This was a big moment for her.
Claire’s first foster parents had died in a car accident when she was six. He knew the memory of that collision still haunted Claire, held her back. Trevor had always encouraged her to practice driving. She refused. Now here she was, behind the wheel of his beefy H3, taking the wheel in her own hands.
And she had Trevor to thank for it.
After his car was fixed, he might even let her drive on the—
He felt a hard jolt.
The right front tire was on the ramp, but left front tire had struck the curb. It rode up, almost got over the curb, then fell back into the gutter.
The car was stuck.
Shit.
He’d given her a perfect chance, he’d put his faith and trust in her—and she blew it.
Typical.
“Claire!” he screamed.
She poked her head out the window and turned back to him with a guilty look.
“Sorry.”
Joshua was behind schedule and low on gas. His back ached and his joints were stiff. As his big rig rolled down the desert highway—approaching Blood Alley—he could feel the old pain return to his left knee. It always acted up on this stretch of the road. Blood Alley brought memories, and memories brought pain.
Ten years ago, Joshua had almost died here.
That damn left knee wasn’t going to let him forget it.
Now the old trucker was driving a tanker truck full of petroleum, a two-tank behemoth barreling its way from Long Beach to Las Vegas.
The trip hadn’t started off so well. A few hours ago Joshua was forced to change a tire in Sylmar. He had skipped the scheduled gas station fill-up so he could clear out of L.A. before rush hour.
Now the gas gauge taunted him.
The irony of a petroleum truck running low on fuel wasn’t lost on Joshua. If his rig crapped out on empty, he’d never hear the end of it. He had no choice now but to refill at the next station—this one just up ahead, coming into view.
Joshua saw a car parked on the station’s curb.
Three kids were behind the vehicle. Their backs were to him, but from their clothes and hair they seemed young. High schoolers, by the looks of them.
The car was a bright red Hummer, and the kids were pushing on the back end, trying to get their vehicle into the station. The emergency lights weren’t flashing, but it looked to Joshua like the car was stopped dead.
Don’t want to die on this road, he thought.
God knows, too many have.
He took his foot off the gas pedal and applied the brakes. The 40-ton semi truck slowed with a groan.
The cab shook and rumbled.
Joshua felt the slosh of petroleum in the twin tanks behind him, and knew he had to be careful. If he broke too fast—if the wheels locked and slid—the big rig could jackknife.
Not a great idea when you’re hauling 9,000 gallons of liquid fire.
Joshua honked to warn the kids.
They turned to him, saw the tanker truck approach, and jumped aside.
Joshua’s tanker truck slowed and stopped just inches from the back of the red Hummer.
When the dust blew past, one of the kids, the tall athletic one—some kind of jock—stepped up to the cab.
Joshua rolled his window down.
“Sorry about that,” the jock said. “Broke down a couple miles back.”
Joshua leaned out the window. He felt the sun on his face. “You picked a bad road.”
“Well, we didn’t really mean to—”
The kid saw Joshua’s face.
A look of horror flashed in the boy’s eyes, and he glanced away.
Joshua eased back in his seat, settling into the shadow of his cab.
The kid’s reaction didn’t bother him. Joshua got that look a lot, on account of the burn scars. Truth be told, his face was a melted ruin. The accident ten years ago hadn’t taken Joshua’s life—not quite—but it did take his looks. Now everyone stared at the hideous thing his face had become. It wasn’t cruelty Joshua saw in their eyes, but a flash of revulsion, chased by pity.
If they knew the real story....
But no one listened to Joshua. No one paid any attention to a crazy old man who was hard to look at and harder to believe. Years ago he would tell his tale to anyone who’d buy a pint and bend an ear, but no one ever took his story seriously, so now he just kept the truth to himself.
Joshua nodded to the red car ahead of him. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Don’t know,” the kid said. “Just broke down.”
“Need a push?”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
Joshua saw that there was already a driver in the car, someone to steer, so he started up his truck again. He eased it forward until the front bumper of the big rig nudged the back of the Hummer.
Then he gently pressed down on the accelerator pedal.
The red Hummer rolled forward. Its tires touched the curb and met resistance, then easily rolled up the little concrete ledge.
To make sure the car didn’t roll back, Joshua gave the Hummer a final push. The smaller vehicle rolled free, towards the station.
Someone screamed.
A girl’s voice, high and hysterical. It was the driver in the car.
What’s she hollering for?
The Hummer continued to roll.
A gentle slope in the concrete led down to the gas pumps. The red car picked up speed on the slope. It was headed for the pumps. The driver turned—
But in the wrong direction.
What was she doing? Why didn’t she just pull up alongside the pumps? Why didn’t she slow down?
Didn’t that girl know how to drive?
Ah, hell, Joshua thought.
But it was too late now.
12
Trevor's dead car had come to life.
Now it was a runaway.
Trevor saw the Hummer roll toward the gas pumps. Claire was at the wheel, but didn't know how to drive.
He ran after the car, calling out, “Brake! Brake!”
From inside the car, Claire yelled, “Trevor!”
“Hit the brakes!”
“They don’t work!”
Trevor knew damn well the brakes worked. Claire was panicking.
Probably stomping on the gas pedal.
If the car kept rolling, it was going to smash right into the gas pumps.
In matter of seconds.
Trevor sprinted for the passenger side. He reached the car, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.
He jumped inside, scrambled over the seat, grabbed the steering wheel, spun it to the right, and yanked up on the handbrake.
The Hummer skidded and stopped beside a gas pump.
Trevor took a deep breath.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m teaching you to drive.”
She gave him an icy stare.
Standing on the curb, Ethan watched Claire climb out of the Hummer. She slammed the door and marched toward the roadside diner.
She looked pissed.
They were all pissed, all except Ethan. He rarely got mad at anything. In fact, he was pretty Zen about most things. But he was definitely tired and hungry and in no mood for more travel.
There was a small building next to the gas station. Dinah’s Diner. It looked like a dump, but Ethan caught the smell of bacon.
At least there’s lunch.
The prospect of food made him feel better already.
Trevor called out, “Wait!” He chased Claire to the diner.
Ethan shook his head and said to Dakota, who stood beside him on the curb, “Here we go again.”
“They always fight,” Dakota offered, without looking up from her cell phone. She was scrolling through text messages. “I don’t know what my brother sees in her.”
“A sparring partner.”
Ethan caught Dakota’s frown. “What’s the matter?”
“No signal.”
“Welcome to the middle of n
owhere.”
Dakota stopped punching buttons on her phone and looked up blankly at the horizon. She was still sweating from the heat and the exertion of pushing her big brother’s car. Her dark hair was a windblown tangle. It stuck to the skin of her forehead. Ethan thought it looked sexy. Dakota looked like she’d just gone three rounds on the bed sheets.
Ethan wanted a fourth.
He brushed the hair from her forehead.
Dakota ignored the gesture. She looked back down and tried her phone buttons again. “I’m not getting a signal.”
“I am,” Ethan said. “You’re delicious.”
“I’m hot.”
“Yes, you are.”
He wrapped an arm around her slender waist, pulled her close, and gave her a soulful kiss. It had been too long. They’d hardly touched each other since the car broke down.
Dakota broke contact. “Ethan—”
It was a tease, of course. Ethan knew she liked it. She always said he was a good kisser. He gave her some more, brushing aside her hair to nibble an ear.
She pushed him away. “Not in front of my brother.”
Ethan licked her neck. “Your brother’s a little busy right now.”
She shoved him harder, but giggled.
“Later,” she said.
He reached around and grabbed her ass through her jeans. She had a firm butt that fit nicely in his hands. He gave her tight buns a quick squeeze.
She squealed in surprise—and, he noted, delight.
They hadn’t had sex in five days. Dakota would be feisty tonight. The image of a Cedarview hotel room, destroyed in a rock-and-roll frenzy of wild debauchery, flashed through Ethan’s mind.
Never had sex in a hotel before.
Tonight was the night. If they ever got there.
We’ll get there, Ethan told himself, then said to Dakota, “I’ll get the mechanic.”
Trevor caught up with Claire on the porch of Dinah’s Diner. “Would you please wait!”
The front door was dirty glass. Claire yanked it opened. A small bell on the door chimed a welcome.
Oh no you don’t, Trevor thought, and grabbed Claire’s elbow. The bell banged an alarm against the glass. Trevor shut the door and blocked Claire’s entrance. “Just wait.”
She wrenched her arm free. “Wait? Of course I’m going to wait. We’re all going to wait because you don’t plan ahead.”
“We planned this trip together.”
“I planned this trip,” she said. “Who booked the hotel? Packed the bags? Printed the map? I did your laundry, Trevor. What did you do?”
“Homework, swim practice—”
“Video games. But you didn’t get the car checked, did you? Did you even listen to what I said?”
It was an old argument. Trevor was tired of it. “Let’s not fight.”
“Let’s.”
The look in her eyes could start a brushfire.
This is going to be a long trip.
Trevor sighed. He raised his open hands to calm her. “It’s probably just a broken hose or something. It’ll be fixed in no time. A couple of hours at the most. Time enough for us to grab some food, cool off inside, and then we can get back on the road.”
Her left eyelid trembled. Never a good sign.
“Broken hose?” she said. “Right. Like you even know what you’re talking about.”
Trevor felt a flash of anger. “At least I know how to drive.”
A look of hurt washed over her. The spark of anger left her eyes. Her lower lip quivered. Claire dropped her gaze, shoved him aside, and rushed into the diner alone.
Ethan stepped into the garage.
It was dark and empty, smelling of grease and sweat and burnt coffee. Something stirred in a far corner. A scratching sound.
He called out, “Hello?”
The only answer was the echo of his own voice.
He glanced around. As his eyes adjusted, he saw tools and supplies, cars on jacks, tires leaning against a wall. A soft blue light spilled from under a closed door. A computer monitor, probably.
Ethan knocked on the door.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
He opened it and peaked inside.
The office was lit by the dim light of a flashing screensaver. No one was in the office, but it was clear that someone worked here. Paperwork hid the desktop. On the wall hung a calendar of buxom girls in cop uniforms. A baseball trophy sat on a shelf. The room had filing cabinets and a coffee pot that wanted cleaning.
Ethan stepped back and closed the office door. He found the back door and opened it, then glanced outside.
Behind the garage was an auto graveyard with hundreds of wrecked cars. The desert wind sighed and moaned through the grim yard. Ethan saw the twisted, tortured bodies of classic Chevies, Fords, Cadillacs, and Studebakers. Some ripped apart. Others crushed beyond recognition. Flies buzzed over metal skeletons. Ravens pecked at car bodies as if they were corpses. A snake curled around a steering wheel. A lizard sunned on a dashboard—
A voice behind him said: “That your Hummer out there?”
Ethan jumped, then recovered.
He turned to the man, who stood too close behind him. The mechanic was a large, imposing figure with leathery skin and smears of grease on his face.
Ethan said, “Uh, no, it’s—”
Trevor stepped into the garage, his frame silhouetted in the open front door. “It’s mine.”
The mechanic addressed the newcomer. “What’s wrong with it?”
Trevor shrugged. “Broke a hose or a belt or maybe a gasket.”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
13
Dakota stared at the pay phone outside Dinah’s Diner. She had promised to call her mom, but there was no signal on her cell phone. If she didn’t call, her mom would totally freak.
Why do I always regret my promises?
She frowned at the ancient pay phone. It was dirty and rusty and didn’t look like it would even work. Dakota had seen people use pay phones, of course, in the movies, but she’d never actually used one before.
Opening her wallet, she found the secured credit card her mom gave her for emergencies. There was supposed to be three hundred dollars on it. More than enough for a few long distance phone calls.
Dakota didn’t like to carry coins. She hated change, the way it clinked around her makeup and dirtied everything inside her purse. Her bag was a jumble, but at least it was mostly clean. She hated dirt.
Now here I am in the middle of the fucking desert.
Out here, dirt got in her hair and clothes and eyes. She could taste it in her mouth and feel it grating in her nostrils.
She hated everything about this trip. But she had no choice. The funeral was tomorrow morning. At least they would spend tonight in that Cedarview hotel, where she could wash the desert out of her hair. In the morning they would all go to the funeral, pay their final respects to an uncle she hardly knew, fulfill their family obligations, then head back home on Sunday.
Of course now, with the car trouble, they would probably get in late to the hotel.
Which meant she had to call her mom.
Sooner the better.
Mom would worry. She always worried. It drove Dakota crazy, made her feel like she wasn’t trusted to do anything.
Why couldn’t Mom just let things happen? They were going to happen anyway. That’s what Ethan said.
Dakota had been reading all about Zen. Ethan had given her a book about it, and she’d been practicing, meditating, changing her outlook on life to be less like her mother’s. But it was harder than it seemed.
I’m Zen, I’m Zen, I’m totally Zen.
The car, though. That was a problem. Hard to be Zen about that. At first Trevor thought there was a hose broken or a cooling problem, or maybe a battery thing. Ethan thought it was the transmission.
Claire, of course, thought it was a curse.
She was a weird one, Claire. She was crazy
about ghosts, claimed she always wanted to meet one, and she watched all of the ghost hunter shows on TV. And horror stories. Those were Claire’s favorites, curses and legends and things that screamed in the night.
For a natural blonde, that girl has a dark soul.
It had something to do with Claire being adopted or something. And something to do with that couple she lived with years ago, the ones who got hit by that car. Somehow, for Claire, it was all tied in with ghosts and spirits and dead things come to life.
Dakota didn’t like to think about those things.
Zen, I’m totally Zen.
Credit card in hand, Dakota stepped up to the pay phone, but couldn’t see where the card was supposed to go. There was no card slot or anything. She thought these phones all took credit cards, but maybe this phone was, like, really, really old.
It only takes change?
What was this, the wild west?
Dakota stuck her finger in the change return slot. No coins. Her finger came out dirty.
Gross!
Feeling icky, she took a tissue from her purse and wiped her finger clean. If she needed change, she could probably get some from Ethan or Trevor.
Or she could call the operator—call collect. She’d never done that before, either, but she knew it could be done.
The phone receiver was metal and covered with greasy fingerprints, so she used the tissue to pick it up. It was hot in her hands, but the tissue helped.
Dakota studied the pay phone’s keypad.
“O” was for operator, so she dialed “O.”
That didn’t work.
Then she saw the operator button.
Zero.
She dialed zero and waited.
Dakota put the phone receiver to her ear, but without actually touching it to her head. She made sure there was a good gap, so the germs wouldn’t get on her. But it made it harder to hear, with the wind all around. She heard the dial tone, then a ringing sound.
“Operator,” said a female voice on the line.
“Can I make a collect call?”
“Number, please.”
She gave her mother’s cell phone number.
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Dakota.”
“One minute.”
A minute seemed like an awful long time to wait for a phone call.
It didn’t take that long.
Blood Alley (The Highwayman) Page 5
