Fully Loaded - Blake Crouch [51]
She made it five miles (no one had ever lasted five miles and she credited those well-made snowboarding helmets) before the skeletons finally went quiet.
Lucy ditched what was left of the boys and drove all night like she’d done six blasts of coke, arriving in Salt Lake as the sun edged up over the mountains. She checked into a Red Roof Inn and ran a hot bath and cleaned the new blood and the old blood out of the ropes and let the carabiners and the chains and the handcuffs soak in the soapy water.
In the evening she awoke, that dark weight perched on her chest again. The guitar case items had dried, and she packed them away and dressed and headed out. The motel stood along the interstate, and it came down to Applebee’s or Chili’s.
She went with the latter, because she loved their Awesome Blossom.
After dinner, she walked outside and stared at the Subaru in the parking lot, the black rot flooding back inside of her, that restless, awful energy that could never be fully sated, those seconds of release never fully quenching, like water tinged with salt. She turned away from the Subaru and walked along the frontage road until she came to a hole in the fence. Ducked through. Scrambled down to the shoulder of the interstate.
Traffic was moderate, the night cold and starry. A line of cars approached, bottled up behind a Winnebago.
She walked under the bridge, set down her guitar case, and stuck out her thumb.
-3-
Donaldson pulled over onto the shoulder and lowered the passenger window. The girl was young and tiny, wearing a wool cap despite the relative warmth.
“Where you headed?” He winked before he said it, his smile genuine.
“Missoula,” Lucy answered.
“Got a gig up there?” He pointed his chin at her guitar case.
She shrugged.
“Well, I’m going north. If you chip in for gas, and promise not to sing any show tunes, you can hop in.”
The girl seemed to consider it, then nodded. She opened the rear door and awkwardly fit the guitar case onto the backseat. Before getting in, she stared at the upholstery on the front seats.
“What’s with the plastic?” she asked, indicating Donaldson’s clear seat covers.
“Sometimes I travel with my dog.”
Lucy squinted at the picture taped to the dashboard—the portly driver holding a long-haired dachshund.
“What’s its name?”
“Scamp. Loveable little guy. Hates it when I’m away. But I’m away a lot. I’m a courier. Right now, I’m headed up to Idaho Falls to pick up a donor kidney.”
Her eyes flitted to the backseat, to a cooler with a biohazard sign on the lid.
“Don’t worry,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing a hand through his thinning gray hair. “It’s empty for the time being.”
The girl nodded, started to get in, then stopped. “Would you mind if I sat in the back? I don’t want to make you feel like a chauffeur, but I get nauseated riding up front unless I’m driving.”
Donaldson paused. “Normally I wouldn’t mind, Miss, but I don’t have any seat belts back there, and I insist my passengers wear one. Safety first, I always say.”
“Of course. Can’t be too careful. Cars can be dangerous.”
“Indeed they can. Indeed.”
The front passenger door squeaked open, and the girl hopped in. Donaldson watched her buckle up, and then he accelerated back onto the highway.
Grinning at her, he rubbed his chin and asked, “So what’s your name, little lady?”
“I’m Lucy.” She looked down at the center console. A Big Gulp sweated in the drink holder. She reached into her pocket