What was it Richard Gorman had told her? …he would like the privacy to deal with Izzy himself. Maybe it was just an error in translation, but Cassidy thought it was an odd choice of words. Izzy didn’t need to be “dealt with,” Cassidy thought. She needed help.
As Cassidy pressed her accelerator down to ascend a small rise, she felt the car hesitate. A quick glance at the gauges told her that the temperature had climbed even higher, and she noticed a smell, like baking chemicals that she must have missed with the windows open. Could she make it to the next town? She tried to estimate the distance and came up with at least ten miles. Suddenly, her engine light came on and she lost power. Panicking, she scanned ahead for a turnoff but saw only more freeway.
“Oh no,” she muttered, turning on her signal and steering for the shoulder of the highway. Steam now billowed out from under her hood, blinding her. She heard the crackle of road grit under her tires as she coasted over the white line, coming to a stop near a red-dirt embankment populated by shrubby pines. She shut off the engine and set the emergency brake.
Was the engine on fire? She jumped out, grabbing her backpack, wallet and phone, and hurried to the back hatch. Inside the side compartment was a fire extinguisher. She grabbed it and moved along the far side of the car, dropping her possessions in the dirt and approaching the hood, which was still steaming, though less so now that the car was off.
Though she had never used an extinguisher, she remembered a training video she’d watched long ago—there was a pin to pull, and so she yanked it free, then stood ready, pointing the hose at her hood as if she knew what she was doing. Cars whizzed by her, blowing the smell of the burning chemicals into her nostrils and grit into her eyes. One car honked and she resisted the urge to flip them off.
But the car didn’t erupt into flames, and after several minutes, she lowered the extinguisher. Then, she sat in the dirt and put her head in her hands.
Eighteen
Cassidy sat in the shadow of a pine, the red dirt hot on her butt as the balding tow truck driver hooked up her dead vehicle.
“Radiator probably blew,” he’d said when she told him the events leading up to the car losing power. “Fried your engine block.” He shook his head and went to work with the chains and hooks.
The man, whose striped uniform shirt said “Gary” above the breast pocket, also informed her that all five auto shops in Redding were closed on Sundays.
Her cell phone battery was dead. She should have charged it during the drive from the fairgrounds, but hadn’t realized how low it was until she went to call for a tow truck. She had wanted to search for alternative forms of transportation while she waited for the tow truck. Redding had an airport, rental cars. Now, formulating her plan would have to wait until after she dropped off her car.
Where was Izzy now? I was so close, Cassidy thought. Is she safe?
A looming unease that Izzy was in danger wouldn’t let go of her thoughts. She sat in the dirt, her meager possessions piled in her lap, trying to decide if she should continue her mission or let it go like Richard requested.
A rumbling roar of an engine decelerated nearby, and Cassidy looked up to see a shiny black motorcycle driven by a man in black leather chaps pull to the curb behind her Subaru which was now being winched onto the back of the tow truck.
The man parked the bike and slid off the saddle, slipping the helmet off his head.
Dutch.
Cassidy had to look away from his bemused grin, but heard his boots approach over the hiss of passing cars.
“How does a smart girl like you run out of gas?” he asked.
Cassidy stared at her unpainted toenails. “I didn’t run out of gas,” she hissed, feeling venom pour into her veins.
He raised an eyebrow.
“My radiator blew,” she offered, squinting up at him.
He bobbed his head. “Tough break,” he replied.
Cassidy wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Are you following me?” she asked. True, this was the only route from the rally to San Francisco, but she couldn’t shake the idea that his arrival was no coincidence.
Dutch’s face gave nothing away. “You going to Redding?” he asked, bracing a hand on his hip.
Cassidy shaded her eyes and glanced in the direction of the tow truck where Gary was attaching tail lights to her Subaru. “Yeah. I’ll drop it off at a garage.”
Dutch wandered over to where Gary was removing his gloves. The two men exchanged words Cassidy couldn’t hear. Gary nodded, then Dutch returned to her side.
“I got a buddy owns a garage there,” he said. He glanced at her car. “Not that he’ll be able to do much if you’ve got a blown head gasket.”
“Wait, you mean I can’t fix it?” she asked, feeling a desperate form of panic rise up inside her.
“Oh, you can,” he said, his grin widening. “But it’d be a whole lot better to sell it for junk and start over.”
Cassidy felt the prickling behind her eyes that signaled she was about to cry. She glanced at her Subaru, hoisted like a fallen soldier, and thought of Pete in the front seat, feeding her
