to be in Boise tonight.”

They exchanged goodbyes, shook hands briefly and Ivan left the bar. He squinted as he stepped into the afternoon sunlight. What a dumbass thing to say, he thought. Kristi Berg was a very sore subject with Dirk. She had been the nearest thing to a genuine love affair to occur in Dirk’s life. They had met when she worked as a flight attendant supervisor for Centennial and broke off when she discovered the difficulty of dealing with a crew of flight attendants wherein it was rare indeed that at least one of the females had not bedded down with Dirk. She then chose a career path outside of flight operations and during the bankruptcy period, she rose rapidly through the mid-levels of Centennial management.
Then came the rumors that Carlo was developing an appreciation for more than her executive potential. It therefore, did not take long for Kristi to develop an impressive list of enemies in the upper management at Centennial. She suddenly resigned and the last Ivan had heard, she worked as a flight attendant for a charter outfit.

The story was typical, Ivan reflected. Carlo was willing to spend millions on lawyers, CPA’s and crooked judges. But with the possible exception of Bill Bates, his right hand man; the managers he hired were sycophants and yes men. Talented managers soon burned out and left for greener and more fulfilling pastures.

What puzzled Ivan most, was Dirk Sloat’s reluctance to discuss Carlo. Perhaps if he ignored Carlo’s presence, he wouldn’t be compelled to take action. Then again, every ski area to some extent depends on commercial air service to supply skiers and vacationers and it wouldn’t do to offend the Sun Valley business community, especially if Carlo contemplated increased air service to the area.

At the root of Ivan’s psyche, a seed cast years before felt the heat that resulted from the rekindling of powerful emotions. It had lain in the fertile soil of experience and needed only a few random stimuli to achieve germination. Kill Carlo. Fate and opportunity seemed at times to have more impact on the outcome of events than did careful planning. Carlo would have probably not had the opportunity to take over Centennial had the stock price not dipped dramatically as the result of the ‘81 flight attendant strike. The West Pacific merger would then have surely gone through and Carlo would not have had the prayer of a chance to execute his raid on Centennial.

Kill Carlo.

As he approached his truck, the ski mechanic was just leaving the shop with Dirk’s new skis.

“ I see you finished those skis in record time,” Ivan congratulated the shop man. “It’s only two-thirty.”

“Yeah. Did you find your friend?” He asked.

“I surely did.” Ivan replied. “You’re going to make him very happy. Oh, by the way, did you notice the fellow who bought the cross country gaiters here earlier?”

“Sure.”

“He looks familiar,” Ivan expanded; “are you having a citizen’s cross country race here soon?”

“Nah, he comes into the shop every now and then. I think he mostly skis the trail between here and the ski area,” said the shopman.

“Is there an extensive trail system?” Ivan queried.

“It’s OK,” came the reply. “The main trail is pretty flat. There’s some interesting terrain on the loop northwest of the condos. Think you might give it a try?”

“Nope,” replied Ivan. “I didn’t bring any equipment.

“Try Hailley Hardware. They have some pretty good used stuff in the back of the store.”

“I don’t think so, but thanks anyway,” Ivan waved goodbye.

Ivan unlocked the truck and got in. On the seat lay a full loaded ten round plastic cartridge holder. Earlier in the day, it had fallen out of his day pack as he searched for a candy bar while driving. Ivan always found a sinister beauty in these aerodynamically sculpted, yet deadly objects. He had prepared and loaded them himself; polishing and trimming the brass cases, cleaning the pockets and seating fresh primers, selecting, weighing and pouring the powder, and finally carefully seating the bullets. For Ivan the hunter, they were not only his tools of the hunt; they were his own, loving creation.

“Kill Carlo.” They whispered silently, yet insistently. “Now.”

Ivan started the truck and backed into the alley. He waited for an older Jeep Cherokee to pass on the street and made a left turn onto the road to Hailley.