not my fault! Schmuck, what difference does that make? She didn’t tell me the license number, now I’ll never know. Schmuck, how can you think that? I’m going to kill him! Yeah, like that’ll help Becky. Idiot, who cares?
Cora snatched her purse off the table, raced to the front door, flung it open. Realized she didn’t have her gun. She cursed, ran to the bedroom, wrenched open her bottom dresser drawer, and pawed through the clothes she never wore for the spare gun her ex-husband Melvin had given her. She found it, jerked it out, flipped it open. It was loaded. She flipped it closed and ran out the door.
In the car, she wasted moments fishing for her keys. She gunned the motor without regard for whether it woke Sherry, Aaron, and the baby, rocketed down the driveway, and hung a left.
How far was it? Becky said the guy turned around and doubled back. But she’d been on the phone a long time before that. And she hadn’t called before she passed the drive. So how far could that be? No farther than she could drive in that amount of time. But what amount of time? How long was it?
Cora sped down the country road, her high beams lighting up the woods and fields and an occasional house along the way. No place a car could have turned off. No car off the road. Where were they?
She reached Jackson Corners, so named though it boasted no landmarks of any sort, no houses, nor any corners. Except for the lone street sign, you wouldn’t know where you were. The only excuse for calling it Jackson Corners was that Jackson Road went two directions. Which way had they gone? Had they turned at all? If they’d turned, Becky would have commented on it. Yeah, if they turned off before the black sedan turned around. So they must have gone past. There was no way they could be on Jackson Road. Unless Becky had taken one of the side roads to get away from him after he turned around.
Assuming she got away.
Cora flew by Jackson Corners and kept going.
A car coming around the bend nearly hit her head-on. Not that the car was going fast or that it was on the wrong side of the road. But Cora was. She cut the corner, and suddenly there it was, bright headlights and a blaring horn and sickening squeal of brakes. Cora wrenched the steering wheel to the right, careened across the road. She almost cleared it but not quite. She could hear the ding of her rear bumper catching the driver’s side front bumper of the oncoming car. She fishtailed, spun the wheel, and 180ed. Her car skidded backwards across the road and stopped with a bone-jarring thump against something hard that snapped her head like a whip.
Cora straightened in her seat and looked over the dashboard just in time to see the headlights of a car bearing down on her. She instinctively flung up her hands as if they could protect her from a couple of tons of onrushing steel.
A car pulled to a stop in front of her. An ashen-faced man got out, ran over, and wrenched the door open.
“Good God, are you all right?”
“Who are you?” Cora said stupidly.
“I couldn’t avoid you. I nicked your bumper. I saw you fishtail.”
“Uh-huh,” Cora said. She unsnapped her seat belt.
“You probably shouldn’t move.”
Cora heaved herself out of the car, pushed by him to look at his.
“My car’s fine. I didn’t skid.”
Cora ignored him, walked around so his headlights weren’t blinding her.
His car was a blue Subaru.
She turned back to the driver. “Where you coming from?”
“Over the mountain.”
“You pass anyone?”
“No.”
“I mean going my direction.”
“No. No one.”
“Any car off the road?”
“Just yours.”
“Comedian,” Cora muttered.
“Huh?”
“I gotta go.”
The man was amazingly polite, considering Cora had nearly killed him. He was also a middle-age stick-in-the-mud fuddy duddy who insisted on exchanging insurance information. Cora nearly had to pull the gun on him to escape from his clutches. She fled the scene of the accident, and
Cora snatched her purse off the table, raced to the front door, flung it open. Realized she didn’t have her gun. She cursed, ran to the bedroom, wrenched open her bottom dresser drawer, and pawed through the clothes she never wore for the spare gun her ex-husband Melvin had given her. She found it, jerked it out, flipped it open. It was loaded. She flipped it closed and ran out the door.
In the car, she wasted moments fishing for her keys. She gunned the motor without regard for whether it woke Sherry, Aaron, and the baby, rocketed down the driveway, and hung a left.
How far was it? Becky said the guy turned around and doubled back. But she’d been on the phone a long time before that. And she hadn’t called before she passed the drive. So how far could that be? No farther than she could drive in that amount of time. But what amount of time? How long was it?
Cora sped down the country road, her high beams lighting up the woods and fields and an occasional house along the way. No place a car could have turned off. No car off the road. Where were they?
She reached Jackson Corners, so named though it boasted no landmarks of any sort, no houses, nor any corners. Except for the lone street sign, you wouldn’t know where you were. The only excuse for calling it Jackson Corners was that Jackson Road went two directions. Which way had they gone? Had they turned at all? If they’d turned, Becky would have commented on it. Yeah, if they turned off before the black sedan turned around. So they must have gone past. There was no way they could be on Jackson Road. Unless Becky had taken one of the side roads to get away from him after he turned around.
Assuming she got away.
Cora flew by Jackson Corners and kept going.
A car coming around the bend nearly hit her head-on. Not that the car was going fast or that it was on the wrong side of the road. But Cora was. She cut the corner, and suddenly there it was, bright headlights and a blaring horn and sickening squeal of brakes. Cora wrenched the steering wheel to the right, careened across the road. She almost cleared it but not quite. She could hear the ding of her rear bumper catching the driver’s side front bumper of the oncoming car. She fishtailed, spun the wheel, and 180ed. Her car skidded backwards across the road and stopped with a bone-jarring thump against something hard that snapped her head like a whip.
Cora straightened in her seat and looked over the dashboard just in time to see the headlights of a car bearing down on her. She instinctively flung up her hands as if they could protect her from a couple of tons of onrushing steel.
A car pulled to a stop in front of her. An ashen-faced man got out, ran over, and wrenched the door open.
“Good God, are you all right?”
“Who are you?” Cora said stupidly.
“I couldn’t avoid you. I nicked your bumper. I saw you fishtail.”
“Uh-huh,” Cora said. She unsnapped her seat belt.
“You probably shouldn’t move.”
Cora heaved herself out of the car, pushed by him to look at his.
“My car’s fine. I didn’t skid.”
Cora ignored him, walked around so his headlights weren’t blinding her.
His car was a blue Subaru.
She turned back to the driver. “Where you coming from?”
“Over the mountain.”
“You pass anyone?”
“No.”
“I mean going my direction.”
“No. No one.”
“Any car off the road?”
“Just yours.”
“Comedian,” Cora muttered.
“Huh?”
“I gotta go.”
The man was amazingly polite, considering Cora had nearly killed him. He was also a middle-age stick-in-the-mud fuddy duddy who insisted on exchanging insurance information. Cora nearly had to pull the gun on him to escape from his clutches. She fled the scene of the accident, and
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