that nasty guy riding along behind me in the dark, even in the
trunk. I mean, did you see his teeth? Ag!'
He got on the turnpike, trading scenery for speed, and made it as
far as the Gray service area before deciding to have another look at
the picture. Some of his aunt's unease had transmitted itself to him
like a germ, but he didn't think that was really the problem. The.
problem was his perception that the picture had changed.
The service area featured the usual gourmet chow - burgers by Roy
Rogers, cones by TCBY - and had a small, littered picnic and
dogwalking area at the rear. Kinnell parked next to a van with
Missouri plates, drew in a deep breath, let it out. He'd driven to
Boston in order to kill some plot gremlins in the new book, which
was pretty ironic. He'd spent the ride down working out what he'd
say on the panel if certain tough questions were tossed at him, but
none had been-once they'd found out he didn't know where he got
his ideas, and yes, he did sometimes scare himself, they'd only
wanted to know how you got an agent.
And now, heading back, he couldn't think of anything but the
damned picture.
Had it changed? If it had, if the blond kid's arm had moved enough
so he, Kinnell, could read a tattoo which had been partly hidden
before, then he could write a column for one of Sally's magazines.
Hell, a fourpart series. If, on the other hand, it wasn't changing,
then ... what? He was suffering a hallucination? Having a
breakdown? That was crap. His life was pretty much in order, and
he felt good. Had, anyway, until his fascination with the picture
had begun to waver into something else, something darker.
'Ah, fuck, you just saw it wrong the first time,' he said out loud as
he got out of the car. Well, maybe. Maybe. It wouldn't be the first
time his head had screwed with his perceptions. That was also a
part of what he did. Sometimes his imagination got a little ...well ...
'Feisty,' Kinnell said, and opened the trunk. He took the picture
out of the trunk and looked at it, and it was during the space of the
ten seconds when he looked at it without remembering to breathe
that he became authentically afraid of the thing, afraid the way you
were afraid of a sudden dry rattle in the bushes, afraid the way you
were when you saw an insect that would probably sting if you
provoked it.
The blond driver was grinning insanely at him now-yes, at him,
Kinnell was sure of it-with those filed cannibal-teeth exposed all
the way to the gumlines. His eyes simultaneously glared and
laughed. And the Tobin Bridge was gone. So was the Boston
skyline. So was the sunset. It was almost dark in the painting now,
the car and its wild rider illuminated by a single streetlamp that ran
a buttery glow across the road and the car's chrome. It looked to
Kinnell as if the car (he was pretty sure it was a Grand Am) was on
the edge of a small town on Route 1, and he was pretty sure he
knew what town it was-he had driven through it himself only a few
hours ago.
'Rosewood,' he muttered. 'That's Rosewood. I'm pretty sure.'
