by Jane Davitt
Gary had bought the Taurus from a dealer for cash and driven it back to his small apartment, his nostrils filling with the stink of stale take-out food. Maybe the previous owner had lived in it, because there was a pair of socks wedged under the driver’s seat. He’d hoped someone would steal it from the underground parking lot, but it clearly lacked thief-appeal. He’d loaded it up with everything he owned, a jumble of expensive luggage and battered cardboard boxes, and prayed it would at least get him out of the city.
Before he handed over the keys to his apartment, he’d taken one last look around the place he’d lived in for five years. For most of that time it’d been a mailing address, not a home. Peter’s house had been his true home, though he’d never officially moved in. Toward the end, Peter had gotten less concerned about appearances and asked him to, but his children, suddenly solicitous, had been around too much for him to feel comfortable spending more time there. Talbot disliked him; Kristina and Mark loathed their father’s lover.
“Our father is not gay,” Kristina had told him once, every word precise, genuine color swamping the carefully applied cosmetics on her face. “My brother and I are proof of that. I don’t know how you’ve persuaded him to turn his back on everything our name stands for, but you disgust me. And, no, it’s not because you’re gay. You don’t get to make me the villain that way. It’s because you’re a predator.”
As far as Gary could see, the Thornfield name only stood for respectability when it came to the present generation. Peter’s father had stayed out of prison because he knew who to bribe or intimidate, and Peter—though he’d quietly diverted the business into more legitimate channels—had all his father’s ruthlessness, hidden under a charm that fooled most people.
Gary couldn’t imagine anyone less vulnerable to a scam than Peter. Telling Kristina the details of how he and Peter had hooked up and the way their relationship worked would have been cruel, so he never had. Sometimes he’d been so fucking tempted, though, especially in the days after Peter’s death, when grief shredded his control and left him ripe for a fight. He’d used up all his denial during Peter’s final illness, it seemed, and moved straight to anger by the time of the funeral.
That had been a month ago. Now the anger was spent, and Gary felt as empty as the apartment he’d packed up. Stripped of his bits and pieces, the place had seemed even smaller, but he hadn’t allowed himself to stand there staring out at the city lights of Seattle and reminiscing for long. The road east and then south—a long journey, the way he’d planned it—waited for him.
He was in no rush to reach his destination. When he did, it would draw a line under everything he’d had with Peter, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet. Peter had also made it quite clear he should use the journey to clear his head.
You’ll drive there, not fly—what can you see from the air but clouds, after all, and God, how boring are they? Drive, explore, and if you get lost, don’t panic—but you never do. I like that about you, along with many other things I’m sure I’ve mentioned from time to time. If I believed in an afterlife, I’d tell you I’d miss you, but I don’t, so I’ll tell you that while I write this, with you waiting for me on my bed and wondering why it’s taking me so long to finish reading a report, I’m missing you as if you were already lost to me.
The thought of that is annoying enough that you won’t get much sleep tonight, Gary. I’ll make the most of you while I can. I can hear you moving, restless, impatient for me to come and fuck you, and that’s the only thing keeping me here writing this. I love you when you’re eager for me. I’m beginning to wonder if I love more of you than that, but I’ve left it too late to burden you with that discovery.
You’ve let me be in charge of you for the last five years. Allowed me to dictate more than letters to you. I don’t see why my death should change that immediately, do you?
Drive. And take your time.
He’d planned to drift to his destination in stages rather than go as arrow-straight as the roads would allow. On paper, his route was a series of unnecessary curves, swooping from state to state, wasteful of mileage and gas, but it took him to places he’d never visited, as well as past his childhood home. Both results held a certain appeal. Without Peter’s daily supervision, Gary dragged out the trip the same way he prolonged any treat, from eating a Boston crème doughnut to opening a gift to sex. His childhood had contained too few indulgences for him to ever take one for granted. He’d spin out the pleasurable anticipation until he couldn’t stand it, not another second of waiting, and the doughnut got crammed into his mouth, the wrapping paper got torn to confetti . . . and Peter got to hear him at his most demanding.
The first day, he’d left midafternoon and stayed the night in Spokane, after racking up two hundred seventy miles or so. The car seat made it feel double that distance, a spring in it digging viciously into his back.
Leaving his route at Missoula took Peter’s wishes too far, though. Gary had no more in the way of supplies than a few bottles of water and an energy bar he’d bought along with his gas, and was guided by a road map folded so often, the print along the creases had been rubbed away. The GPS on his cell phone would have been more useful, but he’d run the battery down and discovered, too late to go back, that he’d left the charger in the last motel he’d stayed at. He was in a reckless mood these days, but that was no excuse for being an idiot.
Growing up, he’d seen plenty of news reports about people freezing to death in their cars, or after abandoning them to walk in search of shelter. Despite that, unlike getting eaten by a shark, the possibility of being killed by a snowstorm had never troubled his youthful nightmares. Snow came every winter and it was a pain, sure, but it wasn’t a danger. A blizzard meant no school, sledding, and hot cocoa with marshmallows afterward. As an adult he’d been inconvenienced by delayed flights in the winter, like most people, but that was as far as it went. Now, with the road rapidly becoming indistinguishable from the rough terrain bordering it, he gave serious thought to pulling over. The only thing stopping him was the fear that if he tried to wait out the storm, the car would end up buried in a drift or slammed from behind by the next vehicle to come along. He’d also eaten the energy bar half an hour ago.
Whatever boost a few mouthfuls of compressed granola and dried fruit had given his system—he placed energy bars above sawdust but significantly below brussels sprouts when it came to edibility, and he loathed sprouts—it’d worn off now. His belly rumbled discontentedly and he craved a stiff vodka tonic to wash the taste of flat bottled water out of his mouth. Of course, he also yearned for a medium-rare steak with all the trimmings, and a heap of golden fries dredged with salt and destined to be dunked in a pool of ketchup, thick, rich, and red. None of those things would probably pass his lips anytime soon.
“It’s a road,” he said, talking aloud because he’d fallen into the habit of doing that on the long drive. The radio was an annoyance, not a companion, in his current mood. At first, he’d pretended Peter sat beside him, and carried on a conversation with thin air. That left him feeling unbearably lonely, so he’d stopped. Besides, Peter would’ve hated the thought of someone, even Gary, putting words into his mouth. “It’s got to lead somewhere, and pretty soon, you’ll recognize the somewhere.”
He didn’t dwell on the fact a road this empty and poorly maintained probably led to a summer campground, useless to him now since it’d be closed for the winter. He had a vague memory of some ski lodges around, but they’d be higher up. Not that he’d ever been to one, apart from on a school field trip once. By the time his class had been fitted out with skis, boots, and poles, it’d been time to go home. Skiing was something the rich tourists did, or the kids like Abe whose parents had money for vacations. Not Gary.
The snow eased off a little, enough for him to be able to see something of the road ahead. Either it climbed steeply, or he’d left the road and was driving up the side of the mountain. Instead of being plastered against his windshield, the snowflakes
whirled madly in the wind, buffeting the car like petulant toddlers. They mesmerized his tired eyes until he started to focus on them, not the road. The swish of the wipers back and forth added another strain to the storm’s hypnotic lullaby, and Gary yawned, blinking to keep his eyes from sliding shut. The heated air inside the car was stale and dusty. With a vague idea of seeing for himself how cold it was, he reached out for the switch that would open the driver’s-side window, automatically going for the place it would’ve been on his BMW. Sighing when his fingers met nothing useful, he groped around on the door, risking a single look sideways. It was dusk outside, and the interior of the car was shadowed and dim.
He located the switch and depressed it; the window hissed as it fought to descend but was hampered by the buildup of snow on the glass. It jerked down several inches and the hiss was lost in the wail of the wind. Cold air surged in through the gap in a whoosh of noise and snow.
“Shit!” Gary shivered when the side of his face received a wet slap, the snowflakes that struck it melting instantly and leaving his cheek damp and chilled. He breathed in the fresh air like medicine, inhaling it with quick, shallow breaths, and decided enough was enough. He’d gotten his answer. It was freezing cold out there. He should’ve taken that on trust.
With one hand gripping the wheel, he dropped his other hand to the switch again, glancing down at it automatically. That brief moment of inattention cost him. The car lurched to the side, leaving the road, the passenger-side tires riding not a solid shoulder but a ditch filled with soft new snow. Gary yelped and slapped his hand back on the wheel, leaving the open window to deal with later. The miniature snowstorm inside the car was the least of his worries. With a strength increased by panic, he managed to get the car back onto smoother terrain, feeling as if it were his muscles lifting the car, not the laboring engine and shuddering wheels.
His heart pounded as fast as if he’d been running, the shock of the near crash as painful a jolt as an air horn blasting nearby would have been.
Relief flooded through him. Close call, for sure, but he’d made it. Exhilaration made him stupid, and instead of decelerating, he pushed down on the gas pedal, sending the car forward in a smooth rush. The road ahead dipped slightly, curving to the right, and gravity added to the car’s forward momentum, making him feel like a kid on a roller coaster, clinging to the safety bar and praying he wouldn’t throw up in front of his friends.
His eye was caught by the lights of a vehicle approaching from the left, a vague yellow blur. It was the first sign of life he’d seen in over an hour, and it raised questions that needed to be answered on the spot. A side road—or was he the one expected to give way? Was he joining a bigger road, one that might lead away from the mountains and back to civilization and more familiar territory? Should he turn off and follow it? Yeah, he should.
He braked too hard, too fast, and felt the back tires skid, the car going into a lazy, stomach-turning spin, tires too smooth with packed snow to find a hold. He fought to break out of it, and ended up facing the right way but on the wrong side of the road, his car still moving in a shallow arc.
The other vehicle was a pickup truck with a snowplow on the front, looming up too fast in the dim light for Gary to do anything about the inevitable collision. Thoughts passed through his head, molasses slow. The truck wasn’t moving, so the driver must’ve come to a halt, waiting for him to pass. That also meant the driver wouldn’t be able to maneuver out of his way. If he’d been in his BMW, with its ABS and traction control, he would never have gone into the skid in the first place.
The glacial pace of the passing seconds abruptly changed to a blur, as if time had realized it was lagging behind and needed to catch up all at once. Gary gave the wheel one last, despairing wrench.
It wasn’t enough to guide the Taurus safely past the truck. Through the open window, he heard the sound of the collision, a teeth-gritting scrape of metal on metal. He felt it a split second later, the speed of the car thrown back at him like a punch. He lurched forward, the seat belt cutting into his chest, then slammed back, his skull striking the headrest with a dull thud. Pain blossomed, red and hot, an explosion of color behind his eyes, and the salted-copper taste of blood filled his mouth.
An instinct for self-preservation awoke, and he fumbled for the keys, turning the engine off and putting the car into park, his movements sluggish but the actions too familiar to require much thought. The wind chose that moment to die down. Eerie silence poured through the window with the snow, and Gary realized the other driver had turned off his engine too. Probably not unconscious then. He raised his head and squinted through the dusk, but the headlights on the plow, set higher than the front of the Taurus, had escaped being broken. The dazzle of their beams prevented him from seeing the truck’s driver or any passengers clearly.
Concern and guilt had him scrabbling to free himself from the seat belt, torn between being glad the airbag hadn’t gone off and peevishly wondering why it hadn’t. The collision had been hard enough, for God’s sake.
He got out of the car, the wind rising to greet him, and fumbled with the zipper of his coat. It was a silk-lined leather jacket, warm enough for driving and fiendishly expensive, but pitifully inadequate for standing out in a snowstorm. Zipped to his chin, it provided another layer for the cold to work its way past, but that was all. He’d forgotten how cold it got out here in the winter. His chest was tight with the chill of the air, his bare hands already turning numb. The snow lay in unpredictable drifts, the road scoured clear by the wind in places, hidden under three or four inches of snow elsewhere. When he made his way around the back of the Taurus, circling it to get to the truck’s driver the quickest way he could, snow sifted like sand into his shoes, soaking his socks. He rammed his hands into his coat pockets to get a moment’s relief from the biting chill, but had to take them out again when a misstep left him staggering, flailing for balance.
The pickup was dark blue or black. Snow and wind feathered white patterns onto the paintwork and obscured the driver’s-side window, though Gary could see the vague shape of the driver. He or she wasn’t trying to get out of the pickup, which was worrying. Someone had turned off the engine, though, he reminded himself—or was that a side effect of the crash? Could the truck have simply stalled out? He hadn’t been under the hood of a car for anything more challenging than checking the oil level in the last decade. He knocked on the driver’s window, calling out a greeting that the wind reduced to a whisper.
The door opened, forcing him back; the soles of his loafers slid on the snow. Annoyed at the way he had to fight to keep his balance, he blinked away the snow clogging his eyelashes to stare up at the driver, who was twisted sideways in his seat and framed in the doorway. Man. Tall. White. Pissed. The words popped into his head and bounced around. He had nothing else to attach them to. The guy was dressed for the weather. Snow boots to his knees, a heavy waterproof jacket, and thick pants concealed his body. Before Gary could get a good look at him, the man put on a fleece hat over thick, shaggy, dark hair, pulling it down low enough that in the inadequate light provided by the truck’s interior bulb, Gary could get only a general impression of annoyance from the man’s tight lips.
“Are you okay?” Gary blurted out. Peter had taught him never to admit to any liability, but that part of his life was behind him now, and out here in the wildly blowing snow, it didn’t seem to matter. “I skidded. Sorry.”
The man tugged thick gloves into place. “Can you move your car?”
His voice was deep, and there was something about his voice . . . some echo of familiarity. Gary tried to pin it down, but his thoughts were whirling like the snowflakes. “I don’t know.” Warm air flowing from the open door made him step forward, drawn to it, shivering convulsively now, his teeth chattering. It brought him closer to the driver too, but the man didn’t seem angry enough to punch him, only perturbed, and understandably so. Gary knew car accidents brought out the worst in people, but this guy was taking events
calmly enough so far. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police to come? They’ll want to take photos for the insurance report.”
The other driver snorted. “Yeah, I can see me sitting around on my ass, waiting for Jerry to haul his tail out here and take some pretty pictures of us frozen to death.”
Gary listened to what his brain was screaming at him and wondered why it’d taken him a full minute to recognize the man. “Oh my God. Abe?” He shook his head, shock making his words a gibe. “I might have known. You always did like wrecking my life.”
“Bullshit,” Abe said flatly, showing no surprise that Gary could see. He had to be feeling some, though. Jesus, anyone would be shocked to bump into someone they hadn’t seen in over eleven years, especially when the meeting was a literal collision. So Abe had developed a poker face. About damn time. “You ran into me. Welcome home. When are you leaving?”
“I’m passing through,” Gary assured him. Hard to argue forcefully when he could barely get the words out. “Look, we need to call this in. My phone’s dead, but if I could use yours, that would be great.” If his fingers didn’t fall off from frostbite soon, which would make pressing buttons a slight problem. Maybe he could use his nose.
Abe raked him from head to foot with a look that summed him up and dismissed him. Gary knew he must look like an idiot, unprepared and naive, but it was surprising how much that casual rejection from someone he’d once counted as his best friend stung. The last month had hammered his usually sky-high confidence into the ground, but he was worth more than a look and a sniff from Abe, who probably wore plaid underneath the layers.
“Good luck getting a cell phone to work out here even with a full battery. The reception’s shit. Sorry, it’s not what you’ve gotten used to in the big city. Get it through your head no one’s coming. We’ll have to handle this ourselves. Now move out of my way and let me see the damage to my truck.”
