Part 24 (1/2)

Sat.u.r.day, January 15th, 3:05 p.m. Fredericksburg, Virginia From under the Miata's hood, Alex said, ”Okay, try it again.”

Behind the wheel, Toni said, ”Okay,” and turned the key in the steering wheel ignition. The motor coughed, deeper than it had before.

”Give it a little gas, pump the pedal!”

She did. After a second, the engine caught and began a throaty rumble.

”Yes!” she and Alex said at the same time.

They were alone in the garage. Greg Scates, the car's former owner, had come and gone. Alex had taken a quick look at the Miata, then as soon as he'd seen the odometer, had said to her, ”Jesus, it's only got nine hundred miles on it!”

He'd made the man an offer right then. Greg had been surprised at how much the offer was. Way more than he'd expected.

Alex had transferred the agreed-upon sum from his credit card to Greg's account and waved bye-bye as the man left.

Now Alex closed the hood, wiped his hands on a red rag, and grinned at Toni.

They'd been working on the car for several hours. They had found the tires, which were in remarkable shape inside plastic bags, and pumped them full of air using a little compressor that ran off the van's electrical system. They'd put the wheels back on the car. They had added gasoline, oil, water, transmission and brake fluid, and other lubricants, replaced the battery, and tinkered with the fuel injector. Alex had done something with the plugs and wiring, cleaned preservative off various components, fiddled with this seal and that one, and now, finally, the tiny car purred.

He had, Alex had told her, every intention of driving the thing home, even though the license tag was years out of date. ”Be worth the ticket if we get caught,” he said.

He cleaned the grease from his hands, walked around to the open driver's door, and looked down at her. ”It'll need a new top,” he said. ”And a set of new belts, plug wires, some other minor stuff. Paint is in pretty good shape, but I'm not that fond of arrest-me red. Maybe a nice teal,” he said.

She grinned back up at him. She'd gotten a little dirt under her fingernails too, helping him put the wheels back on the car and pa.s.sing him tools. He had been like a little boy, all excited, pointing out stuff to her. ”Look at this. Look at that!” He'd gotten completely lost in the work, and in the doing of it had also lost years of responsibility. It pleased her to see him this way. So relaxed. Having so much fun.

”So, let's take her out for a little spin,” he said.

She started to get out of the car.

”No, go ahead, you drive. You can use a manual s.h.i.+ft, can't you?”

”Sure.”

He finished wiping his hands, circled around the back to the pa.s.senger side, and got into the car. The garage door was already open, and the bright afternoon beckoned. Toni put the transmission into reverse and carefully backed out onto the driveway to the street, turned the wheel, and started to s.h.i.+ft into first.

”Wait a second,” he said. He twisted in the seat, caught the rear window zipper, and pulled it across behind her. He pressed the thin plastic rear window down behind the stabilizer bar, reached across in front of her, and undid the roof latch on her side, then the one on his side. With one hand he accordioned the top, folding the heavy black material down and behind them.

”Voila!” he said. ”Convertible! It's not too cold for you, is it?”

”Nope,” she said.

”All right then. Let's see how she rides.”

Toni eased the clutch out-it was a bit stiff and it squeaked-and the Miata scooted forward. The short-throw stick made s.h.i.+fting up the gears fast and easy, and pretty soon they were rolling along a four-lane highway at sixty. It was a responsive beast, the steering tight, and cornering was a delight. She took a thirty-mile-per-hour curve at fifty, no problem.

”It's quieter than I thought it would be,” she said. ”And not as windy.”

He said, ”Push it up to about seventy and watch.”

Traffic was light, so Toni goosed it a little.

At seventy, the wind seemed to slacken, as did the noise. She said as much to Alex.

”Yep, it's quieter at seventy than at fifty-five. That was part of the aerodynamic design. Isn't this great?” He grinned at the road in front of them.

A few miles up the highway, Toni pulled into a supermarket parking lot.

”Something wrong?” he asked.

”Nope. Your turn. You've been itching to take the wheel since we hit the street.”

He grinned again. Boy, she liked seeing that. He jumped out of the car and hurried around to the driver's side as she moved over into the pa.s.senger seat.

Behind the wheel, he checked his outside mirror first, then the inside one. Then he looked across at the outside mirror on the pa.s.senger side. ”That one's a little off,” he said.

She reached out to adjust the mirror.

”Hey, I can get it,” he said. ”One of the joys of a car this small. Watch.” He leaned over, reached across her chest, and grabbed the mirror. ”See? Can't do that in the snail van.”

Stretched out across her, one hand out of the car on the mirror, he glanced up at her face from a few inches away.

She could smell him, his sweat, his aftershave, and there he was, the back of his arm almost touching her breast, his mouth close enough to kiss.

Without thinking anymore, she did just that. Leaned a hair forward, put her lips on his, and kissed him.

Are you out of your mind, mind, Toni Toni?

The sudden jolt of panic shot through her like an electrical charge. Oh, no! What had she done?

She pulled back to break the kiss.

Alex brought his hand away from the mirror, put it behind her head, and held her there. He worked his lips, opened his mouth, and found her tongue with his.

There must be a G.o.d, Toni thought.

Sat.u.r.day, January 15th, 12:15 p.m. Eastern Oregon No two ways about it, Howard was trapped.

He had been lucky, in that the waist-thick fir had enough branches on it to break the main trunk's descent enough so it hadn't smashed him to a pulp. But the tree's bole had come to rest on the back of his left calf, and had pinned him to the ground face-down. He managed to clear away a few small branches on his back and thighs so he was able to struggle to a sitting position, his b.u.t.t against the trunk. His left leg was pinned, his right leg free, but stuck more or less straight out in front of him.

Not the most comfortable position he'd ever been in. There was no pain in the caught leg. Was that good? Or bad?

He could still wiggle his left foot, feel his toes inside the insulated boot, so that was comforting. Might not even be broken, the tibia or fibula, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was that his virgil was safely locked to a nice D-ring on his pack, over there by his cook stove. It was only about ten feet away, but given the present circ.u.mstances it might as well be ten million miles. He wasn't going anywhere.