Darkly The Thunder by William W. Johnstone

canteens,” Paul finally managed to say. “Leave everything else. We’ve got to get out of here.”
    â€œWhat if that thing won’t let us?” Hillary asked. “Whatever it is.”
    â€œWe won’t know until we try,” Paul said grimly. “Let’s go.”
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    Sunny cut her eyes to Robin. “Robin? That was Sand’s? ...”
    â€œWife,” Richard said. “My wife’s older sister. Daughter of Carl and Flora Lee.”
    â€œYour parents?” Sunny asked the woman.
    â€œMy father died in prison a few years ago. Death freed him. He’s much happier now.”
    The eyes of the women met, held. A beautiful woman, Sunny thought. Just a touch of gray in her dark hair. “Your mother?”
    â€œInsane. Confined to a nursing home . . . if that is what one wishes to call that dismal place. But all signs point to her ordeal soon being over.”
    Sunny didn’t pursue that last bit. She waited.
    â€œMy mother was driven insane by the events prior to and just after Sand’s death.”
    â€œI heard the country western song about Sand several years ago,” Sunny said.
    Richard smiled. “Yes, we know.”
    How? Sunny wanted to ask. She didn’t. “A friend of mine, a few years older, was in Vietnam. He worked with a correspondent named Dan Thompson. Dan used to live here in Willowdale.”
    â€œYes. Little Dan,” Richard said. “He used to run with us. He’s dead.”
    â€œThe State Department still has him listed as missing,” Sunny corrected.
    â€œHe’s dead,” Richard said flatly.
    Sunny fought back a slight feeling of irritation. The man’s know-it-all attitude was beginning to get next to her. “Whatever, Mr. Jennings. Anyway, Dan used to tell my friend about a young man called Sand. Dan said that Sand was the greatest guy in the whole world. Said he was going to write a book about him; tell the true story about what happened. And why. Ever since I heard that, it’s been on my mind. I was glad to receive that letter from you.”
    â€œThink nothing of it,” Richard said drily.
    Robin suddenly opened her eyes and sat up straight. “Daddy? Why don’t you show Miss Lockwood that old car you keep out in the shed? It has something to do with all this, doesn’t it?”
    Sunny looked at the father. The man’s face changed. Sunny could not name the emotion.
    â€œYes, baby. It has a lot to do with it.”
    â€œI’d like to see that car, Mr. Jennings.” Sunny punched off the recorder.
    Richard nodded. “All right. That can be ... arranged without too much difficulty. Come on.” He rose from his chair. It was the most graceful and fluid movement Sunny had ever witnessed.
    He escorted her out the back door. But he did not touch her.
    â€œWhat song, mother?” Robin asked.
    â€œIt was never played in this part of the state.”
    â€œDo you have the record?”
    She smiled. “Not anymore. It was destroyed in a fire. But I can probably arrange to get you a copy.
    The doors to the shed were unlocked and opened. Sunny sucked in her breath at the sight.
    The car was classic. A 1950 model Mercury two-door. Chopped and channeled, lowering blocks in the rear. The interior was rolled and pleated leather. White leather. The exterior of the car had been painted a deep blue, and done so with expert hands.
    It was beautiful, and Sunny said as much.
    â€œYes, it was, Sunny,” Richard agreed.
    Was? “Your car, Mr. Jennings?”
    â€œNo. It belonged to Sand. He was driving it the night he got killed. Long time ago. Drove it up the side of Thunder Mountain as far as he could push it; car shot all to hell and back.”
    â€œYou restored it?”
    Richard smiled. “No. Get in and turn on the radio, Sunny.”
    Somebody sure restored it, Sunny thought, as she opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. She turned on the