Ethan climbed into the back. “Holy shit! Did you see that?”
Trevor said, “Where’s Dakota?”
“Bathroom.”
“Figures.”
Trevor started the car, drove the short distance back to the diner, and idled in the handicap spot.
He honked again, then said to Claire, “Will you go get her, please?”
Claire unbuckled. “She’s freaking out a little.”
“She can freak out in the car. We have to get moving.”
Trevor saw the glass door open. Dakota came out and went straight to his window. He rolled it down.
“Let’s go back,” Dakota said, tense and teary.
Oh, god, he thought. “Get in.”
“We could leave in the morning—”
“Get in,” Claire echoed.
“But the Highwayman—”
Trevor, Claire, and Ethan shouted in unison: “Get in!”
Dakota got in.
Trevor backed the car out. “Buckle up.”
They hit the road at sundown.
18
From the passenger seat, Claire watched in the mirror as the lights of the diner receded into the distance.
The sky was deep blue, fading to black, giving the stars a chance to assert themselves. In the vast open space between the road and the far-off hills, Joshua trees swept by in parallax.
Trevor drove silently, while Ethan and Dakota squirmed in the back.
“Stop it,” Dakota said.
“We could leave in the morning,” Ethan teased.
“I’m not scared.”
Ethan mimicked the old trucker’s deep voice. “One night, when the dark is quiet and the moon is full, and your sins lay heavy upon your soul…”
Already the first sliver of Earth’s shadow crawled across the lunar surface, giving the moon’s pale face a blush.
She saw the reflection of Dakota and Ethan in the window glass. Dakota jumped and squealed. Ethan laughed, as if pleased with his own naughtiness.
Trevor put a hand on Claire’s thigh. “I’m sorry for dragging you along.”
“I wanted to come,” she reminded him.
You couldn’t have kept me away.
Claire put her hand on his. Trevor had been tense all afternoon, but looked relaxed now behind the wheel.
They were on the road, and everything was fine.
Claire felt a jolt. Her purse jangled at her feet. The Hummer had run over something.
“Just a stick,” Trevor announced.
“Big stick,” Claire said. “Maybe slow down a little.”
“Don’t worry, I saw it. A little debris from the wind. Didn’t seem worth swerving around.”
All we need now is a flat tire.
Claire reached into her purse for her cell phone. She checked the signal.
No bars.
There wouldn’t be any coverage until they got closer to Cedarview. To save the battery, she powered the phone off, then turned again to the window and watched the rough shoulder of the road.
She could still see the reflection of Dakota and Ethan in the back. Dakota read aloud from Ethan’s SAT flash cards, and gave him clues with her body language.
She played with her hair. “Coquette.”
“A flirt,” Ethan answered.
She rubbed her body against his. “Conjugate.”
“To join together.”
She nuzzled his neck. “Concupiscence.”
“Kiss?”
She went for his ear. “Concupiscence.”
“Lick?”
She put a hand down his pants. “Concupiscence.”
“Hard?”
Ethan gave up, turned Dakota over, and got on top. They weren’t wearing their seat belts.
Keep your clothes on, Claire thought.
Trevor looked at Claire, making it a question.
“Lust,” she answered.
Trevor glanced in the mirror and scowled.
He turned on the radio, and dialed from the fading signal of an alt-rock station to classical…to country…to oldies.
Claire heard the DJ say, “…Stop Car Hop.”
She reached for the dial. “Wait!”
A youthful voice sang from the speaker:
I met my girl by the cherry tree
We took it nice and slow
I asked my girl to marry me
But her old man said no
Trevor rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Claire said, “It’s Frankie Lamarque.”
“You like this shit?”
“His picture was on the wall. Back at the diner.”
“So?”
“Frankie Lamarque died on this road.”
The song continued:
Polish the chrome
Put down the top
We’re leaving home
Drive till we drop
To the Last Stop Car Hop
Last Stop Car Hop
“Fail.” Trevor changed the station to alt rock.
The figure of a man appeared in the headlights. He was standing on the side of the road. A hitchhiker in a black duster and a slouch hat. Arm extended, thumb signaling for a ride.
“Hey, look,” Trevor joked. “It’s the Highwayman.”
Is it? Claire wondered.
The hitchhiker looked exactly like the guy she had seen at the diner, the one who appeared beside the ghost bike memorial.
“Pull over,” said Ethan.
Dakota leaned forward. “No, don’t.”
Trevor drove past the hitcher.
As the pale, gaunt face passed by Claire’s window, the man stared at her with glowing green eyes.
A chill ran through her.
It’s him.
The car slowed down and pulled onto the dirt shoulder.
“Trevor, no,” said Dakota. “We don’t know who he is, where he came from, what he’s doing alone out here. He looks…mean, Trevor. He looks evil. Don’t open the door.”
Ethan laughed, enjoying Dakota’s panic.
Claire watched the hitchhiker in her side mirror. The man thrust his hand into the pocket of his duster and walked toward the Hummer, his neck and jaw lit red by the tail lights, his eyes shielded by the brim of his hat.
She said, “He is kind of scary-looking.”
“Go, go, please, just go!” Dakota urged.
A sense of danger crept up Claire’s spine.
She put her hand on Trevor’s arm. “We don’t have room.”
The hitchhiker was almost to the vehicle.
“We can fit three in the back row,” Trevor said, and unlocked the doors.
“Not comfortably,” said Claire.
It sounded stupid, but it was all she could think of to say.
The man stopped and stood outside Dakota’s door, staring in through the window.
Dakota locked her door.
Trevor shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to make Dakota feel uncomfortable.”
He floored it.
Tires spun, throwing dust on the old man.
Trevor and Ethan busted up laughing. They shared a fist-bump.
Ethan smacked the seat with the flat of his hand. “That was awesome!”
Claire felt terrible. What if the man was stranded, like they had all been this morning? What if he was desperate for help, and they just passed him by, like that story of the Good Samaritan? Yes, it was safer not to talk to strangers, or pick them up on the highway, but it seemed wrong to tease him and cheer about it.
She glowered at Trevor. “You’re such an ass.”
Claire checked the mirror, and saw the dust settle behind them.
The hitchhiker was gone.
19
The Highwayman stood alone on Blood Alley, watching the tail lights of the big red boxy car rush into the distance.
There were four teenagers in the car. Two boys, two girls. The boys had taunted and jeered him. The dark-haired girl had been properly terrified, but the blonde girl in the f
ront passenger seat had stared directly at him through the window.
He’d sensed the fear in her, but also something else. A kind of hunger. Perhaps it was merely curiosity. The blonde girl was different from the others, though he couldn’t say why. She seemed…familiar. The memories from his physical life were unreliable—vague, clouded, distorted. But he felt somehow connected to this girl.
Behind him, another vehicle encroached on the road. The Highwayman turned to see a petroleum tanker truck advancing. The headlights found him. He stood his ground as brightness filled the air.
The tanker truck honked, then slowed, but did not have time to stop.
The Highwayman felt the return of an ancient rage.
Go away! Go back! You do not belong here!
The tanker truck did not heed the silent warning.
It swerved around the Highwayman.
As the truck roared past him, throwing dust and belching diesel, the Highwayman saw a German shepherd in the passenger seat. The dog snarled at him before vanishing from view. The tanker truck returned to the right-hand lane and continued down the road.
The Highwayman watched the tail lights diminish.
Behind the truck a metal chain slid along the blacktop. Caught in the undercarriage, the long chain bounced and twisted, throwing sparks. The loose end whipped like a dragon’s tail through the darkness.
There were others on his road tonight. Not many, but none were welcome here.
Trespassers.
Tonight he would teach them. Tonight he would remind them how the highway got its name.
Tonight is a night for blood.
With the power of his will, he summoned the Revenant from its slumber.
He did not see the ghost car approach out of the cold wind of the dark night, for his back was now turned to it, but he felt the ghost car speeding up behind him. His mind thrilled with anticipation. In a moment the phantom car and the unmortal driver would be reunited. He kept his back to the Revenant and raised his arms in front of him, as if to grip an invisible steering wheel. The ghost car drove into the Highwayman’s back. The coffin-nosed hood of the Revenant passed through him. The steering wheel passed through him. It settled into his waiting hands as the driver’s seat caught and cradled him.
The Highwayman took control.
The Revenant raced toward the distant lights of the tanker truck. The Highwayman accelerated, chasing his prey.
Behind the wheel of the tanker truck, cruising along at a cool fifty-five, Stanley took a few deep breaths and felt himself relax. Not all the way, not back to normal, but it was a start.
This breathing trick was something his second ex-wife had taught him. Whenever she’d call to bitch about money, Stanley would finish the conversation as politely as possible, say goodbye with a smile in his voice, hang up the treacherous phone, and take a few deep, relaxing breaths.
Breathing is life, he reminded himself. Control your breathing, and you control your life. It was something he’d heard once on talk radio, and to Stanley it made a helluva lot of sense.
He’d been thrown off course by that crazy old bum standing in the road, but he managed to avoid hitting the man, and now he wasn’t about to let some wandering homeless fleabag ruin his lovely ride.
Charger, however, was still growling at the passenger side mirror.
Stanley turned down the volume on the country music station.
“What’s the matter, Charger?”
He reached across the seat to scratch his German shepherd behind the ears.
“What you need to do is take a few deep, relaxing breaths. No, I mean it. I’m telling you, buddy, that shit flat-out works.”
The dog kept his gaze fixed on the reflective silver.
Stanley considered him a good guard dog, but his talents were wasted. Out here on the highway there was nothing much to guard against. Sometimes, in a fit of excitement, Charger would bark at a jackrabbit or coyote or hawk, momentary diversions that made Stanley bust out laughing.
But now Charger growled at the mirror for minutes on end. There seemed no point to it. Usually his dog loved these long drives. They’d crossed a million miles of blacktop together, he and Charger. This growling was different.
Something’s up.
Bright light bounced in from the mirrors and filled the cab of Stanley’s tanker truck. Checking his own side mirror, Stanley saw behind him a pair of demon-eyed headlights and an old-fashioned front grille. It was some kind of classic car, ancient Americana, black as night, with a coffin-nosed hood.
And it was coming toward him fast.
Too fast.
Charger barked and barked, with rising intensity.
Stanley checked his speedometer. He was still going 55 miles per hour. The other guy must have been going 90.
What’s your damn hurry?
The black car hurtled straight for the tanker truck. It wasn’t passing.
They were going to hit.
“Jesus.”
Stanley accelerated, but the black car was nearly on him.
The headlights disappeared from view.
Stanley gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands, bracing for impact, but—
Nothing.
The dog turned in frantic circles on the seat, barking and growling.
Stanley checked both mirrors. He couldn’t see the car, and Charger’s mad antics weren’t helping.
“What the hell?”
Charger barked louder, toward the sleeper berth behind the seat.
“Hush now, buddy. What are you—”
The black car honked as it emerged from the back wall of the sleeper berth.
A ghost car, Stanley realized, too late. It didn’t look like a ghost. It looked real, but could pass through metal.
Headlights bathed the cab in blinding light. The grille of the ghost car powered through the back seat.
Charger yelped and dropped to the floorboards for safety.
At the shivering touch of the phantom metal, Stanley screamed.
The steering wheel of the ghost car passed into his back and out through his chest.
The dog barked and growled as the ghost driver entered Stanley’s body. Stanley’s chest heaved. His neck tensed. His head snapped to attention. In the mirror, his eyes glowed green.
A voice that was not his own echoed in Stanley’s tortured mind:
I am the Highwayman. This is my road.
Stanley’s very human scream became the Highwayman’s death-rattle laugh.
The possessed driver straightened in his seat. He adjusted his hands, gripping the steering wheel at ten and two.
Stanley tried to fight off the intruder, but his body would not respond to his commands.
The Highwayman had complete control.
Stanley’s head turned to the right. His eyes stared at the growling dog shivering on the floor of the cab.
They locked gazes. A test of wills.
It’s me, Charger. Don’t you know who I am?
The Highwayman answered, You are not who you are.
To prove it, the Highwayman made Stanley power down the passenger window. An angry gust roared through the cab as the truck sped forward. Against his own will, Stanley’s lip curled.
His voice growled.
He snarled at his dog.
Charger whimpered, turned, jumped back onto the seat, then leapt out the window.
In the mirror Stanley saw his dog land, roll, and regain his feet.
A mournful barking receded in the distance.
Stanley stared at the radio.
Country music.
He had always loved country, but now felt a wave of revulsion from somewhere else inside of him. His hand moved to the dial and changed the station to hard rock. A smile came unbidden to his lips. He cranked the volume.
The petroleum tanker truck barreled down the road to the raging howl of “Highway to Hell.”
20
Trevor saw a white shape in the road ahead, and slowed down as
the thing came into view. It was a Honda Civic, stranded upside down like a storm-tossed turtle.
“Accident,” he said.
Smoke billowed from the engine.
“Call nine-one-one.”
In the back seat Dakota answered, “Can’t, no signal.”
Trevor pulled over to the shoulder. He stopped the Hummer ten yards from the accident, and parked with his headlights aimed at the wreck.
Someone was inside.
Oh, no.
Trevor switched to high beams and saw a red-haired woman suspended by her seat belt, her legs above her chest, her neck bent, her head pressed against the caved-in roof. She turned her head slowly to face the glare. Blood flowed from a gash in her cheek. More blood dripped down from the seat overhead.
She had a desperate look in her eyes.
“Help me!”
Claire unbuckled her seat belt and opened her front passenger door.
Trevor saw gasoline leaking from the busted tank.
He extended his arm to stop Claire from leaving.
“No, wait—”
Too late. She was already outside.
Trevor turned to Ethan and Dakota. “Stay in the car.”
“Hell no.” Ethan stuffed his flash cards in his back pocket, then grabbed his leather jacket.
The guys got out, leaving Dakota alone in the Hummer.
Trevor slammed the door as Claire rushed to the overturned wreck. He ran after her. Grabbed her. “Gas leak.”
Claire saw it, too. “We have to get her out.”
Whoosh! The engine caught fire.
The flames spread quickly, feeding on the front tires.
Behind them Ethan yelled, “Truck!”
Trevor turned to see headlights behind them in the distance. A truck fled the horizon, speeding toward them. Some kind of big rig.
“He’ll have a CB,” Ethan said. “We can call for help.”
Ethan zipped up his leather jacket, jogged back to meet the oncoming rig, and waved his arms to flag it down.
The woman in the burning car cried out, “Oh God, help me!”
I have to get her out, Claire thought.
She broke free of Trevor’s grip and rushed to help the accident victim before the lady burned to death.
Crouching low and drawing near the wreck, Claire sensed that something was wrong. The flames leaned into the wind—and gave no heat.
Blood Alley (The Highwayman) Page 8
