In every country, there are speed freaks. People who have adapted to the hustle of the twenty-first century by becoming addicted to it, in its purest, physical form. 

Other than that one need, they can be the nicest, most normal of folks. But where that need is concerned, they can be stupid, wasteful, stubborn and dangerous. 

Harashi Kyosuke was a speed freak. It had been years since I saw him alive, but I heard about his recent years from the other officers who attended his funeral.

Kyosuke owned a set of car dealerships on the outskirts of Tokyo. He sold some cars from Honda, but most of his showrooms feature prestige cars. Oversized and overpowered, the vehicles are impractical for Japan, even without the huge cost involved in bringing the European vehicles into the country. Even though Kyosuke was pushing sixty, he looked no older than forty-five. When I met him four years ago, he looked just a year or two younger than at his funeral. He told me then that it was the speed that kept him young.

The speed he referred to is the addiction I mentioned. His personal car was a McLaren F1, perhaps the best street-legal sports car every made. As regular as clockwork, he would finish his work for the day at midnight. At the funeral I heard from one of the investigating officers that his records were incredibly meticulous, even including the details of conversations. But the records only covered the afternoon.

At one in the morning, seven days a week, he would open up the engine.

The police would ignore him until he reached his exit. In fact, they simply waited there for him, and took his word for what speed he reached. At the police station, 'Harashi Kyosuke' was on the night shift's list of duties. If he missed a day, the next morning a squad car would deliver a get-well-soon card. 

The tickets were always paid in full.

This began thirty years before, and in a different car. When he acquired the McLaren, the local police erupted into a two-minute panic. They only calmed down when they received the radio call that Kyosuke had pulled over.

Two days ago, cunning but stupid robbers hit the Harashi dealerships. The missing automobiles were quickly located by tracking beacon, along with the thieves. But that didn't change the fact that Kyosuke had taken a bullet in the chest.

The funeral was yesterday. As I mentioned, a number of police officers were present, along with the dealership's employees and a very few personal friends. Kyosuke had never married or fathered children.

At twelve-ten last night, the engine of the McLaren roared to life at the dealership. It was raining heavily, but the night guard saw and called the station immediately. 

The police responded with vigor and numbers that no simple crime could have produced. Someone was not stealing a car. They were not just disturbing what was still a crime scene. Whoever this was, they were mocking a police tradition, and insulting the memory of a man not three days dead.

But of course, if it was just a copy-cat, I wouldn't be writing of it here. The McLaren was reported on the highway headed east, spotted by a west-bound car. The vehicle appeared to be following Kyosuke's normal pattern, driving east for forty minutes at a hundred clicks, then turning and heading back west at full speed.

The all-points call went out when the McLaren slipped past a waiting squad car and made it up the westbound ramp. I myself was already in my car, driving just to calm my mind.

By the time I was in position, the McLaren had looped the city, including an action-movie jump over a road-block. The highway was soaked, and the rain pounded on the closed roof of my 300ZX. I took the speed up as much as I dared, not even trusting my mystical luck to keep me on the road. I was at a hundred and sixty kph when I spotted the headlights behind me, doing at least two hundred.

It was a battle to keep the McLaren's lights directly behind me on the rain-slick road, but I managed. The only ways to keep moving forward were to ram aside me or to match my speed, and the McLaren was running out of time to choose. The 300 is a sports car, but for durability it beats the uber-performance F1 hands down. Once our speeds matched, I quick-tapped the brake without releasing the accelerator, then put my left-flicker on.

Whoever was in control obliged me by pulling over. At the curb, I stepped out into the rain, without calling in my position. I somehow felt that I was being trusted not to do that.

With the rain flattening my hair and pounding my shoulders, I walked toward the sound of several thousand idling RPMs. The car looked expectant, like a puppy that knew it had broken the rules, yet hoping that it would be understood.

It was. I knew what would happen, and it did. I walked up to the window, and it rolled down. There was no one in the car. The seatbelt was fastened, lying loose over the empty seat.

I understood. I walked back to my car, and headed for the cemetary I had been to earlier in the day. Behind me, the loyal McLaren resumed it run, racing time and wining.

I found a shovel in a maintenance shed. Harashi Kyosuke has no memory of anything since the day before the break-in, and he is probably still trying to find a story that will satisfy the uniforms. But I understand. He never saw the robbers. He was never shot. And it was, indeed, the speed that kept him young.
 

***

This is the sixth of a series of short 'fics, based on the Persona 2 '100 Ghost Stories.'
This 'fic is based on Katsuya's story:  'A while back, I stopped a speeding car..........................
    ...but no one was in it.'