thirty-four

The car dipped to one side as Josh climbed into the driver’s seat. The dome light pooled around me and hit the floorboard, washing over concrete blocks, chains, pliers, and a saw.

Josh put on a Braves hat that looked suspiciously like the one I’d lost on Sullivan’s Island. He started the engine, and the dome light faded. I could hear Aunt Bluette’s truck revving behind the Jag.

Son yawned, then sat up. “What the hell—”

Josh slugged him. Son crashed sideways and his head slammed against the window. The Jaguar’s tires made a hissing noise as it sped down the driveway.

I mustered up my courage and sat up. “Josh? Why’d you kill your cosmetologist?”

“Opal? She asked too many questions.”

“Who’d you get to creep around my house last night?”

“That was me. I wore a wig.” Josh snorted. “Dot wanted you to think that Son was stalking you. But your fan club chased me off. So we had to lure you here.”

“The Charleston police are looking for a man with blond hair. A witness saw him in a bar, talking to Barb. Was that you? Or Vlado?”

“Dot met Barb at Poe’s. It was a last-ditch effort to get Barb to come back to us.” He squinted into the rear view mirror. “God, you’re a motor-mouth. If you don’t hush, I’ll stop the car and shoot you. And I really don’t want to do that. I want you to be alive when I rape you.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Not that. I shook so hard, the chains made a singing noise.

Josh turned on the radio. Snippets of music ran together as he spun the dial. He stopped on a sports station, and I heard the crack of a baseball, the roar of a crowd, then he spun the dial again and landed on WAEV from Savannah. Over the static, the Black Ghosts sang “Full Moon.”

“You like shitty music, don’t you, Teeny? Enjoy it while you can.”

The car turned left onto Willow Street, a dark, two-lane road that led to a county highway—the road to Sweeney. Was the new chop shop located there?

Behind us, the truck’s headlights swept through the rear window. Shadows skated over the floorboard. I lunged for the pliers. The Jaguar made a sharp left turn, and the pliers slipped under the front seat.

If I didn’t bash Josh in the head before we reached the lab, Son and I would die. My bulldog would die. I didn’t have a guarantee that Coop and Red would survive. If they started poking around, Dot would put them into the lake. Emerson would go to that school in Alabama and she’d never know how it felt to be loved.

I glanced around for another weapon. I tried to lift a concrete block, but I was still shaky and couldn’t move it. I slumped against the back seat, feeling utterly defeated. Tonight, Son and I would be on the bottom of the lake, and maybe our organs would help someone; but the money was going to the Dot Agnew Foundation. She would go home, turn on her Wolf range, and heat a pot of soup. More patients would die at Bonaventure Regional because she needed to finish decorating her house. A cornea would buy new dining room furniture. A tendon would buy an oil painting. How many cadavers would buy a $2,000,000 beachfront condominium on St. Simon’s Island?

I pulled myself up and grasped the back of Josh’s seat, trying to crouch low. If he saw me in the rearview mirror, he’d shoot me. Straight ahead, through the windshield, a string of headlights came toward the Jaguar.

Witnesses.

I could beat on the side window and hope the driver saw me. But those lights were so far away. Josh turned on his blinker and turned down a rough-paved road. I bolted forward, grabbed his ears, and twisted as hard as I could.

“Let go!” His fist crashed into my forehead. The blow knocked me into the backseat. I sat there, too dazed to move. I was faintly aware of something moving in my pocket, a skitter-scratch. I opened the pocket, and the tarantula crawled onto the back of my hand. Maybe I should let it bite me, but no, Miss Uma had said tarantula bites weren’t deadly.

Josh had been bitten by one of her pets. I prayed he still harbored a fear of arachnoids.

Again, I raised up, my eyes filling, and moved my outstretched hand toward Josh. “Oh, my god,” I said. “There’s tarantulas in this car. They’re crawling everywhere.”

“Yeah, right.” Josh snorted.

I thrust my hand in front of him. He screamed. I flung the tarantula in his lap. His hands lifted from the steering wheel, and he brushed between his legs. The Jag veered off the road. I leaned over his shoulder and stretched out my arm toward the steering wheel. Just a little closer. One more inch.

The tires bounced into a hole. Branches and saplings beat against the fender. Straight ahead, the headlights picked out bark and pine boughs.

The Jaguar slammed into a tree. I heard the wrench of metal. Needles pinged against the hood. Black air rushed in around me and I was flying.

*   *   *

I came to in the backseat. A horn blared and blared. I smelled smoke and I sat up. Pain lanced through my thigh. Josh lay over the steering wheel. Above him, the windshield was cracked, streaked with red. Steam hissed from the crumpled hood and scattered into the branches.

Son was sprawled against the door. He moaned, and blood streamed out of his mouth.

“Son Finnegan, don’t you die on me.” My fingers dug into the back of his seat. I pulled myself close to him.

“I’m hurt, Boots.” He moaned again.

“Hold on.” I couldn’t help him from this angle, so I yanked open the back door and crawled into the dark weeds. A blast of humid air rushed over my face. As I inched forward, something jerked me back. I spun around, expecting to see Josh’s hand. But it was just the chain, looped tightly around my ankle.

Trying not to panic, I grabbed the concrete block. It felt light as a biscuit. I heaved it out of the car. A warm tickle ran down my knee, and I yanked up my dress. A diagonal gash ran across my leg, in the fleshy part of my left thigh. The wound wasn’t spurting. Just a deep, oozing wound.

I crept over to Son’s door, pulling the concrete block with me. From the road, headlights speared through the trees and washed into the gully. Dot had found us.

I flung open Son’s door. The dome light blinked on. I lifted his face. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. But he was breathing. Bits of safety glass were scattered in his hair, and I brushed them out.

“Hurts so bad,” he whispered.

I looked at Josh. His chest wasn’t moving I leaned across the seat and felt his wrist. No pulse. I slid my hand into his nearest pocket and searched for the gun. Empty. I started to check his other pocket when flames spiked from the hood, sending up a dazzle of orange sparks. Smoke rolled up from the floorboard. Oh, Lord. Would the engine blow up? Where was the spider? And where was Dot? She’d been right behind us.

I scooted back to Son. “Put your arms around me.”

“Can’t.” His shoe scooted over the floorboard. “My gut hurts.”

“Son, listen to me. I know you’re in pain. But the car’s on fire. Come on, get out. Just lean on me. I’ll help you.”

More cinders spiraled up into the darkness. A circle of heat pushed against me, and I smelled burnt rubber. Son slid his arms around my neck. He didn’t feel that heavy. Or maybe I had super-human strength. I pulled him out of the car, into the grass, dragging that damn block behind me.

From the road, I heard a commotion. Voices. Spangled lights.

“Holy shit,” a man cried.

I led Son into the tall weeds and propped him against a tree. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m going back for that tarantula.”

Son keeled over, thumping against the ground. He dragged me with him, and I fell hard on my butt. I tried to stand. The ground rose up and folded itself around me.

A man in a Coors hat tried to pull Son from my arms. A flashlight moved over my skirt. It was dark red and sticky, warm as a wet washrag. Someone brought a fire extinguisher and aimed it at the car. Sirens drilled through the night, a black sound that chipped against my ears.

Hands lifted me up. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And don’t hurt my spider. He’s one heck of an arachnid.