“Emma!” I interrupted before she could expand on that. “Enough details.”
“What?” She looked at us, wide-eyed, the picture of innocence.
I was saved from answering by the reappearance of Dougie and Darren.
“Here they come,” I said, relieved. Then my eyes widened. “Did they buy the whole store? Where the hell are we supposed to fit all of that?”
The answer: at our feet, on our knees, in the fraction of an inch of space between the seats. Basically, anywhere Darren could find a gap. If I had been uncomfortable before, now I had less space than a sardine in a can. To make matters worse, Darren forced a case of beer between Martin and me so I was pushed up tight against Dougie’s side, so much so that he had to sling his arm along the back of the seat and press against me just so Darren could shut the door. I was burning up under the heat of it resting lightly across my shoulders. How many times had I daydreamed about sitting close beside him, his arm casually flung around me? In none of those dreams were we quite so closely surrounded by boxes of booze—or people.
“How long do we have to go?” I asked. The sun streaming in was turning the car into a greenhouse, and sweat was already gathering at the base of my back.
“An hour, maybe a little more,” Darren replied, twisting the key in the ignition. The car spluttered and heaved before dying completely. There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence. Darren tried again, pumping the accelerator with his foot.
The car vibrated, clanking noisily, but refused to catch. “Darren, what’s wrong?” Emma simpered.
The look he gave her was priceless.
“The car won’t start,” he hissed between gritted teeth. Aggravated, he tried again, turning the key and holding, letting the choking, grating noises go on and on and on. People in nearby cars began to turn and look. I tried to avoid their stares, wishing there was room for me to slink down and hide. “Do you have Roadside Assistance?” Martin asked, leaning forward.
“No.” Darren turned the key back, waited several seconds, then twisted hard. After just a moment of protest, the engine roared to life. “Yes!”
Throwing the car into gear, Darren backed out of the space and navigated his way out of the parking lot. With the extra weight we were carrying, the car was riding low on its axles, and I felt every bump and rut in the pavement.
“Darren, is this thing likely to die on us when we’re in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone reception?” Martin asked quietly as we accelerated back onto the highway.
“Have a little faith,” Darren replied. “She’s never let me down before.” He patted the Volvo symbol nestled in the heart of the steering wheel.
“Yes, it has,” Emma piped up. “Didn’t you have to call your dad last month to give you a tow back from the gym?”
“Apart from that one tiny incident, she’s never let me down before,” Darren corrected. “Shut up!” he snapped good-naturedly at the snickering of amusement that rumbled across the back seat. He gave us a one-fingered salute before fiddling with the settings on his top-of-the-line stereo, its shiny buttons and flashing digital display incongruous in the ugly plastic dash of the ancient car.
“Yo, Martin,” Darren called suddenly. I felt Martin stiffen beside me before fumbling to react to the small missile being hurled toward him over Darren’s shoulder. He caught it—barely—and I realized it was an iPod. “Your turn to choose the music,” Darren told him.
Martin shot him a surprised look before offering half a smile. “Thanks,” he said, and a minute later, the strains of John Mayer filled the car.
“Good choice,” Darren muttered before spinning the volume up high.
We drove along without talking, listening to the music and watching the scenery race by. Under the noise from the stereo, the car engine screamed as Darren pushed it faster and faster, showing off to Emma, who was giggling and shrieking in the passenger seat. I was relieved that I couldn’t see the dials on the dashboard, didn’t know exactly how fast we were going. Darren was passing other cars as if they were standing still. I wasn’t about to complain, though. I was desperate to get there and stretch my legs, to rub at the bruises from where the sharp edges of the boxes of booze were digging into me.
I shut my eyes and leaned my head back. Both boys had opened their windows, allowing a cooling breeze to whip across the tight space, pulling strands of my hair free from the braid I’d constructed and making them dance around my face. It was nice, relaxing. I smiled to myself, letting my shoulders slump, forgetting momentarily that I was leaning back on Dougie’s arm. My life over the past few months had been madness. If my eyes were open, they’d been stuck in a book, going over notes, watching my hand scrawl out answer after answer. But now the exams were done, and it was the first week of July. Six weeks of summer vacation stretched out before me. In theory, I still had another year of school, but I had a tenuous agreement with my mom that if I did well enough on my exams, I could skip that final year and go to college at the end of the summer. I wouldn’t be seventeen until September, so she told me I’d have to stay at home for the first year at least, but I’d still be a college student.
Better yet, Dougie had a conditional offer from the same university with the same major in archaeology. That hadn’t been why I’d chosen it—digging into the past, seeing the way people lived, the things they believed in, had fascinated me since I was a child—but it was a definite plus. Dougie. Unconsciously, my smile edged a little wider. I’d had a thing for him for a while now. We’d always known each other, had been in the same class ever since grade school. But Dougie and I had never really been friends. Not until the last few months, since Emma had taken an interest in Darren and disappeared, leaving a gaping hole in my life that Dougie had stepped in to fill. I owed her for that. Now he and I saw each other almost every day. More even than Dougie saw Martin, his best friend. We had so much in common. Kindred souls, he said.
But friends, only friends. Unfortunately.
“Heather.” His voice whispered in my ear, taking me by surprise. I jumped a little, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“Mmm?”
“You’re kind of making my arm go to sleep.” Oh God.
Embarrassed, I yanked my head forward so fast I almost gave myself whiplash.
“I’m so sorry,” I muttered as he tried to rub life back into his limb.
“Don’t worry about it.” He grinned at me, but the blush refused to fade from my cheeks.
“You should have said…”
He shrugged.
“You looked comfortable. Well,”—he glanced down at the collection of stuff packed around me—“as comfortable as you’re going to get.”
“Right.” I gave him a timid smile. He was still grinning at me. My face flushed flame-red again as I tried to think of something to say. Something intelligent. Nothing came. “So… Where are we going again?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Black Cairn Point.” He spat the words at me, low and menacing. Despite the humor in his eyes, I felt a little thrill roll down my spine.
“Sounds creepy!” Emma purred from the front. “Like the kind of place serial killers go to dispose of the bodies!”
Dougie ripped his gaze from mine, releasing me. “Well, it’s named after a graveyard, sort of,” he told her.
“What?” Emma blinked at him, looking horrified.
“A cairn’s a burial monument,” Martin explained from over my other shoulder.
“Darren, you’re not taking us all out there to do away with us, are you?” I asked, addressing the eyes that were watching our exchange via the rearview mirror. Dougie snorted quietly beside me, and I grinned. “Because—”
But at that moment the music cut off, silencing me. “Hey!” Emma complained, reaching for the buttons. She pressed several randomly, but nothing came out of the speakers, not even static.
“The light’s g
one out,” said Dougie. “Has the fuse blown?”
“Better not have,” Darren replied, knocking Emma’s hand away and taking over the fiddling, but with no more success. “The damned thing’s new.”
“Darren, watch the road!” Martin yelped. Darren turned his attention back to the highway just in time to swerve out from behind the truck he’d been about to climb over the back of.
“Christ, sorry!” he huffed.
He pressed down on the accelerator to take him past the truck, and I watched as we cruised along beside an ad, a child’s face covered in yogurt laughing happily at me. The truck drifted out of sight as Darren sped on, but then started to coast back into view until it was overtaking us.
“What the hell?” Darren cried.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Dougie leaned forward, peering around me.
“I don’t know… The dials have all died. I’ve got no power.” Darren was still kicking at the accelerator, but nothing was happening.
“Darren, we’re in the fast lane,” Martin reminded him, urgency in his voice.
“I know!” Darren snapped.
“Get into the slow lane,” Dougie ordered. “Look, there’s an exit ramp coming up. See if you can coast down it. That’ll get us off the highway at any rate.”
Darren did as he suggested, and the Volvo rolled slowly down the exit ramp until we reached a junction for a much quieter road where the gradient started to tilt up. Eventually, gravity called a halt to our progress. Darren forced the car onto the shoulder, out of the way of any passing traffic. We sat for a minute, no one speaking, before Darren elbowed open the door and stomped around to the front. A moment later he’d thrown up the hood, hiding his glowering face from us.
“Shit.” Dougie sighed and got out. I watched him jog around to join Darren.
“You’re not in Roadside Assistance, are you, Martin?” I asked quietly. He laughed.
“Not much point when I don’t have a car, is there? Come on, no sense baking in here.”
He stepped out onto the hard, compacted mud on the roadside, offering me his hand so that I could slide along, navigating the obstacle course that was the back seat. Though it wasn’t any cooler outside, standing in the direct path of the sun, the air felt fresher, kept moving by a gentle breeze, and I was able to stretch out the kinks in my muscles.
“How’s it going?” We moseyed around to join Darren and Dougie, who were standing motionless, staring into the inner workings of the machine. Neither of them answered me, which I took to be a bad sign.
As we gathered around the engine, I followed the boys’ gaze, not quite sure what I was looking at. Under the hood was a mass of pipes and oddly shaped boxes. The whole thing was covered in grime, metallic surfaces glittering with coppery rust.
“Try starting it,” Dougie offered.
Darren gave him a sidelong look, as if that was clearly pointless, but he got behind the wheel again and obligingly turned the key. Nothing happened. No coughing, no spluttering, no clicking.
The engine stayed inert.
“Battery,” said Martin. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed at the loose stones around his feet.
“What?” Darren asked, curling his body back out of the car.
“The battery’s dead,” Martin repeated.
“How can it be? If the battery were dead, the car would never have started in Kilmarnock.”
“It still had a charge then. Your alternator’s not working. It hasn’t been charging. Happens all the time with this type of car.” He kicked at the ancient Volvo’s dented bumper. “The brushes get clogged, and they don’t spin right.”
We all gaped at him. Martin, with his wiry frame and glasses, was more pocket protector and calculator than wrench and cars.
“What?” he said defensively, seeing the way we were all looking at him. “I can’t know about cars?”
“So what do we do, then?” Darren asked, staring at Martin with newfound respect. Martin smiled wryly at the change.
“Give the alternator”—catching our confused expressions, he pointed at a silvery cylinder near the front of the machinery—“give that a bang to clear the brushes. Then we just need a jump start. After that, we should be good.”
“And do you have a hammer?” Darren asked dryly. Martin nodded.
“Got a rubber one in the trunk for pounding in tent pegs. Give me the keys, and I’ll grab it.”
I followed Martin to the rear of the car.
“How the hell did you know all that?” I whispered.
He winked at me conspiratorially. “My cousin’s a mechanic. He used to babysit me. Spent most of my time in his garage handing him screwdrivers. Don’t ask me to actually do anything, though…”
I laughed.
A minute later, Martin had unearthed his rubber mallet, and Darren had given the alternator a couple of good whacks, after fixing Martin with a searching look to make sure he was serious.
“Now we just need someone to give us a jump,” Dougie said, rubbing his hands together.
The four of us looked both ways up the road. Nothing was coming. We waited in silence as a minute trickled past. Then another.
“Come on!” exploded Darren. “This road’s five feet from the highway! How can there be no traffic?”
“Guess no one lives out this way,” I offered as I looked around. I could only see a few houses dotting the rugged landscape.
“What’s that?” Dougie asked, pointing to a faded-green building down the road in the distance.
“Workshop or something,” Martin replied.
“Well, there’re cars parked there. Maybe someone will help us.”
We all looked at each other. “Who’s asking?” Darren said finally.
Martin responded at once. “It’s your car.”
I thought he had a good point, but Darren’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, and if it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t be going farther than the backyard,” he shot back. “And we wouldn’t have anything to drink, either.”
“What do you think they do in there?” Dougie asked, shading his eyes so he could peer at the building. I followed his gaze. I couldn’t see a sign or anything written on the side to give it away.
“Probably welding or something,” Martin offered. “Something industrial.”
“So it’ll be almost all men…” Darren said slowly.
“Yeah.”
His face brightened.
“Well, that settles it,” he said, slamming down the hood. “We send the girls. They can charm them for us.” He winked at me, ignoring the curdled expression on my face.
The worst thing was that the other two boys seemed to be in complete agreement with him, although Martin was somewhat sheepish about it, refusing to look me in the eye. Outnumbered and outvoted, I huffed and puffed as I dragged Emma out of the passenger seat, and we traipsed off toward the small warehouse.
“Remember—be alluring!” Darren called to our departing backs.
Three
We walked along the hard, narrow shoulder of the road without talking, only the quiet slapping of Emma’s flip-flops breaking the silence. I could feel the gazes of the three boys burning into my back along with the sun, and I angrily folded my arms across my chest.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I complained. “Your boyfriend’s an ass!”
Emma didn’t respond, which I took to mean she agreed with me.
We didn’t spot a sign until we were almost on top of the place. I was relieved to see it looked fairly professional, announcing itself as a metalworking shop run by J. P. Robertson and Sons. The driveway hadn’t been paved, though. It was just a dirt road running a hundred yards to a large, circular parking area where several vehicles—mostly small vans—had been abandoned haphazardly.
We took a quick look around the outside, hoping
to find a lone friendly soul so we wouldn’t have to go in, but there was no sign of life. Gritting my teeth, I headed for the small door to the right of the huge warehouse roll-top door, which was firmly closed.
“You talk,” I said to Emma as we hesitated on the threshold. “You’re the pretty one. And he’s your boyfriend,” I added as she opened her mouth to argue.
I had her with that one. She pursed her lips but stalked through the door when I held it open for her. She didn’t go very far though, grinding to a halt just inside. I almost walked into her, barely stopping myself in time before squeezing past so I stood alongside her. We glanced around, feeling a little stupid. The room was big, partitioned by giant machinery. Here and there I caught movement, the backs of shoulders as men bent to their work. The noise was incredible, as if I’d stuck my head inside a vibrating drum. I couldn’t hear myself think.
No one seemed to notice us. I looked at Emma, who stared back at me uncertainly. Should we just wander around? It didn’t seem safe. Everywhere, the walls were dotted with hazard and warning signs.
“Can I help you?” The words were hollered from our right. I turned my head and saw a girl, maybe eighteen or so, dressed in oil-smeared overalls, short, dark hair slicked back, looking at us questioningly. She waved us into a small glass cubicle, which I guessed served as an office, and shut the door. The noise of the machinery was immediately halved. I sighed in relief.
“Can I help you?” she repeated.
There was a short pause while I waited for Emma to take the lead. She didn’t.
“We’re looking for a jump,” I explained. “Our car just died up on the road. Something to do with the alternator?” I gave a brief smile and spread my arms helplessly, thinking she’d empathize with my distinct lack of mechanical know-how. Instead she frowned, thinking.
“Clogged brushes?”
“Uh, yeah. Think so.”
“You’ll need a hammer.” She moved across to the opposite wall and started to rake through a drawer.
“We’ve done that,” I said hurriedly. “We just need the jump.”
“Okay.” She smiled at us. “I’ve got a charged jump battery in my trunk.”
The Last Witness Page 2
