Something flashed off through the trees. She killed the lights and I felt my way back to the car.
We sat in the dark, listening to the rain drumming lightly on the roof.
“Looks like somebody’s home.”
It was my voice, rising out of nothing. I moved over next to her and we sat for a while just looking at the light from the cabin.
“Whoever’s there keeps late hours,” I said.
I put my gun on the seat beside my right leg, along with the flashlight. It was hard to know what to do, to do the wise and right thing. It would be a grope, going up there in the dark, and I couldn’t take a chance on using the light. Slip on the rocks and maybe break a leg. But I knew I couldn’t sit here till first light either.
Trish was trying the radio again. “Car six to desk.”
A broken voice came at us from the dash. “…esk…ix…you…ish?”
“Stand by, please.” She turned her face and spoke in my ear. “I don’t know if he’s really reading me. What should I tell him?”
“Whatever you want.”
It doesn’t matter, I thought grimly. It’s up to us.
Correction. It was up to me.
I felt a little sick thinking about my predicament. Trish had no place in this action except to complicate it. Should’ve seen that, Janeway, and read her the rules accordingly. You see things differently at the bottom of the hill. You play by her rules, bending over to be politically correct, and you bend too far and put your tit in a wringer.
But it wasn’t my call anymore because that’s when the killer came for us.
57
These things happened in less time than it takes to tell it.
I felt his presence. I knew he was there, and then he was there.
The windshield smashed and shards burst in on us. I heard a clawing sound, someone tearing at the door on the driver’s side. I brought up the light and saw a flash of steel, and I killed the light and fell across Trish as two slugs came ripping through the door glass.
The back glass blew out, crumbling into hundreds of little nuggets. I reached behind me and slammed down the lock—just in time, as he grabbed the handle and yanked it hard, rocking the car with his power. Something heavy came down on the roof: the car took a rapid-fire pounding as if some giant had begun battering it with a log. He was kicking at the door with his boots, as if he could smash it in and tear us apart with raw power. I heard the side window break: another kick and it came completely out of its frame, and I knew in seconds he’d have his hand inside grabbing for the lock. I couldn’t find my gun—in the scramble on the seat it had fallen somewhere and I didn’t have time to fish for it. What I did was instinct: I grabbed the gearshift, jerked it down, and hit the accelerator with my fist. The car bumped down the slope, driverless and blind, clattered off the road, hit a deep hole, and threw us together with a punishing jolt. Trish took the brunt of my weight: her breath went out like a blown tire, and the car careened again and she took another vicious hit. I thought we were going over, but no—there was a tottering sensation and a heavy thud as the wheels came down. I heard the sound of bushes tearing at us: we were plunging through the underbrush, spinning crazily on a quickening downward course. I was going after the brake when the crack-up came—a thud, a crunch, and a shattering stop, flinging me against the floor with Trish on top. I felt a tingle in my legs, and in that moment my great fear was that I had broken my back.
I kicked open the door and slipped out on a carpet of wet grass. I lay there breathing hard, listening for approaching footsteps. I heard Trish move inside the car, a few feet away. “Where are you?” she said thickly, and I shushed her and pulled myself close. I reached back into the car, felt along the seat and down to the floor. I felt her leg, her thigh, her breast, her arm…and under the arm, my gun.
“Hold tight,” I whispered. “Don’t move.”
I pulled myself around to the end of the car, facing what I thought was the upslope. Now, you son of a bitch, I muttered. Come now.
Now that I can bite back.
But of course he didn’t come, he was too cunning for that. I sat in the rain and waited, guessing he could be anywhere. He could be ten feet away and I’d never know it till too late. This worked two ways—he couldn’t see in the dark any better than me, I could hope, and in any exchange of gunfire my odds would have to be pretty good. I had been in gunfights and left two thugs in cold storage: all he’d done was kill people.
I felt better now. The gun was warm in my hand, like the willing flesh of an old girlfriend. Sweetheart, I thought, papa loves you. I looked back where I knew the open door was: wanted to say something that would cheer her up but didn’t dare. I didn’t know where he’d gone: couldn’t risk even a slight bit of noise that might stand out in the steady drip of the forest. He’d have to assume I was now armed. He’d have missed his chance to overpower us and now he would know—if he knew anything about me—that I’d had time to get out my piece. If not, it was a big mark
