Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [46]
“I’m sorry.” I let my eyes leave the road long enough to make sure she knows I’m not talking about Reese’s project. It’s difficult to see her in the darkness, but before I disengage I think I see surprise on her face. It’s a sentiment I share. “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. If I’d had any sense . . .”
I trail off, not knowing how to navigate this type of terrain and feeling more than a little weird.
I guess she finds there’s little to say because she turns away. I’m out of my depth. My current closest relationship with a woman is with Angie, which consists of little more than our having coffee together, some innocent flirting, and a theft of miniature chocolates that by now probably approaches grand larceny. I’ve suppressed the knowledge that this week has to have been difficult for Espy. I’ve heard often enough that women need closure, but instead of that, I’ve given my former fiancée open-sure, or whatever you call it when you rip a scab off a wound that hasn’t yet healed.
What’s worse is that I may well still love this woman.
The SUV is bottoming out after a steep descent, where I bring it around a bend. I’m getting irritated because Antonio has his truck so close to mine that I can’t see the headlights in the rearview, just a diffused glow that tells me he’s there. I can see the lights of San Cristóbal not far off, and we’ll be coming off the mountain in a matter of minutes, when it won’t matter so much that he’s tailgating.
“Listen,” I say right before the windshield explodes all over me.
Esperanza screams as I slam on the brakes and try to keep the truck on the road. I yell for her to keep her head down, but before I can get a word out, Antonio rear-ends us. I bite down hard on my tongue and the pain is such that I’m blinded, and it’s never a good idea to lose one’s sight while navigating a mountain road with no guardrails. I force my eyes open just as our right front tire flirts with the drop-off. I overcorrect, angling for the rock wall to my left, when I hear a succession of popping sounds. More glass explodes, this time from the back of the truck. Marco shouts a curse in Spanish right as the SUV hits the wall. I have the sensation of flying, and then nothing.
It can’t be much later that I awaken, because the wheels of the belly-up truck are spinning. I smell gas. As my senses right themselves, I hear the sound of tires screeching, receding. It’s black outside, except for the beams from the headlights that cut at an odd angle into the darkness. Somehow the hazard lights were activated, and their steady blinking casts the landscape around the truck in a periodic yellow light. My side hurts and I run my hand over the spot, feel the ripped shirt, then something protruding from the flesh. There’s a slickness that has to be blood. I shift position and pain shoots through my torso. I resist the urge to pull out whatever it is that’s stuck in my side. For all I know, it’s all that’s keeping me from bleeding to death.
From what sounds like far away I hear another volley of gunshots. They propel me to my feet, despite the agony ripping through my body. Stumbling, working hard to keep my feet under me and my eyes focused, I make it to the truck, the smell of gas much stronger now. The tank is ruptured, the fuel dripping its last onto the ground. I try not to imagine my body doing the same thing, but my hand is soaked where it’s pressed up against my side.
Right now, checking on Esperanza is more important than anything else. I can see the truck’s passage down the road; we must have slid two hundred feet. It’s amazing that we didn’t slide off the mountain. It’s the kind of accident that can kill instantly, and I feel more than a little panic as I sink to my knees and peer into the cab. Marco is the only one inside, in the back, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Even though it’s pointless, I reach between the broken glass and feel for a pulse. Nothing. I feel something catch in my throat but I quickly force it back down. I must find Espy.
I push myself