though being towed, and when they slipped through a stretch of unlighted shops, she saw in its center the greeneyes, the greenfire, the suggestion of shadow darker than itself.
'Jeff,' she said fearfully.
'Boy, he looked terrible,' Jeff said, fighting with the wheel to keep the car from sliding on the oil-slick avenue. 'God. I don't know how he keeps it together, y'know? If I were him, I'd probably look for the nearest cliff, you know what I mean?'
'Jeff, please.'
'Trace, I'm doing the best I can, but I can't pull over here. There isn't any room. You want a bus to come up and bash us into New York?
Take it easy, we're almost there.'
Thunder was the rain that slammed on the roof; lightning was the flare of swinging traffic signals straining against their wires.
'Jeff, go faster.'
He looked at her, amazed. 'What? In this? But you just told me to slow down, Tracey!'
'Jesus, Jeff, don't argue!'
He saw her looking out the back and checked the rearview mirror, frowning at the white that filled the back window. 'What the hell is that? It can't be spray, I'm not going that fast.'
Greenfire that licked and curled toward the car.
Tracey closed her eyes and prayed. Even in talking with Don she didn't believe it, was more inclined to think she had been infected by his own fantasy, his understandable and unnecessary need to get away for a while. She'd known those moments herself, but never so intensely, never so importantly that she'd thought them real.
A white ribbon drifted over her window and she rubbed at it frantically, hoping it was only condensation from her shallow breathing. It didn't leave, she couldn't banish it, and she turned to Jeff and urged him to hurry.
'Tracey, look-'
The fog dropped a strand over the windshield and she muffled a scream, jammed her foot down on his, and pressed the accelerator to the floor.
Jeff yelled in alarm and shoved her away, and the car began to slide from one side of the street to the other, narrowly missing a parked car, a tipped garbage can, the point of a curb. He sawed at the steering wheel, touched and released the brake, his mouth open and swearing while he stared at the road ahead.
Alongside, then. It was coming up on her side and she whimpered Don's name.
'Tracey,' he said nervously, 'what's going on?'
She had to look away. She had to look at him because of the abrupt fear that pitched his voice high and pulled his lips away from his teeth. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and he kept tossing his head back because he didn't dare release his hands. He was pale, and in the stuffy car his face was running perspiration.
The wind buffeted them, shoved them, and the wiper on her side stuck midway to the top.
'I gotta stop,' he said. 'We're going too fast, I gotta stop or we'll crack-'
'No!' she screamed, and lunged for the accelerator again.
He swung out a frantic arm and caught her across the throat. She gagged and fell back, gulping for a breath, shaking the tears from her eyes, turned her head slowly and inhaled a scream when she saw the stallion's left shoulder even with her door.
It lowered its head, and she saw the green unwinking eye.
Jeff yelled then and the car swung into a skid, helped by the wind and pummeled by the rain. Tracey slapped one hand to the dashboard to brace herself, put her right hand over the door handle in case she had to leap out.
The car slewed, spun, and they were thrown to the roof when it thumped over a curb, were thrown back, then snapped forward when it crashed into a tree that loomed out of the fog. Tracey's arm took the shock to her shoulder, and she moaned but kept her head from striking the windshield.
Jeff, however, had been knocked into the wheel and he was slumped over it when she was able to clear her vision, a sliver of blood at the corner of his mouth, his arms limp at his sides.
'Jeff! Oh, Jeff, please!'
She tugged at him, pushed him, but he only sagged back and slid over, landing partially on her lap. The fog seeped through a crack in his window.
'Jeff, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' She eased him upright, kicked open her door, and fell to her knees into the street. The car was half up one of the boulevard islands, a maple cracked over its top and scraping the roof with its branches. Shading her eyes against the rain, she tried to see how close she was to home, how close the stallion was. But there was only the mist being shredded by the rain and the dark bulk of the car rocking slowly in the wind.
On your feet, she ordered, and did it; find yourself, she demanded, and she did it, gasping when she realized they were far past her street, had jumped the island across from the park's entrance.
The boulevard was empty.
She staggered around the back of the car and held her hair away from her eyes as she reached for the driver's door. The wind kicked her against it, and hot needles of pain spun around her shoulder and spiraled her back. She gasped. Her mouth opened and filled with rain. She spat and reached again, and uttered a short cry.
The boulevard was empty, except for the stallion galloping down the east-bound lane-neck stretched and greenfire, ears back and greeneyes, billows of smoke-fog filling the air around it, the sound of its hooves replacing the rain's thunder.
Which way? Oh Jesus, which way?
There was no escaping, but there could be stalling, long enough, she hoped, for Don to understand and come after her. And the only place she knew that he would think of right away ...
With a shriek of hatred at the charging animal, and despair for leaving Jeff, she let the wind push-shove her across the lane and past the wall.
Into the park where half the lights had been knocked out. Running toward the pond where the water slapped over the sides.
He ran.
Slapping the rain from his face, ignoring the puddles that grew into lakes, Don ran toward the center of town. It occurred to him Jeff might have taken her home, but he couldn't be sure. By now Tracey knew it was after her, and she wouldn't want any of her family hurt. And there was no place else to go where she was sure he would follow-she had to be at the park, waiting if she were still alive.
He scowled and punched his chest. He couldn't think like that or it was over; he had to know she was alive and somehow avoiding the stallion.
Maybe in the trees where it might not be able to maneuver so well; maybe along the wall to keep it between them. But she was alive. She had to be alive. What the hell would be the sense if that damned thing got her?
At home, though, was her father, and her father's gun. He didn't know what could stop it, if anything could, but Tracey would have to be thinking of a weapon to defend her, and the best one would be where her father's guns were kept.
Oh, Christ, he thought; make up your mind!
Stop, he yelled then, without moving his lips; stop, don't do it, it's Tracey and I didn't mean it!
If it heard his hurt, it must hear his pleading; if he was in control, it couldn't not obey. Unless, under the new rules, it protected without question.
Oh, Christ, he thought; make up your damned mind!
He wasn't going fast enough. He would never be able to outrun Jeff's car, or outrun the horse. He had to stretch out, he had to reach, he had to beat the wind to wherever he was going.
He was going too fast and he was going to slip and break a leg if he wasn't more careful; he was going to run out of steam and be too late if he didn't pace himself like always.
A race, he told himself; a race, and there they are, looking out their windows watching, cheering silently, waving flags and tooting horns as he swept under awnings, went with the wind instead of trying to fight it, his sneakers splashing a wake behind him, his arms cutting through the cold rain to give him room to move.
They were cheering because he was Don Boyd, and he was going to make it.
He fell.
