Part 66 (1/2)

Jake braked. The truck slowed.

”Let's ask-”

”No.”

”This is a mistake.”

”Don't say a word.”

We rolled to a stop. The guard looked us over, bored, then waved us through. Before I could speak, Jake hit the gas.

A sudden thought.

Back at the museum, Jake never asked about Blotnik.

I hadn't given him time?

He already knew that Blotnik was dead?

I looked sideways. Jake was a black silhouette, long neck corrugated by the bony tube of his throat.

Sweet Jesus. Did Jake have an agenda of his own?

Jake accelerated hard. The truck lurched forward.

My palms slapped the dash.

The terrain turned desolate. My world narrowed to the two red blurs at the Citroen's rear.

Purviance goosed it to seventy, then eighty.

We ran hard through desert older than time. I knew what stretched to either side of the highway. Terra-cotta hills, furnaced valleys, Bedouin camps with their shoddy huts and slumbering herds. The Judean wilderness. A moonscape of bleaching bones and seeping sand, tonight all lost to the fog.

Mile after mile of stillness. Nothingness. Now and then a rare lamp bathed the Citroen in artificial light. Seconds later, our truck would blink through. I'd see my hands, salmon surreal, bracing the dash.

Purviance edged toward ninety. Jake matched her.

The Citroen rounded curve after curve, taillights winking into our vision, then out, then in again. Our truck strained. We began to drop back.

The tension in the cab was palpable. No one spoke as each of us focused on those pulsing red eyes.

We hit a b.u.mp. Jake downs.h.i.+fted. The front wheels went airborne. The rear followed. My head whiplashed as the truck slammed down.

When I looked up, the Citroen's taillights were disappearing in mist.

s.h.i.+fting back into fourth, Jake gunned it. The lights ballooned. I stole a peek in the side-view. No one behind us.

In my memory, what happened next happened in slow motion, like an instant replay. In reality, the whole thing probably took a minute and a half.

The Citroen entered a curve. We followed. I remember glistening blacktop. The needle nearing ninety. Jake's hands, tight on the wheel.

A car appeared on the other side of the highway, headlights blurry ribbons slas.h.i.+ng the mist. The ribbons wavered, then swooned toward the Citroen.

Purviance jerked the wheel. The Citroen pitched right, dropped two tires onto the shoulder. Purviance jerked again. The Citroen hopped back up onto the pavement.

The oncoming car crossed the center lane, illuminating the Citroen. I could see Purviance's head wagging back and forth as she fought the wheel. Steady red told me her foot was slammed to the brake.

The oncoming car veered wide, away from the Citroen. Action and reaction. The Citroen also veered wide, and again bit gravel.

Purviance cut hard to the left and regained the blacktop. Inexplicably, the car then surged back to the right. The Citroen bounced from the road, and careened off the guardrail. Sparks flew.

Panicked, Purviance fought to go left. The Citroen hit slickness, hydroplaned, and spun.

The oncoming car was now hurtling toward us, tires straddling both lanes. I could see the driver's head. I could see a pa.s.senger.

I braced for the impact.

Jake jerked the wheel. We shot right and our front tire dropped.

The car thundered past.

Our rear tire dropped.

Jake's leg pumped, his hands death-locked the wheel.

We bolted and pitched, stones and gravel peppering the guardrail.

I planted both hands against the dash and tried to keep my elbows flexed. I dropped my chin to my chest.

I heard metal slam metal.

I looked up to see the Citroen's headlights lurch sideways. They hung a moment, then nose-dived into darkness.

I heard an eruption of metal, sand, and dirt. Another. A wailing horn. Steady. Terrible.

Our speed choked back. The guardrail clicked past slower and slower.

The truck had barely stopped when Jake flipped open his cell phone.

”s.h.i.+t.”

”No signal?”

”Piece of c.r.a.p.” Jake tossed the phone on the dash and jabbed at the glove box. ”Flashlights.”

While I found Mag-Lites, Jake dug flares from the back of the truck. Together, we sprinted up the tarmac.

The guardrail gaped jagged and curled. We peered past, down the hill. The fog was a dense ocean, swallowing our beams.

As Jake set flares, I hopped the barrier and scrambled down the slope.