Page 16

You’re losing it, Chandler.

Probably. Almost certainly. And yet, I dived behind the nearest trunk, and crouched down. I peered cautiously through the ferns, the cool fronds tickling my face. My gaze fixed on the road, waiting…

A second or two later, a car—large, dark, with a long hood and classic, sweeping lines—glided into view.

A vintage Cadillac DeVille.

My heart stopped.

Not my imagination.

Not losing it after all.

“What the hell…” I whispered. But yes, what the hell? What the hell was going on?

The Cadillac slowed as it neared my rental, high beams illuminating the empty interior, the lopsided front.

To my horror, the Cadillac suddenly pulled in behind the rental, red exhaust furling into the night air. The driver’s door opened and a man got out.

He was built like a bull. Large and broad-shouldered. He had a face like a bull, too. Long, blunt features, rough-hewn like something carved out of wood. His hair was silver, but he didn’t move like an elderly person.

I didn’t recognize him.

Or did I?

No. But… There was something vaguely familiar about him. Or maybe he was just a type. The archetypal movie villain type.

I didn’t move, didn’t dare take a breath as he stood silhouetted in the glow of the headlights.

What the fuck do you want?

He stared at the tree line and my heart stopped.

He turned back to the rental, peering inside. He tried the door handle.

The rental chirped and its car lights blinked.

Shit . My breath caught. The key fob was in my pocket. Had the car just unlocked? Was I still close enough to trigger the system?

Instinctively, I felt for my back pocket, and nearly overbalanced into the damp earth. It was already too late. The car was either unlocked or not.

The man tugged on the sedan door again, slapped the roof of the car, and stepped into the middle of the road, his head turning slowly, scanning the darkness.

Seeming to reach a decision, the burly figure turned back to the Cadillac, his shadow looming grotesquely against the tree trunks.

He ducked into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut.

The car’s engine revved once, then it rolled forward, tires crunching stone and dirt, bouncing back onto the highway, picking up speed.

The red taillights vanished into the mist.

For a second or two I remained crouched and stricken as darkness reclaimed the road. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and my own shaky breaths.

But there was no time to waste. He’d find out soon enough that I wasn’t walking along the road hoping for a ride or trying for a cellphone signal.

I hopped up, sprinted back to the rental, fumbling open the lid to the trunk. To my relief, there was a spare in the back. A jack and lug wrench were nestled in the wheel well.

Hands shaking, I hauled the spare tire out.

Hurry. For God’s sake, hurry.

I struggled to fit the jack beneath the car. Struggled to remember how this worked.

Is this right?

The jack was heavier than I remembered. Awkward and unwieldy. I pinched my hand as I worked to fit it beneath the frame, tore fingernails. I cursed softly, fervently as I pumped the handle.

All the while, I was thinking, This can’t be happening.

But it was happening, and with every passing minute I was running out of time.

It was just hard to understand what had just happened. What was still happening. What did that guy want with me? What would have happened if I’d waited by the car?

If that blowout had happened on the coast road…

I could have had an accident.

I could have been killed.

I listened numbly to the echo of that thought. I could have been killed.

The car creaked and groaned as I slowly jacked it up and off the ground, each pump of the jack handle sending a sharp, metallic click echoing into the dense, breathless quiet of the woods.

My pulse raced, my breath coming in short, ragged gulps as I yanked the lug wrench from the tire well, fingers clumsy as I fumbled it into position. The darkness seemed to press closer with every second.

My ears strained for the sound of a returning engine as I knelt, breath misting in the cool, damp air, and began loosening the lug nuts.

They resisted at first, the metal creaking under my weight as I leaned into the wrench.

I could feel the strain in my shoulder muscles.

My cell phone, positioned unhelpfully on the dirt, threw my distorted silhouette against the wall of trees.

How long before he realizes the truth? How long before he swings the Cadillac around and heads back?

“Focus,” I panted.

Sweat trickled down my temple, stinging my eyes. My fingers kept slipping on the cold metal as I worked. Finally, finally, I cracked the last lug nut loose, the sudden, satisfying give of the metal momentarily breaking the oppressive silence.

Silence? The night was not silent. It was alive with alarming and alien sounds. Rustling leaves. Insects. The eerie cry of an owl hunting.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the dense line of redwoods, came the muffled pound of the surf, the sound carried up the coastal cliffs on the cold, salt-tinged wind, mingling with the sharp rustle of dry leaves and the slow, creaking sway of the trees.

Occasionally, a sharper crack echoed through the darkness as a branch snapped, the sound sending my heart skittering against my ribs in terror.

“Come on ….”

I yanked the ruined tire free, the shredded rubber sagging in my grip like dead flesh. I stared at it. Even in the uncertain moonlight I could see that the sidewall was clearly, unmistakably slashed—a long, deliberate gash that curved like a scythe blade.

Since this was the very thing I suspected, I’m not sure why it was such a shock.

Maybe because it made no sense.

When had it happened? At the gas station? When I’d gone inside.

This couldn’t have anything to do with U.N. Owen. It was not good business practice to injure or kill your blackmail victims.

But nothing else made sense, either. How could this be a coincidence?

It couldn’t.

Somehow, this was all connected.

I dropped the tire, struggled to fit the spare into place. It had been years, decades, since I’d had to change a tire—and never with the speed of an Indy 500 pit crew.

I fumbled the first lug nut, the small metal disc slipping from my damp, unsteady fingers and clinking sharply against the gravel. My swear was half sob, and I stopped again to listen, every nerve straining, for the telltale crunch of gravel, the guttural rumble of an approaching engine.

Hurry , the wind whispered in the tall grass. Hurry…

I turned my cell’s flashlight beam toward the ground, found the fallen lug nut, and dropped it in my pocket.

I forced the spare into place, threading the lug nuts on with shaking fingers, my breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps as I tightened each one in turn.

I cranked the jack handle furiously, the car groaning as it settled back onto its wheels with a shuddering thump.

I jumped up, tossed the ruined tire and tools into the trunk, slammed the lid shut, and stumbled back to the driver’s seat, half collapsing behind the wheel.

I triggered the ignition, and the engine roared to life, headlights flaring against the trees, sweeping giant, monstrous shadows as I peeled out, jerking the car back onto the road.

The speedometer needled climbed steadily as I accelerated, flying down the vast, empty stretch of road back toward the lights and safety of civilization, back to Monterey.