Back in the car, Blair asked his sister if she was hungry.
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. What time is it?”
“Umm—six of six. When’s our reservation for?”
“Seven. Do you want me to change it?”
“No, no. Seven is fine. Let’s take a drive first.”
“Okay. A drive would be nice.”
Blair knew exactly where he wanted to go. As a young man, when dating, he would often end up atop Mount Royal, the mountain that separated the downtown core from the rest of the city.
More a hill than a mountain, Mount Royal would be subject to ridicule for its compact size were it not for the impressive view the “lookout” afforded of the south-eastern extremity of the island. In the distance, one could see the St. Lawrence River and part of the town of Longueuil beyond it.
There were no other cars when they arrived. And Blair could see why. The signs, written only in French, warned about a sinkhole. The road and much of the protective barrier of trees and shrubbery had been torn away.
Despite the warning, however, and not to be deterred, he pulled in and parked.
In front of them, void of vegetation, they could see the drop. It was long and precipitous. Nothing but rocks and tree stumps trailing most of the way down.
Blair shut the motor and set the emergency brake. Then he leaned back. “Okay, bring me up to date,” he said. He was hoping they could divert themselves from the subject of their mother for at least the time being.
“About what?” Cynthia asked.
“I want to know more about this fireman you’re dating. His name, age, social status, the works.”
“His name is Francois. French Canadian and lovely.”
“Oh yeah? Like Marcel?”
She laughed. “Wasn’t he a beaut?”
Blair recalled that Marcel, a hairdresser, was unusually thin, practically bald, and had the annoying habit of squinting whenever he spoke. “What did you ever see in him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But he was great in bed.”
“Cyn!” he said in mock horror.
“Blair—” She grew serious. “—what do you do to relax?”
“Relax? I don’t understand the concept.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She turned toward him. “Do you still golf?”
“Not often enough.”
“But you love the game.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Did you know I’ve taken it up?”
That startled him. “You?”
“Yes. Why are you surprised?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought you once told me the game was stupid.”
“So?”
“I find it’s a great way to meet men. That’s how I met Francois, as a matter of fact.”
He laughed.
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I really hate seeing you this way.”
“Which way is that?”
“C’mon, Blair,” she said. “You can’t kid a kidder.” Her favorite expression.
“Cyn…” he began to say, intending to move the subject away from himself, when he felt something hard collide with the back of his car.
His sister screamed.
Blair quickly looked in his rearview mirror. All he could see was the front end of a truck. A blob of blue.
The truck was pushing them forward.
He hit the brakes.
Nothing happened.
Then he remembered they were power assisted. He started the car and tried again.
Even with the emergency brake still engaged, they were being forced closer to the edge.
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “Blair?”
“Hold on,” he said.
It would be impossible to survive a drop of such depth, he knew. He quickly released the emergency brake, shifted into reverse, and floored it.
The tires spun crazily on the asphalt. He heard a screeching sound.
His car began to rock from the pressure.
The smell of burning rubber wafted into the air. But the Beemer was no match for the blue truck behind them.
Blair shoved the gear into park and slammed his foot on the brakes, trying to swallow his fear but not succeeding.
Think, an inner voice demanded.
“Cyn,” he said, speaking quietly. “I need you to do something for me.”
“W…what?” She was obviously going into shock.
“You must remain calm, Cynthia.”
“We won’t make it, Blair. I know we won’t!”
“Listen to me,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “We will make it. I promise.” He tried to estimate the time they had left. He knew it was close. “Put your hand on the door handle,” he instructed.
His sister didn’t budge.
“Cyn?”
She turned to face him. “I don’t want to die, Blair.”
“You won’t die.”
“I will!” she shrieked.
“Cynthia, we’re going to jump out of the car. It’s our only chance.”
“Jump?”
“Yes. I need you to follow my directions. Please, Cyn. You’ll be all right. Now—take hold of the door handle.”
She semi-positioned her hand. But it hovered.
“At the count of three,” he said. “Grab the handle, push the door open, then roll out.”
There was no response. His sister had gone mute.
“Cynthia? We have to do this. At the count of three. One…”
Gunfire rang out.
“Get down!” Blair hollered.
His sister crouched low.
After the incident with John Dalton, Blair had no doubt of the sound he was hearing. But were the shots aimed at them?
He bent as low as possible on the seat, waited for the bullets to strike, waited for the car’s windows to shatter.
Miraculously, he sensed the pressure from behind relenting. Slowly, he raised himself up and glanced in his rearview mirror. The blue truck was flying into reverse.
He counted to ten in his head. “It’s safe, Cyn,” he said.
“I … don’t know.”
“Trust me. You can get out of the car. But be careful.”
Blair stepped out himself and hurried around to the passenger side. Cynthia came into his arms with such force it knocked them both to the ground.
More gunfire, this time from afar.
He could feel his sister trembling. “We’re okay,” he said, wanting to reassure her. “We’ll be okay.”
The blue truck was barreling up the road. It was being pursued by a beige box of a car that looked vaguely familiar. He waited until both vehicles disappeared. “Can you stand?” he asked, turning back to Cynthia.
Her nod was not enthusiastic.
He helped her to her feet. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s see about the damage.”
The trunk of the Beemer was slightly bent. There were a number of blue paint marks staining the bumper. “I thought it would be worse,” he said, not wanting to traumatize his sister any further.
Blair guided Cynthia back into the car. He closed her door, came around to the driver’s side. “Ready for Gibby’s?” he asked, forcing a measure of normality in his voice.
Cynthia glanced his way. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”
“The police?” he questioned a bit too emphatically.
His sister regarded him as if he had two heads. “Oh, my God!” she said. “What in the world have you gotten yourself into?”