Snow Blind by Archer Mayor Page A

over.”
     
    His voice had now graduated to trembling.
     
    I gave him another quick look. In the anemic green glow from the dash lights, he looked gaunt and sickly, his eyes hollow with fear, his lips pressed tight. Despite the cold he’d just left, a sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead, just under his wool watch cap.
     
    I picked up speed slightly. “Throw the gun out the window first.”
     
    He was plainly bewildered by this. “What? You’re crazy. Stop the car or I’ll kill you.”
     
    There was no certainty I was right. This was purely a gut reaction. But his panic encouraged me to keep pushing. I just hoped I wouldn’t betray my own fear. “You mean you’ll kill us both. I
am
driving this thing. Figure it out.”
     
    In my peripheral vision, I saw him work his mouth soundlessly a couple of times. Since keeping on the road hadn’t gotten any easier, I decided to try ending the debate quickly by rethinking my initial strategy.
     
    “Not only that, but you’d be killing a cop–Brattleboro PD–Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”
     
    I’d anticipated a couple of possibilities, only one of them good, but not what he did next.
     
    He hit me on the side of the head with his gun barrel, and grabbed the steering wheel.
     
    The results were predictable, although I was surprised to see them unfold in slow motion, just as in the cliché. As I watched in a dizzying haze of pain, the view before the windshield flashed between darkness and the nearby trees as we spun around in circles, until there was a solid thump from beneath us, a brief sensation of weightlessness, and our entire world pitched forward. Just before the lights went out completely, I felt the other side of my head smack sharply against the door post.
     
    I woke up to his slapping me, and anxiously muttering, “Come on, mister. Wake up. Jesus. Come on, come on, come on.”
     
    I raised a hand to protect my cheek from further abuse. So much for wanting me dead.
     
    The young man’s face was inches from my own, peering at me as if searching for enlightenment. “You okay?”
     
    I closed my eyes, dizzy enough already, and took mental stock of my body parts. “I guess.”
     
    “We crashed.”
     
    That brought me completely back. I opened my eyes. “No kidding.”
     
    He pulled away, apparently satisfied I’d recovered. “I got your gun, so don’t try anything.”
     
    I resisted pointing out the idiocy of that statement, choosing instead to control my inner fury at ending up in this situation–which was only exacerbated by not knowing how I could have avoided it.
     
    I looked around. The dash lights were still burning feebly, giving the car’s interior a sub-aquatic appearance. Encouraging this image, all the windows were inky-black, we were pitched nose down as in a sinking submarine, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard outside.
     
    “How long have I been out?” I asked him.
     
    “A few seconds. Your head hurt?”
     
    Like the straight man in a comedy team, I thought. I didn’t play along, sensing in him someone seriously out of his depths–almost in need of help. “I’ll live,” I told him. “What’s your next move? Shoot me and turn the car into a bobsled?”
     
    He looked pained by that, and glanced down at the gun still in his hand.
     
    “I’m sorry.”
     
    I extended an open palm to him. “Then give me the hardware and let’s see if we can sort this out.”
     
    Wrong move. He withdrew until his back was pressed against the passenger side door, the gun held higher, if no more steadily. “No way. My only chance is to get the hell out of here.”
     
    “And you’re going to do that … how?”
     
    He smacked the back of his head twice against the window, and howled at the roof again, “Shit,” his body trembling in frustration.
     
    “What’s your name?” I asked him suddenly.
     
    He stared at me for a moment. “Roger Blake.”
     
    “What did you do, Roger? Why the gun?”
     
    He leaned forward,