The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [123]
Concern for Christine diluted his anger with a sense of urgency. He tried accelerating, but the carburetor, choked on dust and sand, flooded. The idea occurred to him that a perfect thank-you gift for Joey would have been a tune-up and alignment for the jeep.
Would have been. David shook his head helplessly, then glanced at the watch Joey had given him. It was after nine. Above, the frail overcast was showing the first signs of surrender to the autumn sun. He forced himself to loosen up and restarted the engine. By the time he reached the ocean road, he had mastered a rhythm of shifting and acceleration that was acceptable to the relic. His thoughts returned to Christine. Perhaps he should have called the police. If she didn’t have too great a start, at least they could detain her long enough for him to catch up. But who—the state police? Would she be upset if he involved them before she was ready? He turned the notion over in his mind. He had decided to stop at the first phone booth when he saw the flashing lights and barriers of a roadblock ahead.
A battered maroon pickup truck in front of him was struggling through a U-turn, its grizzled driver mouthing obscenities. David leaned out of the jeep and called to him.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?”
“Eh?” The man stopped the truck obliquely across the road, still several maneuvers from a complete U.
“Up ahead, what’s happened?” David tried again, this time shouting.
“Accident. Bad one too, damn it.” The old man’s tone left no doubt that he was taking the inconvenience personally. “Two cars over the side. One they just hauled up. One’s comin’ from way at the bottom. Fifteen, twenty minutes more, they said. Probably be an hour, the way Mac Perkins works that old tow rig of his.”
Uneasiness took hold as David strained to see past the truck. “Did you see either of the cars involved?” he asked too softly.
“Eh?”
David groaned. “The cars,” he yelled. “Did you see either … Oh, never mind. Could I get by, please?”
“Sure, but you ain’t goin’ nowhere. An’ there’s no need for you to go snappin’ about it neither.” All at once David’s questions registered. “The cars, you say? Did I see the cars?” Totally exasperated, David nodded. “Only the little blue one,” the man called out. “Smashed to smithereens it is, too.”
David’s hands knotted on the wheel. A sinking terror deepened inside him. He closed his eyes while the old man worked his pickup out of the way. In that instant the photolike image of another accident appeared in his mind. The rain, the lights, Becky’s and Ginny’s faces, even their screams. He wanted to open his eyes, to end the horror, but he knew that when he did only a new nightmare awaited. He had no doubt that the blue car the old man had seen was Christine’s.
“Mister, road’s closed. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn around.”
David whirled toward the voice. It was a state trooper, tall and thin, with a high schooler’s face that made him look slightly ridiculous in his authoritative blue uniform. Before David could respond, his gaze swung past the spot where the truck had been to the cluster of police cars, tow trucks, and ambulances ahead. In the midst of them, resting on flattened tires, was the shattered, twisted wreck of Christine’s Mustang.
“Mister? …” The young trooper’s voice held some concern.
David’s face was ashen. “I … I know the woman who was driving that car,” he said in a remote, hollow voice. “She was my … friend.”
“Mister, are you all right?” When David did not answer, the trooper called down the road, “Gus, send one of the paramedics over here. I think this guy’s gonna pass out