Angel

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 45

 

  And the woman had blond hair.

  Alex floored the accelerator and the Mustang shot ahead, its engine roaring. It was miles between towns out here; we were in the middle of nowhere, with only flat, scorched land and endless skies. The highway was a run-down road, almost empty of traffic. Behind us, the silver pickup accelerated, too, eating up the distance between us.

  Fear pummeled me. “Oh, God, Alex, keep going, whatever you do. ”

  “Yeah, don’t worry — that was sort of my plan,” he muttered.

  Staring behind us, I watched in sick horror as the pickup drew closer, gaining on us with almost comical speed. Then they were right on our tail, almost bumper to bumper. My eyes met the woman’s. She was gripping a pendant around her neck, glaring right at me. The man was at the steering wheel, his expression fixed, intent, like a hunter with a ten-point buck in his sights.

  Suddenly the pickup rammed us from behind. The Mustang jolted forward with a metallic crunching noise. Swearing, Alex spun the wheel, careering over the yellow line. Its engine roaring, the pickup pulled up beside us on the passenger’s side. The woman had taken the wheel; the man was holding the rifle, pointing it right at me.

  Alex saw it in the same instant. “Get down!” he shouted, swerving. He shoved me toward the floor just as gunfire sounded and my window burst into thousands of fragments of glass. I screamed, throwing my arms over my head. I could feel the pattering of glass all around me — in my hair, on the back of my T-shirt.

  “Stay down,” ordered Alex’s voice. Shaking, I peered up from under my arms and saw him take his gun from the waistband of his jeans, flicking the safety off. But before he could fire back, I heard tires squealing and saw from his gaze that the pickup had pulled in front of us. There was the popping sound of gunfire again.

  “Jesus!” He ducked low in his seat as the windshield exploded.

  Safety glass flew all around us; a sudden rush of wind howled past. The Mustang veered wildly, but somehow Alex managed to keep control. The sound of rifle fire became more distant, and finally stopped altogether. Alex pulled onto the shoulder, did a screeching three-point turn, and headed back in the direction we’d just come from, wind whistling through the car. I kept my head down, not daring to move. A few minutes later, I felt the car turn. There was a rough bumping, and then we jolted to a stop.

  In a daze, I sat up, glass falling from my back and shoulders with little clinking noises. Alex had pulled off the highway; we were on a dirt road in the middle of a field. There was a cut on his cheek where a piece of glass must have struck him — a thin trickle of blood, like a red teardrop, tracing down his face.

  “Are you OK?” he asked urgently, gripping my arms. “Willow, are you hurt?” His eyes were wide, almost frightened.

  Numbly, I wondered why. Alex faced danger all the time; it didn’t seem like him to get scared by it. Still trembling, I nodded. “I’m — I’m fine. ” Reaching out, I started to touch his cheek, then swallowed and pulled my hand away. “Your . . . face is bleeding. ”

  Alex’s shoulders relaxed; he let out a breath. Brushing at his face with the flat of his hand, he glanced down at the blood and swiped at his cheek with a paper napkin. “Yeah, it’s fine. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before they come back. ”

  He started the car again with a lurch. Rumbling over the dirt road, we came to a paved T junction. Alex turned right, and the Mustang gained speed. He pushed a hand through his hair and shook the glass out, lifting his voice over the wind. “OK, we’ve got to ditch this car and find another one, like now, before they find us and try again. ”

  “You mean steal one,” I said.

  “We don’t have a choice,” he said, shifting gears. “I know it’s not a great thing to do, but —”

  “No, it’s all right,” I interrupted, my voice unsteady. “In fact — I can probably help. ”

  Alex gave me a startled glance. Amazement spread slowly across his face. “Holy shit. You know how to hot-wire a car. ”

  “I know the theory,” I said, hugging myself. “It’s not all that difficult. ”

  He gave a short nod. “Good, we’ve just got to find one, then. ”

  I sat rigidly in the glass-strewn seat, frightened of every car that passed. Thankfully, there were only two, and neither slowed when the driver saw us. After a couple of miles, we came to a sign that read, PALO DURO PARK ROAD. “Palo Duro,” muttered Alex. “Wait a minute. That sounds familiar. ” He took the turn.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A canyon,” he said. “A really big one. Cully told me about it; he used to come camping here. People go hiking here a lot — we might be able to find something. ” The narrow paved road twisted and turned for a mile or so; there was dry, open grassland to either side. Then all at once . . . there wasn’t. “Oh!” I breathed in, straightening up as the canyon came into view. Like a film I’d once seen of the Grand Canyon, it was suddenly just there, the land opening up before us into a soaring, silent expanse of depth and space and red rock.

  Alex’s face had hardened as he looked out at it. My eyebrows drew together; his expression was the same one I’d seen once before, the time I’d asked about his brother. Before I could wonder about it too much, we came to a wide curve in the road with the canyon sloping steeply away from us in a scrabble of dust and loose rock.

  “There!” I said, pointing. “That one’ll do; it’s old enough. ” Parked just off the side of the road was a boatlike gray Chevy, its owners presumably hiking on the dirt path that wound downward.

  Alex pulled in behind the Chevy and killed the engine. “OK, be careful. I’ll keep an eye out for cars. ”

  I nodded and got out of the Mustang, shaking bits of glass off me. Going over to the Chevy, I saw that the windows were open a few inches to let in the air. “Do we have a coat hanger or something?” I asked, peering in the driver’s side. In the back, I could see a blue-and-white plastic ice chest. Alex found some wire in the trunk of the Mustang and brought it to me; I made a loop in one end and managed to get the old-fashioned push-button lock on almost the first try.

  I slid in behind the wheel, terrified that someone was going to drive past. “OK, I’ve just got to see whether . . . ” I peered under the steering column and unclipped a plastic lid. “Ha, we’re in luck. The wires we need are right here. Do you have a knife? I need to strip some of this insulation off. ”

  Digging in his jeans pocket, Alex handed me a metal pocketknife with YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK on its handle. I pulled open the blade and trimmed off about an inch of insulation on two of the wires, then twisted their exposed ends together.

  Alex was keeping an eye on the road, leaning against the car as if we’d just stopped to take in the view. Glancing over at me, he shook his head. “Have you considered a life of crime?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “So, now I just need the ignition wire. . . . ” Finding a wire wrapped in brown insulation, I stripped it like the others. Stroking it against them, I heard the engine begin to spark and took it away again. “There, that’s it. ” I got out and brushed my hands off on my jeans. “All you have to do is touch this wire to those two, and rev the engine enough so you don’t stall. ”