“And you're…” he prompted, quirking an inquiring eyebrow at me as he spun us through yet another neck wrenching turn.
“Isabel Stanley.”
“Isabel,” he said it like he was testing it, applying it to me to see if it would fit.
I knew it wouldn't. “Most people call me Stan.”
I got another one of those flickering glances, but this one was provocative.
“You don't look like a Stan.”
I hunched down in the seat, trying to stop the smile that wanted to curl the edges of my mouth. Vanity, thy name is…Isabel. And he didn't say what he did think I looked like, I pointed out to myself. But the smile stayed pasted on.
We rounded another corner—I was almost getting used to them—but then we just missed a car backing out of a driveway. My adrenaline surged again as the wheels on my side of the car when up on the curb, but Kelvin Kapone-with-a-K managed to avoid the collision. No surprise that my thoughts skittered off into irrelevancy. Clean underwear. Hopes of mine staying clean. Wondering if anyone would notice—other than my mother. She noticed everything.
I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud until he asked, “Noticed what?”
“Oh, I was just thinking—”
“About?”
I looked at him. I didn't want to tell him, but this close to death was not the moment for a lie, even a white one. I could be making explanations to God any moment now. I admitted, “Underwear. I was thinking about underwear.”
“I see.” There was a smile in his voice though he was smart enough not to let it spread to his face.
I peeked at the speedometer, then wished I hadn't.
“I used to be a law abiding person.” I tried to sound severe but my voice betrayed me by quivering.
“You still are. I'm the one that's speeding.”
“Accessory after the fact—” He made a quick turn, the rear wheels shrieking across the pavement, a short burst forward, then another turn, this time running a red light. A long, straight street stretched in front of us. No turns in sight, unless it was into a parking lot. I saw a dry cleaners sign I recognized and gasped, “Drop your pants here for quick attention.”
He gave me a startled look.
“I was talking about the dry cleaners. That's their motto.” What did he think I was talking about? “I know where we are. There's a park just ahead where I walk my dog—” The car slowed. “What's wrong? Why are we slowing down?”
He made another turn onto the street that paralleled the park. Now I was sure I knew where we were. It was a good feeling. It didn’t last. The car slowed and I looked at Kelvin Kapone-with-a-K in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His gaze roved between the road ahead and the rear view reflection of the minivan.
“We’re slowing down. They’ll catch up with us.” I tried not to sound shrill, but I don’t think I succeeded.
“I know. I’m gonna force them off the road.”
“How—” But I already knew. I’d seen the movies with their disposable Hollywood cars. “Not with my sister’s car!”
As if I hadn’t spoken, he eased Rosemary’s car into the center lane. The minivan jumped like a dog smelling blood and swung over to my side. I was caught in a waking, slow motion nightmare. Frozen in horror, I stared in the side mirror at the steadily gaining minivan. Then I didn’t need the mirror. Fake wood veneer trim and pea green paint pulled into my peripheral vision. Above the veneer an open window framed the driver.
He had a gun.
It was pointed at me.
Behind the round, dark barrel was a shadowy figure with a round, hairless head, round mouth and round eyes. I tried to become one with my seat as Rosemary’s car began to veer toward the van.
I don’t remember lunging for the wheel, just found my hands around it. I jerked it left. We careened that direction across the street and up the curb into the park. Kelvin Kapone with a K yelled as he fought the skid across the winter brown grass of the park. A metal skeleton rose like a ghost in the night. A jungle gym set. He yelled again. Something that might have been obscene. I yelled, too. No question it was obscene. I hoped God would understand when we met in a few minutes.
He yanked on the wheel. I pressed feet against a brake I wished I had. We missed the jungle gym by inches and skidded through the uprights of a swing set. The rubber swings scraped across the roof, banging once in the open top. I don’t know how he managed to avoid wrapping the car around the supports.
He looked dazed. “Can we get back to the street this way?”
“Yes,” I gasped, “just past the airplane—”
“Airplane?” The headlights grazed the edge of it.
“Mem-or-i-al—” The word bounced with the car as we crossed a lumpy area in the grass. Something to do with earthworms, according to my mother. Bounce turned into a skid. Kelvin Kapone with a K straightened the car and looked at me.
I looked back where we’d been, thought I saw something square and gray in the grass. “What was that?”
“I think it was cement. Wet cement.”
The headlights of the minivan bobbed in our wake, then went sideways as it hit the patch. We descended to the street with a neck wrenching lurch, then he punched it, throwing me back against the seat as the car surged forward.
“Time to lose those clowns.”
We had a slight lead and he took advantage of it, executing a series of lightning, frightening turns that finished in a dark driveway. He pulled deep into the shadows beneath a stand of trees and shut off the engine. Something wet landed on me. I looked up. The sunroof was still open and it was snowing again. Through the opening, there came the unmistakable sound of an approaching vehicle.
“Is it—them?” I huddled down in the seat. Let the elements come as long as the bad guys didn’t.
“Maybe.”
What, he
