dust and losing precious seconds getting his car back onto the road.
In that time, John closed much of the gap between them. He took the corner perfectly, old reflexes and training surging to his consciousness for the first time in ten years. He upshifted, then braked and slammed his accelerator in a close series of movements that coaxed the maximum speed out of his tired old Nissan.
He was right on the Mustang's tail now, and damned if he was going to lose it.
***
Kaylie watched the road in front of them, clutching her backpack like a spiritual ward that would keep away demons. Her father sat beside her, his face haunted and waxy.
"What’s going on?" she asked. She wanted to know the answer to that question, wanted to know so badly that she felt she could scream if it wasn’t answered soon. Scream and never stop.
She could go mad.
She bit back the scream in the back of her throat, though, and looked to her father.
"What’s going on?" she repeated.
He didn’t answer.
No answers for her. She did not understand what was going on, or why she had felt so much anxiety when meeting her new teacher that morning. She only knew that she must not – could not – answer his questions about her past.
Why not? she thought for the thousandth time that day. Why couldn’t I say anything? Why not just tell him where you were from?
And suddenly, agonizingly, Kaylie realized that she herself didn’t know the answer to that question. She strained to think, to remember where she had been before that morning, but every time she did, her mind seemed to... bounce , somehow, and she found herself remembering only what she had had for breakfast that morning. All that lay before that meal was a fog.
She looked at her father again, and thought, Who is that? If he’s my father, why don’t I remember him?
The man beside her cranked the wheel hard then, and the Mustang slewed to the left, losing traction in spite of the expensive racing tires that bit and tore at the road beneath them. The man looked afraid. He looked terrified, in fact, and Kaylie knew with dreadful certainty that her eyes appeared every bit as frightened as his.
***
John yanked his wheel to the left, surprised at the abrupt swerve the Mustang took in front of him. It had passed several small dirt roads, and when it took this one - chosen seemingly at random - it hadn’t slowed enough to make a safe turn. If John had been watching the chase on TV, a police report or one of those tabloid "Real Police Chases, Real Police Blood" shows, he would have expected the Mustang to rise up on two wheels, doing a short moment of stunt driving before completely flipping over.
The car ahead of him didn’t flip, though. John was fairly certain it had violated some serious laws of physics, but the muscle car kept its balance and sprinted ahead again.
John slowed for his turn. He didn’t know what was driving him to find out what was going on, and he didn’t know what he expected to find if he did manage to catch up, but he wasn’t so obsessed that he would risk being pinned in an upside-down Pathfinder.
The slower turn cost him time, and when he completed his change to the smaller street - a dirt road that was hardly more than a wide trail - he saw that the Mustang was hauling its way toward the mountains.
John jammed his foot down on the accelerator, managing to catch up to the gigantic plume of dust the Mustang threw behind it. Small pebbles and twigs slapped his windshield with light snaps, as though someone with extremely hard nails was flicking his finger against the safety glass. The tapping unnerved John, and he let his speed drop a bit. He realized that pursuit at this point was beyond strange, it was foolish. Even if he could manage to keep up with the -
(Skunk Man)
- gray-haired man’s car, he wouldn’t be able to see through the dust cloud created by spinning wheels on a dry trail. John knew potholes, some
In that time, John closed much of the gap between them. He took the corner perfectly, old reflexes and training surging to his consciousness for the first time in ten years. He upshifted, then braked and slammed his accelerator in a close series of movements that coaxed the maximum speed out of his tired old Nissan.
He was right on the Mustang's tail now, and damned if he was going to lose it.
***
Kaylie watched the road in front of them, clutching her backpack like a spiritual ward that would keep away demons. Her father sat beside her, his face haunted and waxy.
"What’s going on?" she asked. She wanted to know the answer to that question, wanted to know so badly that she felt she could scream if it wasn’t answered soon. Scream and never stop.
She could go mad.
She bit back the scream in the back of her throat, though, and looked to her father.
"What’s going on?" she repeated.
He didn’t answer.
No answers for her. She did not understand what was going on, or why she had felt so much anxiety when meeting her new teacher that morning. She only knew that she must not – could not – answer his questions about her past.
Why not? she thought for the thousandth time that day. Why couldn’t I say anything? Why not just tell him where you were from?
And suddenly, agonizingly, Kaylie realized that she herself didn’t know the answer to that question. She strained to think, to remember where she had been before that morning, but every time she did, her mind seemed to... bounce , somehow, and she found herself remembering only what she had had for breakfast that morning. All that lay before that meal was a fog.
She looked at her father again, and thought, Who is that? If he’s my father, why don’t I remember him?
The man beside her cranked the wheel hard then, and the Mustang slewed to the left, losing traction in spite of the expensive racing tires that bit and tore at the road beneath them. The man looked afraid. He looked terrified, in fact, and Kaylie knew with dreadful certainty that her eyes appeared every bit as frightened as his.
***
John yanked his wheel to the left, surprised at the abrupt swerve the Mustang took in front of him. It had passed several small dirt roads, and when it took this one - chosen seemingly at random - it hadn’t slowed enough to make a safe turn. If John had been watching the chase on TV, a police report or one of those tabloid "Real Police Chases, Real Police Blood" shows, he would have expected the Mustang to rise up on two wheels, doing a short moment of stunt driving before completely flipping over.
The car ahead of him didn’t flip, though. John was fairly certain it had violated some serious laws of physics, but the muscle car kept its balance and sprinted ahead again.
John slowed for his turn. He didn’t know what was driving him to find out what was going on, and he didn’t know what he expected to find if he did manage to catch up, but he wasn’t so obsessed that he would risk being pinned in an upside-down Pathfinder.
The slower turn cost him time, and when he completed his change to the smaller street - a dirt road that was hardly more than a wide trail - he saw that the Mustang was hauling its way toward the mountains.
John jammed his foot down on the accelerator, managing to catch up to the gigantic plume of dust the Mustang threw behind it. Small pebbles and twigs slapped his windshield with light snaps, as though someone with extremely hard nails was flicking his finger against the safety glass. The tapping unnerved John, and he let his speed drop a bit. He realized that pursuit at this point was beyond strange, it was foolish. Even if he could manage to keep up with the -
(Skunk Man)
- gray-haired man’s car, he wouldn’t be able to see through the dust cloud created by spinning wheels on a dry trail. John knew potholes, some
Similar Books
