The old minivan still had hand-crank windows. Lamar fought to get the glass down while the cop stood waiting. The wind was all over the place, and the snow cycloned into the van on all of them. The cop said, “What’s up, guys? Are we cool?”
The cop looked to be in his forties and not at all cool. No sideburns. A mustache from twenty years ago. Way too clean to be this loopy. Jimmy couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like the guy was…steaming, like a hot mug of coffee. He rested his free hand and his gun on the lip of the door, leaned in uncomfortably close to Lamar, like, inches from his eyes.
Lamar leaned as far away as he could. “Is everything okay, Officer?”
“You guys, you didn’t happen to see, um, this bald guy? Glasses? He was in an orange jumpsuit.” Smirk. “No, wait, he had a hat, too. A hat like mine. And a jacket. So forget it. Just forget—”
The gun went off and punched Lamar back in his seat, square in his right shoulder. He yelled out one big time and then bled all over, propped up by the door. The others were still fighting to get their hearing back while freaking out, Isaac out of his seat and trapped on the floor.
The cop held his hands up. “No, no, I didn’t mean to—I need you guys, I really need you, it was just an accident, I swear, I need you…”
Another shot, and this one nailed Sven in the head. Dead, just like that.
Dick Vader slid the side door open and took off down the shoulder of the interstate. Jimmy was about to follow when he felt the need to look back. The cop had opened Lamar’s door and was bent over the seat, grasping Isaac’s head and trying to kiss him, still saying, “I need you, I need you, c’mon, I need you…”
Jimmy and Dick Vader hadn’t made it even two car lengths before hearing the cop yell, “Freeze,” and they did it. After all, he had the gun. He’d shot Lamar. He’d killed Sven. This shit was fucked up. Dick Vader, on his knees, same as Jimmy, hands behind his head, said, “This is it, man? This is all?”
Jimmy was pretty sure it was.
CHAPTER THREE
Rhonda had to speak up over her husband’s AM radio static. He had to listen to Limbaugh even when most of the signal was buzzing and bleeping. He hadn’t always been like this, though. So serious now, so angry all the time. She traced it to his getting laid off from the company, only to be hired back, after four hard months of job searching, by the same company in a different position for twenty percent less pay. Almost like starting from scratch.
Her mother was on the other end of the phone, saying, “I can’t hear you,” and “What’s that?”
“I said, Mom, that it’s the same every year. You’d think by now they would be prepared for these types of things. But no plows, no police, no anything. Didn’t they watch the weather?”
“They’re saying it might take a couple of days.”
“Mom, it’s ridiculous. I can’t even see the car in front of me.”
In the back of the Suburban, the kids were off in their own worlds; now eleven and thirteen, they thought they should be treated like twenty-year-olds. Each one had earbuds, and they were either texting or playing games on the phones they were probably too young to have. It bothered Rhonda every day, seeing her kids turn into wired-up zombies like everyone else. But it had been the only way to keep the peace. All of her younger notions of being a great parent, unlike her selfish and barely there mom, had gone up in smoke.
Stan shook his head and mumbled, “Unbelievable.”
No idea what he was responding to, but that’s because Rhonda just didn’t listen to him all that much anymore. She hated to admit it, but she was already thinking ahead to when the kids were older, so she could get out of all this. A typical suburban-style divorce. At first she had thought, oh, maybe hold on until the kids were in college. That turned into just until Kiefer is in college, which had now become fuck it, they’ll understand in high school.
There was a long sigh from the other end of the line. Then, “I told you to leave yesterday. It’s not as if… Listen, I promise you won’t have to come to the next reunion.”
But that was what Mom said every year, and she usually stuck to it for a couple of months before dragging out the “Oh, but [insert name of ancient aunt or know-nothing cousin] wants to see you. She couldn’t make the last one, hon,” and “The kids won’t know any of their cousins at this rate.”
What had surprised Rhonda this time was how easy it had been to convince Stan. Not even a problem. He’d switched his schedule at work and helped the kids pack and for the first time in a long time had no comment about how tedious and uninteresting her family was. The annual fight was a no-show, which had her worried that Stan was much further along on checking out than she was. Maybe he was having an affair? Or maybe he had been hiding money? Would he spring this on her now, years before she was ready?
From the backseat, Kiefer sighed, like he could read her thoughts.
Then something slammed into the side of the SUV.
Some of the snow broke off from the windows, but not enough so they could see what was going on. More thuds on the side panel, someone crying out. Stan turned off the radio and made sure the doors were locked. Clicked the lever five times.
“Mom? Mom?” Claire pawed her mother’s shoulder from the backseat. “Mom?”
“Quiet! Stay quiet, everyone.”
There was an awful squeak of wet fingers against fiberglass, running from front to back. It stopped. Rhonda held her breath, listening. Could it have been a deer? Yes, that was it. A deer…dazed, now up and gone. No harm.
But then something began trying to open the back doors, yanking violently, screeching, even. The kids shouted, and Stan told them to shut up, but they didn’t, and Rhonda felt her heart try to burst from her chest like in a horror movie, and she couldn’t help but want to—
The yanking and screeching stopped. It stayed stopped this time. A minute, more.
They all stared at one another. Not a word. Really? Was this what her family had come to? They had almost been—what?—car invaded, and they still couldn’t talk to one another like human beings?
Stan shook his head and said, “I’ve got to see.”
Rhonda grabbed his arm before he could open the door. “Are you crazy? Just let it go. We’re safe in here. Let me call the police.”
“I’ll be fine, really. Don’t worry.” He reached under his seat and pulled out a pistol. Holy fuck, a pistol? When did he—?
“When did you—?”
“A couple of months ago. I know how you feel about them, so I didn’t tell you. But see? Bet you’re glad I did now.”
“Are you, you know, legal? Do you have a permit?”
He spoke slowly and calmly, like she was a child. How could he? She had told him that she didn’t want him to own a gun, so he went off and bought it anyway. And she was the child. “I took a class. I have a permit. This is all legit, like thousands and thousands of others.”
She looked closer. “What is it? I mean…what kind?”
“It’s a Glock 40. Plenty of stopping power, and I’m sure no one wants to mess with it.”
Rhonda glared at him, hoping it was enough so she wouldn’t have to berate him in front of their children. But he had a gleam in his eye. A flicker of a grin. He loved getting this over on her. Nothing she could do about it now, especially when he had proven his point—you never can tell when you’ll need one.
You know, screw this. She had had it, and it wasn’t like the kids even gave a shit anymore. She was about to let loose on him, a good Oh, someone didn’t get to play cowboys and Indians when he was younger, so now he puts our entire family in danger zinger, but before she could, Stan pushed the door open against the ridiculous wind and stepped outside, closed it again.
Rhonda couldn’t see anything through the snow buildup. She grabbed the rearview and tried to angle it, but the back windows were frosted over and the kids were in the way, both of them turned around, on their knees, desperate for a look at something. All they got were shadows.
At least they didn’t hear the one thing Rhonda was bracing herself for—gunshots.
“What’s going on? Can you see anything?” Rhonda climbed into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window, bracing herself while the kids whined about the cold. She brushed away the snow from the side-view mirror and saw Stan leaning over, talking to someone. She couldn’t hear his words. But it was definitely a person. From the look of her hair, a young woman.
“Stan! What’s going on? Is she okay? Stan!”
He helped the girl to her feet, held her arm and wrapped his around her, steadied her steps. He slapped his hand on the window of the rear door and told Claire, “Open it! Hurry!”
Claire scooted way back until she was nearly in her brother’s lap. “Mom?”
Rhonda didn’t want to, but it would be heartless not to. What had happened to this girl? Had she been attacked? Was someone after her? But in the back of Rhonda’s mind was the nagging If they come and ask if you helped and you tell them no, how will your excuses sound then?
She clicked open the lock. Stan struggled against the wind until he had pulled the door open, then helped the girl inside. Her hair covered most of her face. She was shivering like mad. Stan slammed the door and yelled at Rhonda, “Goddamn it, move, I’m freezing!”
He struggled with the driver’s door, then tossed the pistol onto the floorboard before hopping in, shoving Rhonda back to her side. He rolled up the window, hugged himself. Rhonda turned to the woman in the backseat. Her hair was nearly white, sparkling, but there was blond under all that. Straight, parted at the far side the way all these girls do lately, letting it hang in their eyes. She kept herself tight, her breathing shallow and fast. The kids squeezed themselves as far from her as they could. Rhonda was surprised by that, at least as far as Kiefer was concerned. Here was a hot college-aged girl needing help, and he acted as if she was radioactive.
The girl’s breathing finally slowed. Her teeth stopped chattering. She said, “Thank you, thank you so much, thank you, I needed you. I needed help.”
Rhonda reached back, put her hand on the girl’s knee. Funny, but she felt a lot warmer than she should have. And it almost looked as if she had steam coming off her, like when you open the freezer door. But…warm. And yet the snow wasn’t melting off her. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine.”
“Listen, don’t be afraid. We’ll help if we can. What’s your name?”
The girl pulled her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ears. Rhonda flinched, pulled her hand back, caught her breath. This girl’s face, wearing a lazy expression like she was high, was weird enough, but she had dried blood streaked across her lips and cheek. “Call me Sher-rie,” she said with a faux-French flair. “I like my name.”
Claire had nearly flattened herself against the floorboard. “Mommmmm?”
“Christ, did someone hurt you? Are you bleeding? Stan, Jesus, call the police. Now—do it now.”
Stan shook his head slowly. “It’s gonna be fine. Just cool it, babe.”
Babe? Years and years since he’d said that, even in jest. “Come on, Stan, she might be in danger! We can’t hold off the bad guys with just your gun, you know!”
“Hey,” the girl said. “He said it’s going to be fine. Pipe down, bitch.”
Rhonda felt like reaching for the gun herself. She must have been played. This wasn’t a random rescue, was it? This was Stan’s piece of stuff. This was a setup. “Who is she, Stan? Tell me. You’ve had your fun.”
He shrugged, made his face into cartoon rubber. “No idea.” He stifled a laugh. Was he steaming, too? “Not a clue.”
He was lying. Had to be. They were making eyes at each other via the rearview. Damn him! She should’ve left long ago, but look at this. What was he thinking? And with the kids right here.
Sherrie unfurled herself and eased between the front seats, all the time saying, “I need you, I need you,” and grabbed Stan’s chin in her palm. She buried her tongue in his mouth. Disgusting. The sort of kiss teenagers think is sexy. Slobbering, smacking. Rhonda grabbed Sherrie’s shoulder and tried to pry her off. Keifer and Claire pulled on the other, all of them screaming for her to get off Stan. But that kiss kept going. Smackety-smack and deep moans and all of it, Rhonda’s rage growing as she finally wrapped her hand around the bitch’s hair, screamed, and gave it one mighty yank.
Sherrie yelped, reared back, and then laughed as she fell into the backseat. Just as Rhonda was turning back to Stan, he caught her by the throat and squeezed for all he was worth. His expression was goofy, unnerving. He was really going to kill her. Oh God, no, no, no. She tried calling for Kiefer and Claire. Flashed her eyes toward the backseat. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. Sherrie sat between the two kids, this time kissing Kiefer, and he was all over her. But Claire, too? Claire, pawing at Sherrie like they were behind the gym at a junior high dance? What was going on?
She gasped and found nothing there, nothing coming in or out, and everything was going dark around the edges. Really? Her kids in some sort of sick make-out session in the back with their dad’s slut, and Rhonda was the one who was going to die?
She so should have dumped Stan’s ass already. The bastard.
As the oxygen ran out, she felt herself falling, backward, and the cold air shocked her back to life. Her throat slipped from Stan’s grasp and she hit the ground hard, hacking through the pain to wheeze in that frigid air. And no, not her, too, goddamn it—she thought it was hilarious.
When she opened her eyes, a man stood above her. One with an ax in his hand.
“Better get out of the way.”
She scooted back until she was up against the side of the car next to theirs. Only a couple of hours before, she had remembered an older couple there, chatting and nodding. But now both doors were open and nearly all the windows were bashed in, the emergency blinkers going mad. In fact, all around her, cars were either abandoned or were closed tight like fortresses, rocking on their shocks, still blowing exhaust. She could barely make out people stumbling around between vehicles, but the laughter was clear. Drunken laughter. Giddy.
And more of it was spilling from her own Suburban.
The man with the ax was struggling with Stan now, still half inside the vehicle. He’d grabbed the ax handle, and her rescuer pulled Stan until he was out and on the ground. She thought for one terrible second that maybe he would bury the blade in Stan’s head. She winced, blinked, covered her eyes. But then nothing. She peeked between fingers. The ax was sticking out of the snow while her rescuer straddled Stan, pinning his arms even though his legs were still cranking, trying to buck off the attacker. The man wasn’t dressed for the weather—a Windbreaker and sneakers, no scarf, no cap, a backpack with a couple of bottles of water in mesh pockets. While Stan struggled, this new guy was busy trying to cover him with snow. Plus this guy with a guitar, wielding it like a sword but flinching whenever the action came too close.
Then the SUV’s back door was flung open and that bitch Sherrie stumbled out, followed by Kiefer and Claire, all three looking doped up and zombielike. Rhonda cried out, tried to stand up. Maybe out here, whatever hold this woman had over all of them would break. She called her children’s names.
When they turned, her heart sank. Their eyes were dilated, like they were cats with a bag of nip. There was steam coming off their skin. Stupid grins, too wide for their faces, as if their skin were becoming Silly Putty. She started for them, calling them over and over, “Come to Mommy, please, come to me!”
She was only a few feet from them when she realized it was a trap. Sherrie tried to flank her, coming fast from her side. Rhonda dropped to her knees. The man with the ax jumped over her and tackled Sherrie, rolled through the snow with her. Rhonda turned to her kids again. Her own flesh and blood, keeping their distance. But Claire was holding her arms out, and despite the creepy grin, she said, “I need you, I need you, Mommy, I need you, I need you.”
“I need you, too, b
aby. Come to me. Come on.”
Kiefer, too: “I need you, I need you, I need you…”
They kept coming, and for the first time in her life, Rhonda wondered if she should run from her children. Something about them—the chanting, the giggling…
Then a hand on her shoulder. The man with the ax. “Let’s go—run.”
“My kids! Wait, I can’t leave my kids!”
“We’ll get them later. We’ve got to get out of here quickly before that one gets going again.” He thumbed over his shoulder to Sherrie, half buried in snow but digging her way out. Stan, though, looked out cold. “Just to regroup. I promise you, nothing any worse will happen to them. But if you want to save your kids, you’d better come with me first.”
What did he know about all this that she didn’t? Still, Rhonda wrenched from beneath the man’s touch and marched over to her daughter, enveloped her. “I won’t leave them.”
The man blew out a cloud of cold air. Nothing like the steam coming off the others—the only way she could think to describe them. He looked up again. “What’s your name?”
“Rhonda. Rhonda Grant.”
A nod. “And your kids? Your husband?”
She pointed each out: “Kiefer. Claire. Um, Stan.”
Another nod. “Okay. Okay. I’m Matt, and that guy’s Jimmy, and we know how you feel right now. Trust me, I’ve seen some mighty strange stuff lately, but this is just bonkers. I don’t get it. All I know is that you aren’t acting like they are. Neither am I. And they don’t like people who don’t act the same as they do. Okay?”
For some reason, she believed him. She had suppressed the urge to laugh, no matter how much it welled up inside her. The stoned feeling—she had tightened all of her muscles and willfully forced it back in order to help her kids. She had to be strong for them. She ran her hand through Claire’s hair. Her daughter was fighting to get away from her. Muffled into her clothes, “She’s not us, she’s not us, she’s not us.”
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