She followed him. That he would always remember. She followed him.
Everything was spinning now. He led the way into the house, feeling light-headed and tremendously joyous. “Can we go now?” Kathy asked.
He swung around and focused with difficulty. Why did she want to go so soon? Didn’t she understand? God, she was beautiful. He should tell her that. His lips formed the words; he remembered how it felt when he was a little kid going down a slide, at the best part, when his stomach took off by itself. It tickled. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Did you know that? You’re really beautiful.” He was sincere. He hoped she understood that. He was sincerely impressed by her beauty. “You are,” he insisted. “You are very, very beautiful.”
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“I’m drunk and you’re beautiful. What a combination.” He leaned forward and almost fell on his face. His legs felt like wood. Hell, a lot of him felt like wood.
All the time, she held that stupid camera. Right in front of those lovely breasts. The camera pointed at him, an indictment. “Hey,” he said. “Put that thing down. It spoils the view.”
She laughed. God, what a beautiful laugh. It went with the rest of her. “I thought I’d take a picture of you,” she told him.
For some reason, that scared him. “No, no. Don’t do that. C’mere.” He jerked her arm.
Kathy resisted. “I want to take your picture.” She stood back and held the camera chest-level.
Without thinking, Bob pulled his jacket over his head, covering his face. “How about this? The headless horseman!”
“I want to get a picture of your face.”
As drunk as he was, fear stabbed through Bob like a long, thin needle. “Why?”
She shrugged and laughed again. “No special reason.”
Bob turned and walked through the doorway. “Come on.” Through his haze he wondered if the pictures would turn out. If he was really going to do it, he didn’t want anyone to find out. But it was too dark; he had the jacket over his head. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. “Come on.”
She followed him without a word.
The room was devoid of furniture. For a moment, he thought that this might pose a problem, but then he remembered Sir Walter Raleigh. With a flourish, he dropped his suit jacket. Too hot for a jacket anyway, but his father (His Deityness) liked to see him in a suit, and that was part of the game. It got to be a habit. Besides, suits impressed the ladies.
He draped the jacket over the floorboards, carefully evening out the creases before sitting down cross-legged. “Might as well be comfortable.” He looked up at Kathy and patted the jacket beside him.
“No.”
“Aw, come on!” He decided to try another tack. “You know, there’s a war on. I’m just waiting to see if I won the lottery. Know what I mean? I might be dead this time next year.” He smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t you feel bad if you denied a soldier-to-be? Wouldn’t you feel bad?”
Kathy stepped back, her expression distasteful.
“You don’t like me, do you? No, don’t bother to deny it. I can tell. C’mere.” He rose unsteadily to his feet. “I know a secret. You only think you don’t like me. But I know. You really love me.” He reached forward, and his hands landed on her shoulders.
“Get your hands off me,” she said.
“Ooh, a wildcat. A little wildcat.” He grabbed for her arm. She pulled away and he almost lost his balance.
He waved his bottle at her “You’re spirited. I’ll give you that. Even Dad thinks so. Even His Royal Stick-in-the-Mud Deityness thinks so. I heard him say it. Really.”
He set his bottle down on the floor. Something was supposed to happen now, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was.
“Let’s go home,” Kathy said.
“Now just wait a minute. There’s some . . . unfinished business. Now you just wait. Right there.”
He remembered the gun. That would throw a scare into her. He chuckled to himself, thinking about how Kathleen Barrie’s damnable composure would crack if he pointed it at her. A great joke.
He made his way out to the car. Make sure the gun’s unloaded, he thought. Gotta make sure the gun’s unloaded.
He and his buddies often plinked at bottles in the desert. Bob couldn’t remember if he’d emptied the chambers the last time. He cracked the gun open and took out the bullets. She would be scared. She would be real scared.
He caught her trying to leave the back way. He grabbed her by the arm, planted a kiss on her cheek, and jerked her back into the room. “I brought something for you, see?” he said, waving the gun.
She pulled away and backed up toward the wall. “What do you want?” she asked.
“What a bald statement,” he said, trying to clear his vision. “I’m a gentleman, and gentlemen don’t make bald statements.” He leveled the gun at her. “Maybe I’ll just shoot you. Maybe I’ll just shoot you dead.”
The camera dropped from Kathy’s hands. Her face had gone white with fear.
“But if you’re nice to me, how could I shoot you?” he asked, and the heavy gun pulled his arm down.
Kathy inched toward the doorway.
“That’s a rhetorical question,” he explained. He aimed the gun again. “You should love me, not John. John’s dead. What good is John?” The gun wavered in his hand. The common sense of that statement would surely get through to her. She would understand; she was a smart girl.
And then she did the unforgivable. She laughed.
He shook his head. “Don’t laugh,” he said. “That’s not nice, don’t laugh at me.”
“You don’t have the guts to shoot me.” Her eyes glittered.
He staggered. “Don’t I?” He cocked the pistol.
“Go ahead, shoot me,” she taunted. “I don’t believe you can.”
No real man could refuse a dare.
He pronounced clearly, “Bang bang, you’re dead.”
And waited for the dry click of the empty chamber.
A flash of terror in her eyes, and then time stood still.
Several things happened at once.
Explosion. Light. Sound, loud and rushing and BIG, the gun snapping back in his hands and cutting a nick in his palm.
The force knocked Kathy back like a puppet jerked by unseen strings. A dark blossom appeared on the white skin of her forehead, obscuring her hairline.
An instant. And the world caved in around him.
Kathy’s body jackknifed at the waist, flew back into the wall. Vapor exploded from the center of her corpse, Bob saw it pour out of her and into the box camera on the floor with the sound of air going out of a tire.
Her soul, he thought whimsically.
Her eyes no longer concealed the secrets of centuries. They were just fixed globes in her very white face, darkening slowly, like lamps burning out. Her arm was a barber pole underneath her head.
For a long time, he stood over her, looking at her eyes. Then, he cradled her still-warm body in his arms, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, and wondering why she would never let him touch her in life. Stretching along her length, he rested his cheek against hers, and, careful to avoid the blood, pressed his fingers deep into the flesh of her arms. She felt alive. As long as he didn’t look at her empty eyes, he could enjoy the illusion for a little while.
Much later, he bawled like a baby.
Fifty-four
The stretch of highway west of Bisbee winds down from the Mule Pass Tunnel in a series of snaking turns, all downhill. It doesn’t seem like such a tall grade, but looks are deceiving. The road gets down that mountain in a hurry.
On Friday morning, Chelsea drove along Tombstone Canyon and turned onto US 80 before the underpass.
It was October 31, Halloween. Yesterday, she had returned from Tucson in the early morning hours, fallen into a dreamless sleep, then woke in time to go through the motions of teaching. After class, she’d gone to pick up her ‘57 Thunderbird, relieved to see it s
itting safely in the garage.
All day, Chelsea was gripped by a choking dread, unable to rid herself of the image of Uncle Bob creeping toward her, that unearthly light in his eyes. Grinning and saying, “I can have you committed.”
Now, driving toward Chiricahua College, Chelsea tried to keep these thoughts from eating at her.
I did all I could. I can’t be responsible if he won’t listen. She’d confronted him, she’d debased herself, she’d tried. Surely Kathy would understand.
But her fear for Bob—and of him—clung like a foul black mist to her mind.
Cold morning air streamed through the car’s vents. The Thunderbird warmed up slowly, shuddering as it toiled up the long grade to the tunnel. The storm two days ago had left the sky mostly clear, but lowered the temperatures considerably. Like the misty hills in a Chinese silkscreen, the forested peaks appeared through holes in the gray winter clouds.
“Just a little farther,” Chelsea coaxed, “then it’s downhill all the way.” The Thunderbird responded.
Her mind kept returning to Uncle Bob. She tried to blot his face from her thoughts, tried to concentrate on the class she would be teaching within the hour.
The car picked up speed as it emerged from the tunnel. Chelsea stepped lightly on the brakes, preparing to drop into second.
The pedal traveled almost to the floor. Chelsea lifted up her foot, pushed down again.
Spongy. Nervous now, Chelsea pushed again.
No resistance at all! The car continued smoothly forward.
Chelsea thrust her foot against the pedal again, stamping down several times.
Scenery whisked by, faster and faster. The road twisted and dipped before her like a ribbon being pulled hurriedly underneath. The speedometer edged up to fifty.
Shift down. She’d have to shift down. Automatically, Chelsea’s left foot searched for the clutch.
Fifty-two.
The clutch! Chelsea jammed her foot on the clutch, grabbed for purchase on the ball shift. Her hand, wet with perspiration, slipped off.
A car approached from the opposite direction.
She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. Her car was straddling the middle lane. Chelsea made herself turn the wheel only slightly—and just missed the other car. The red-and-white missile shot past, the driver’s angry voice following her headlong flight down the mountain.
Fifty-five.
Try again. She stabbed for the clutch. Her foot slipped off the pedal, the pedal jerked up.
Fifty-eight.
A turn uncoiled before her. The car jolted onto the shoulder, and Chelsea straightened it out. The tires grabbed for purchase, slipped, spun, and then she was on the road again.
Sixty.
Be calm. Think!
The emergency brake! Chelsea reached down, her fingers brushing the lever.
Where is it? Ahead, the road ran straight in a gradual downgrade, reeling in before her. The sensation of speed snatched her breath away, and for a moment, she was paralyzed with fear.
Sixty-five.
Chelsea tore her eyes from the road. The brake! Grab the brake! Its familiar shape slipped into her fingers.
She pulled.
The back wheels caught, froze, skidded. The car bucked, fishtailed. Her hand twisted with the motion, releasing the brake accidentally. It sprang back, out of her fingers. The T-bird shot forward like a bullet.
Ahead, Chelsea saw a clearing. A road, going up the hill to the right. Narrow. Dirt. Lined with rocks. Her only chance.
Now. She had to do it now. Chelsea aimed toward the road, her foot jammed on the clutch. She shifted down, felt the car seize, the engine whining. The Thunderbird’s tires left the road and plunged across the dirt shoulder.
The Thunderbird slammed into the twin ruts, rocks flying up. The back end slewed sideways to crash into the hill. The car paused in mid-flight, then—incredibly—rocketed forward again, the tires chewing into the dirt road. Chelsea hung onto the wheel as the T-bird tore up the ridge, walloped by brush. The incline loomed above her as the car thudded across a rut, bounced out, and—thank God!—slowed.
Where was the handbrake? Chelsea leaned to the left, her hand grabbing only air.
Dust blocked her vision.
Where was it?
A boulder flew up, glanced off the passenger door.
Her chin hit the steering wheel, a glancing blow.
There! Her hand closed around the handle once again. She pulled hard.
Wheels crunched on rocks. Dust rose in a fountain.
For a crazy moment, Chelsea thought the Thunderbird would shoot backward down onto the hill, but this time the emergency brake worked. The car remained on the shoulder for a moment, then tottered and slipped sideways, plunging into a mass of oaks at the side of the road.
Slow motion. Dust bursting on the windshield like a dirty fireworks display. Something dark and snakelike and sharp shot through the passenger window, narrowly missing her face.
Dust in her mouth. Dust everywhere. Leaves flattened against the edge of the windshield.
Chelsea realized the seat belt had probably saved her life.
The Thunderbird had come to rest at an angle, propped against a tree trunk on Chelsea’s side, the right window framing a crazily tilted sky. She had to crawl up onto the other seat to reach the passenger door.
The door was jammed. Chelsea pushed with all her might, aware even as she did so that the car was precariously situated, at least one wheel off the ground. She could feel the instability, feel it rocking as she pushed.
A grating sound of metal on bark. Loose rocks trickled down the grade.
She’d have to go through the window.
She was halfway through when she felt the Thunderbird totter. Would her weight pull it over on top of her?
Take it easy.
She paused. Silence. A whole world of silence, dusty and white.
Slide. Careful.
With one quick motion, Chelsea slid over the door and fell to the ground. Felt the thud of her hip against the dirt, her head snap back, the skin of her scraped arms sting against the open air.
She stood up, shaken but unhurt.
How did I get out of this alive? The needle on the speedometer had read seventy when she left the road. By all rights, she should be dead.
The car. Oh God, her beautiful classic car.
It looked as if a giant eagle’s talons had repeatedly raked the length of the driver’s side. The limb that had just missed her eyes poked through the window, cruel and sharp. A crumpled front fender, practically fused into the tree trunk. Turquoise glass frosted the ground.
Shaking too hard to stand, Chelsea sat at the edge of the road, unable to act. At last the tears came. For her car, for her great-uncle, for her close brush with death.
After a while, Chelsea stood up.
She followed the dirt road to a ranch house, where the owner called the police and the paramedics. They made her ride in the ambulance to the Copper Queen Hospital.
Ben checked his watch. He could pick Chelsea up in about an hour.
Jim Durkee wiped his hands with a rag and came over to the chain-link fence of the impoundment lot.
"What is it?" Ben asked.
Durkee paused.
"Come on, Jim. You can tell me. I was the one who told you to look."
Jim looked doubtful. "There'll be an investigation."
"The brakes were fixed then."
"I guess I can show you, as long as you stay on the other side of that fence." He crossed to the Thunderbird and hunkered down next to the left back wheel. He held up a small valve. "See this? Bleeder valve. It was missing on the front. Not only that, but the fitting from the wheel cylinder to the brake line was loose. You know what I'm saying?"
Ben knew all right.
Chelsea stared out the window at the rust-colored hills, but did not see them. “You’re sure?” she asked Ben.
“When was the last time you had your brakes worked on?”
“Ernie didn’t touch them?”
Chelsea shook her head. “He was just supposed to do a tune-up.”
“What was done to the brakes? In San Diego.”
“They checked the drums, the shoes. Everything was fine, I’d know if there was something wrong with them. They’d be mushy, wouldn’t they?”
Ben nodded. “How did the car feel yesterday after you picked it up at Ernie’s? Did the pedal seem mushy to you then?”
“No, I don’t think so. I would have remembered.” Chelsea did notice that the brakes had been a little spongy as she reached the bottom of Quality Hill. She’d chalked it up to adjusting to the Thunderbird after driving the rental car. From Tombstone Canyon, it was uphill all the way, including the yield sign at US 80.
“Every time you touched the brakes, you pushed more air out.”
Chelsea remembered the panic that had gripped her when the pedal traveled to the floor. The helplessness. Who would want to do that to me? Who would want to kill me?
The nurse came in. “It’s official. You can go now,” she said.
“Why don’t you stay with me at the ranch?” Ben asked. “Until we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Is that a proposition?”
Ben smiled, but Chelsea could tell his mind was elsewhere. She knew he was frightened for her.
She rose stiffly, picking up the folded clothes at the bottom of the bed. “I think that’s a good idea.”
On the way to Chelsea’s house, Ben stopped at the Phelps Dodge Mercantile in Warren. “Wait here,” he said, jumping down from the truck. Chelsea was perfectly willing to stay put. Her cuts and bruises were beginning to ache.
Ben emerged a few minutes later, carrying a pumpkin. He grinned sheepishly as he handed it to Chelsea. “Are you any good at carving jack-o’-lanterns?” he asked. “Because I’m hopeless.”
Chelsea smiled, enjoying the feel of the cool weight in her hands. Solid, comforting. She remembered the Halloweens of her childhood, when witches and ghosts and goblins were only the stuff of dreams. “I think I can manage,” she said.
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