Dead of winter. Vera understood what that meant now. It was like a bomb fell. Charcoal ruins, and everywhere you looked in the night, smoke rising from them.
She drove up to a gas station.
Better leave the engine running.
Her fingers gripped the door. She popped the latch and pushed. She hadn’t even climbed out before the chill was on her.
She shut the door.
Shivering. That last breath forced ice down her throat.
She didn’t want to leave her car.
Frost plagued the gas station’s windows. She couldn’t see anybody inside. Surgical lights shined. For the millionth time, she was second-guessing herself. One minute she wanted to press on and find a motel. Next minute she noticed her gas level dipping, needle approaching empty, and the thought of being stranded out here alone .. .
How far?
If only she had an idea how far it was until the next town. A burg that was sizable enough to merit its own gas, food, and lodging. She opened the console stowage compartment and rummaged through clutter. Forget GPS. No maps, either. She knew that already. Wishful thinking on her part, or maybe it was the first tingle of panic.
A shadow circulated behind the station’s frosty glass front.
Okay, so some poor sucker was pulling the night shift. How long until he noticed the Camaro? If she didn’t get out soon he’d start wondering. What’s up? Why’s she sitting there doing nothing? There wasn’t exactly a line at the pumps.
Or even another car.
He probably had noticed her. Vera looked for the security camera.
The difference, Vera thought, between a late-night gas station and an early-morning motel was this: Those gas station clerks were buggy.
Wide-eyed and wired.
Be it speed, caffeine, or the slippery skin mag they just shoved under the counter; they had to make wakefulness their occupation. Maybe it was simply the fear of robbery.
Pulling into these lonely highway places gave her jitters.
There had to be a camera. She feared it. The concrete pad was lit up like a Hollywood premiere. She felt exposed. Strange eyes were watching her. They had to be. The sensation of two jelly orbs sliding against her skin.
She shuddered.
Keep going, girl. Stay in your car.
So damn cold out it seemed to be personal.
Listen to your gut. Apply your foot to the gas pedal.
Okay, good.
She turned back onto the dark highway.
Hell.
These red wool tights were not cutting it in the below-zero temps. She wiggled her ringed fingers under the heater vents. She tugged her skirt.
Why exactly was she wearing a skirt? She knew why. Chan liked it. He practically sniffed like a hound every time she entered a room. He had been the latest and most spectacular catastrophe. Three years wasted. It was over. She’d had her fill. Though there were aspects of Chan she’d miss.
One aspect in particular leapt to mind.
That image connected to another and another, links in a thick, unbroken chain. The chain ended on the bucket seat beside her. Her memories triggered a physical response. Her heartbeat accelerated. She got dewy. A belt of warmth cinched around her thighs. She glanced at her purse, where her .25 Bobcat slept.
Chan had given her the gun as a birthday present.
She knew the basics. He’d taken her to a range in the basement of this place where he bought his ammo; the air smelled like moldy blankets and fireworks. Chan getting off on the whole experience. He could turn anything into sex.
Load it like this here. Your palm goes .. . now put your other hand underneath. Snug. Feel it? Don’t be afraid to grab on, she’ll kick. Thumb the safety. Arms up. Get your finger inside. Point at what you hate. Squeeze.
She desperately needed a respite from this constant forward motion.
Early-morning motels were different than ’round-the-clock gas and doughnut peddlers.
If she put in a couple more hours of road time, it would pay off.
Find a place that would appreciate the business. No questions asked. An independent that didn’t keep close tabs. Where they were glad to see you, whomever you were. Maybe the desk clerk would be sleep-deprived and already heading for dreamland.
You traded bills for a key and they forgot you.
At least she hoped so.
Dawn wiped the low edge of the horizon. Vera passed a pick-up, parked at the side of the road: a beater, an old Ford. Her headlights banked off the cab—the back window plastered with a decal— a furry buck-toothed mammal in a sweater leaning on a giant maroon M. A few miles later, she came upon a man walking, plastic gas can in his hand, thumb out. He looked eighteen, and in her
estimation, like a straight-from-the-catalog All-American Jock. She had dated her share. Not that many years ago, but a different galaxy that was so far away.
What did she note? He was hatless, tall, stretching out the seams of his letterman jacket. The solid block of navy blue didn’t fit this growing boy. He wore it unsnapped. His pants were wet to the knees. His hair stuck up and his ears stuck out. He wasn’t ugly, though. Far from it.
What can a woman tell in her rearview mirror at fifty miles per hour?
Enough.
She pulled to the shoulder.
Vera, honey, don’t you never ever pick up hitchhikers. Promise me.
Quiet now, Daddy.
This could work, she thought. Take the hitcher to a motel. Ask him to go to the office and pay. Nobody would see her. She didn’t even have to step inside. Favor for a favor. Then she’d find a way to lose him.
Her window squealed, descending.
He broke into a jog, reaching the car before she could change her mind and drive away.
“You picked a great place to take a walk,” Vera said.
“I only wish it was colder,” he said. His breath clouded the air. He had red lips and rosy cheeks under a three-day stubble. Midwestern milk-fed, all the way.
“Hop in before you freeze to death.”
“Thanks.”
He yanked the door handle. Folded his body into the seat offered. He smelled like a Christmas tree. Vera saw pine needles stuck to his carpenter pants. He set the gas can between his drenched blue hi-tops. He closed the door. He wasn’t talking. She hadn’t expected that. Maybe he really was half frozen.
“You from around here?” she asked.
“Born and raised.” He slicked a hand through his damp hair.
Nice hands, she noted. Vera was a sucker for strong, meaty hands, the kind where the veins and tendons showed under the skin. She liked watching them work, their machinery. Kung-fu grippers, she called them. It was a clue to the inner man. Chan had stellar hands. Her friends thought she was nuts.
“What’s your name?”
“Adam Larkin.” He reached out to shake.
She touched flesh as cold as any T-bone in the grocery store.
“I’m Vera Coffey, like the drink only more hyper.”
She saw the corner of his mouth indent. A smile, at least. God , make him not a creep. I’m over my limit of creeps forever.
“I appreciate you stopping. It’s a long walk home.”
“No problem. If you don’t mind me asking .. . how’d you get wet?”
“I jumped in the ditch.”
“Why’d you ...”
“A semi cut it close around a curve back there.”
“That’s awful.”
“It could’ve ended up worse. I have a new sympathy for road- kill.”
Vera shared her husky laughter with him. She tried hard not to fidget too much. She didn’t want this guy thinking she was loopy. Giddy energy bubbled up inside her. The stress of the last few days, the long solitary drive ... it began to hit home. She had to bite her tongue to keep from babbling. Face forward and drive, she told herself. Don’t forget to look over at him, either. Show attention. Be careful not to crash the damn car.
“I’ve been driving all night,” she said.
“Really?”
“My eyes are like—” she said, opening them wide. She made a this big circle with her thumb and finger.
“Where you coming from?” he asked.
“I... Iowa.”
“I’ve got cousins in Iowa.”
“It’s not really a town where I live. I rent a room on a farm. I’m
a boarder, you know?” Oh, God. How stupid did that lie sound? “I’m not in the barn or anything. It’s a pretty little clapboard house with a big wrap-around porch, shady oak trees growing out front, and a vegetable garden. A creek runs through the backyard. There’s a tire swing—”
“And a white picket fence?”
“You’ve been there?”
Vera’s eyes flitted over to him. He gave her a big smile this time. He had white teeth and dimples. A lock of chestnut hair fell loose over his forehead. He looked about seventeen with that smile. But he wasn’t seventeen. Underneath that pine scent, he smelled like a man. He crooked his knee and cupped it with one of those shovel hands. He hit the side of the red can with his shoe. She caught a whiff of gasoline. His eyes were smoky and deep enough she couldn’t see their bottom with a quick glance.
Did he know she was lying?
His attention keyed on the road.
“I haven’t really been anywhere ... other than here,” he said.
The Camaro raced past a signpost.
AMERICAN RAPIDS
POP.—
The town census number had been blasted away with shotgun pellets.
“I need to find a motel,” she said.
The speed of his response startled her.
“I know a place,” he said.