Thebigger car drew even . . . but then kept going, acceleratinglike a bullet in the barrel of a gun, flying ahead, speed already bleeding fromthe Camry as Dad lifted his foot from the gas once more.
“Jesus,”Dad said. “He’s got to be doing a hundred!”
“Thatwas him,” said Isabel. “Old Charlie.” No one in the front seat replied, justwatched the tail lights dwindle in the distance. Seconds later, nothing butfar-off red dots in the night by then, the lights flared bright for an instantand disappeared, the fast-moving car apparently entering another turn. Momfinally twisted in her seat.
“Now,hon.” Mom was trying to sound flat and reasonable, Isabel could tell, and shewas almost succeeding. “You know that was just some old man, and there’sno such thing as . . . oh, what now?”
Shestared past her daughter, through the rear window. Isabel craned around to see,though she was already aware of the car brightening around her. Her heartjumped when she saw more lights coming out of the night—but it was lotsof lights this time: a police cruiser had exited the turn behind them, red andblue strobes flashing.
Dadhit the brakes and directional, easing the car over to let the speeding policevehicle pass with a “Yeah, go get him!” He followed it with an “Oh, you haveto be kidding me!” when the cruiser slowed and drew up behind them,indicating they should pull over. “This is crazy,” he said, tires crunching ingrit as he parked on the shoulder. “What about that old guy? He was going wayfaster than—”
“Justcalm down,” said Mom. “Maybe we can explain—”
“Iam calm!” Dad caught himself, took a breath, and repeated in a quietertone. “I am calm. But this is really—”
Theyall jumped at the rap on his window. He rolled the glass down with anover-bright “Good evening, Officer.”
“It’sDeputy, sir. License and registration, please.”
“Deputy,sorry, if I could just explain—”
“Licenseand registration, please,” the man repeated, shining his flashlight into thecar, illuminating Dad, then Mom, then Isabel, before returning to her father.“We can just get that out of the way, if you don’t mind, sir. Then we can getto your explanation.”
Isabelstudied the sheriff’s deputy while he waited: not quite so tall as TallPaul—though maybe a few years older—he still reminded her of the gangly gasstation attendant. It may have been that he spoke in the same slow drawl. Hecertainly wasn’t as friendly or talkative as the pump jockey, offering only acurt “Thank you, sir,” when he accepted the paperwork and took everything backto his own car.
“Iasked about speed traps,” said Dad. “You remember? I said—”
“Weremember,” soothed Mom. “We were there. But are you going to tell me we weren’tspeeding?”
“Well,okay, yes, but—”
“Wehave to ask why he pulled us over instead of that old man, that’s what we haveto do.”
“OldCharlie,” Isabel piped up.
“Sweetheart.”Mom looked back at Isabel with serious eyes. “We both told you, there’s no suchthing as—”
“Doyou happen to know the speed limit along here, sir?” The deputy was back atDad’s window, holding out the paperwork, the star on his breast winking in hiscruiser’s flashing lights.
“Fifty-five?”Dad said, passing the license and registration along to Mom. “I know I wasspeeding, but—”
“Alongthe straightaways, yes sir, but it slows down for the turns. It’s forty-fiveback there in that windy bit you just come out of, but do you know what Iclocked you at coming through there?”
“Idon’t know. Maybe sixty? But—”
“Sixty-seven!Sixty-seven miles per hour on a twisty stretch of road like that is about theleast safe thing you can do, especially with your young daughter in the car.”
“But,Deputy—” Mom leaned over to read the nameplate on the man’s breast.“. . . Campton? What about the other car? The one that passedus coming out of that turn? And driving much faster?”
DeputyCampton’s eyes were blank. “What other car?”
“Whatother car?” Dad sounded incredulous. “The one riding so close he waspractically in my trunk, running his high beams and leaning on the horn? Thatother car?”
Camptonstared at Dad levelly for a moment, then: “Am I going to have to make you takea field sobriety test, sir?”
Mommade an angry sound, but Isabel was already powering her own window down.“There really was another car, Mr. Campton, and it was right behind us. I couldsee the driver, and it was an old man and he looked so angry, and Icouldn’t ever see his eyes, and his horn scared me . . . andthen he drove by so fast . . .” She realized she wasbabbling, and her words ran out of steam. “. . . and it was OldCharlie,” she finished. “You know. The ghost.”
Thedeputy looked from Isabel to her father, and took his time answering. “Look,”he said, finally. “I don’t know what y’all thought you saw, okay? But what Isaw—and I was looking, mind—was one car come barrel-assing—excuse me,little missy—through some dangerous turns at more than twenty miles over thespeed limit. More than twenty. Then, when I pull them over, it turns outnot to be joyriding kids but a married couple with their child in the car. Ididn’t see any old angry man, and I sure as hell—pardon me—didn’t see any ghostcar.”
Helooked in at Isabel. “Whoever told you about ‘Old Charlie,’ or a ghost car orsomesuch, they were just tellin’ campfire stories. Pulling your leg. Thereain’t no such thing as ghosts, little missy. Especially not on my stretch ofroad. I wouldn’t allow it.”
Heturned to Dad. “That being said, sir, maybe you think you saw something, ormaybe you’re just pulling my leg. Doesn’t matter. What you do once you getto Gallway is your business, but until you get there it’s mine. Slowdown.” He tore the top ticket off his pad and thrust it into Dad’s hand.Then he grinned. “You have a nice night, now.” He straightened, gave a doublerap on the Camry’s roof, and walked back to his cruiser.
Insidethe Camry, Dad was quietly exploding.
“Twohundred and twenty bucks? Really? Two hundred and twenty bucks! This is—” Hecrumpled half the ticket in his fist and raised his hand, preparing to flingthe offending paper to the car floor, then took a deep breath and smoothed
