About halfway through the labyrinth, we came upon a big old black Cadillac.
Chapter Forty-eight
Parked close behind some sort of boxy delivery truck, the Cadillac took us by surprise. There it suddenly was, its front bumper close enough to touch.
Rusty must’ve noticed it an instant before I did. He gasped and dropped to his knees. At first, I didn’t know what was wrong. I thought maybe someone had spotted us. Then I saw the hood ornament and felt as if my wind had been knocked out.
I hit the ground behind Rusty.
Twisting his head around, he whispered, “Is it it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Anyone in it?”
“I don’t know.”
Rusty moaned. “What if they’re in it?”
“Got your knife?” Even as I asked, I shoved a hand down the front pocket of my jeans and wrapped it around Slim’s folding knife.
Rusty reached back under the hanging tail of his shirt and pulled out Slim’s sheath knife.
I opened my blade. My hands were shaking. “They’re probably in the stands,” I whispered.
“They better be.”
I raised my head. The windshield had no glare. A pale glow from the grandstands lit up the rear window so I could see straight through the car.
If I’d found the twins staring back at me from the front seat, I probably would’ve dropped dead. Or at the very least filled my jeans. Instead, I let my breath out.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “They’re gone.”
Rusty took a look for himself. Then he muttered, “Thank God.”
We started forward again, moving through the narrow space between the side of the Cadillac and the station wagon beside it.
I suddenly got an idea. It sent a jolt of fear through me. Fear and excitement.
“Rusty, wait.”
He stopped and looked around at me. “Huh?”
“Think it’s really their car?” I whispered.
“Must be.”
“Yeah. Look. I’m gonna check it out. Maybe we can find out who they are.”
“But the show.”
“Screw the show. Anyway, it’s not gonna start for a while. Wait here.” I switched the knife to my left hand. With my right, I reached up for the handle of the passenger door.
“Are you nuts?”
“Shhh. Keep an eye out. Yell if anyone comes.”
The door wasn’t locked. I opened it. No lights came on. Cigarette stink filled my nostrils. When I climbed into the car, stuff slid and crunched under my feet. There seemed to be a lot of junk on the floor in front of the seat. Magazines or maps, bags, food wrappers, maybe some small boxes. I couldn’t see much in the darkness, but that was the impression I got.
I sat down and opened the glove compartment. It was full. I took out some cigarette packs, matches, maps, napkins, rubber gloves like my mom usually wore when she washed the dishes.
I kept on searching, pausing to look at papers, hoping to find the car registration. There didn’t seem to be anything of the sort, but I found an ice pick with a wooden handle.
“Jeez,” I muttered.
“What?” Rusty asked through the door.
“An ice pick.”
“Let’s get outa here,” Rusty said.
I put Slim’s knife back into my pocket. Keeping the ice pick, I crawled out of the car. I eased its door shut and showed the pick to Rusty.
“Nasty,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Gonna keep it?”
