hand, the lilt of her laugh, the tumble of her hair across her face, each of those things had a kind of sorcerous hold upon his heart.
Which was not to say he did not want to see her naked. Quite the contrary. But it meant that he was content to let their intimacy follow its own course with the lazy turns and rushing torrents of a mountain river.
The hours on the road passed slowly. They talked about the pub, and about Bill's search for his missing niece. In a hesitant bit of conversation where each pretended it was no big deal, they talked about taking an actual vacation some time, just the two of them. As a couple. The Jeep's tires hummed on the highway and the vehicle rattled a bit if Jack edged it up much past seventy.
As they drove north toward Albany, Molly played with the radio and found a station she liked. A lot of Sting, Shawn Colvin, matchbox twenty, and not a single track from the viral epidemic of boy bands sweeping the Earth in the early twenty-first century.
The further north they drove, the less traffic there was, though he had a feeling that had more to do with it being Saturday afternoon than anything else. Nobody commuting today, and most of the people headed off for a trip were already well on their way to their destinations. When the traffic thinned, Jack twined his fingers in Molly's and for long periods they were just quiet, listening to the radio and the rattle of the Jeep, the rumbling of the road.
Trucks roared past them every few minutes, tractor trailers with no business traveling at that speed. The terrain rose and fell in long slopes, hills and valleys, but the big rigs barely slowed, and often passed in the fast lane. Jack said nothing to Molly, but it occurred to him more than once as the Jeep shuddered in the wake of a passing eighteen-wheeler that this might not be Prowlers at all. Industry had its demands. He was wise enough to know that in business, competition often demanded compromise. But Jack was also stubborn enough to believe that safety should never be compromised, no matter what the competitor was doing.
Lulled by the journey, by the music and momentum, Jack suddenly felt as though he were waking from a kind of trance behind the wheel. He shook his head and glanced at the sign announcing that the exit half a mile ahead was for Hollingsworth. The name jarred him.
"Jack? Are you all right?" He blinked, glanced sidelong at Molly. The Jeep swerved a little, but there was no one in the next lane. "Sorry. Just half-asleep I guess."
"As long as you're only half," she replied with a nervous laugh. "There'd be some seriously cruel irony in you rolling us into a ditch."
A thin smile spread across his features, but it felt pasted on. The exit for Hollingsworth came and went. Molly stared at the sign as they drove past and then glanced at him again.
"So this is supposed to be Prowler-country? I have to say, it doesn't look any different from the rest of the highway we've been looking at all day."
Jack nodded. "I know. But it feels different."
"Does it? I don't . . . well, maybe it's you. I don't mean maybe it's in your head. I mean, you can see into the Ghostlands, so I suppose it's possible you're picking up some kind of . . . vibe or whatever that other people would never notice. Have you seen any?"
Ghosts . That was the word she neglected to use at the end of the sentence. Though they had frequently spoken about his talent, the ghost-sight , as he had jokingly called it several times, ever since Molly had learned that Artie's spirit still wandered the world of the living, she was sometimes tentative when the subject came up.
Static hissed on the radio as they lost the station Molly had enjoyed so much on the drive north.
"Nothing. But I haven't really tried to see, either. Figured it was kind of dangerous while driving. If they appear or whatever, that's one thing. But you know what I find really interesting?"
"What?"
"We've been on the road all day. Not once has either of
Which was not to say he did not want to see her naked. Quite the contrary. But it meant that he was content to let their intimacy follow its own course with the lazy turns and rushing torrents of a mountain river.
The hours on the road passed slowly. They talked about the pub, and about Bill's search for his missing niece. In a hesitant bit of conversation where each pretended it was no big deal, they talked about taking an actual vacation some time, just the two of them. As a couple. The Jeep's tires hummed on the highway and the vehicle rattled a bit if Jack edged it up much past seventy.
As they drove north toward Albany, Molly played with the radio and found a station she liked. A lot of Sting, Shawn Colvin, matchbox twenty, and not a single track from the viral epidemic of boy bands sweeping the Earth in the early twenty-first century.
The further north they drove, the less traffic there was, though he had a feeling that had more to do with it being Saturday afternoon than anything else. Nobody commuting today, and most of the people headed off for a trip were already well on their way to their destinations. When the traffic thinned, Jack twined his fingers in Molly's and for long periods they were just quiet, listening to the radio and the rattle of the Jeep, the rumbling of the road.
Trucks roared past them every few minutes, tractor trailers with no business traveling at that speed. The terrain rose and fell in long slopes, hills and valleys, but the big rigs barely slowed, and often passed in the fast lane. Jack said nothing to Molly, but it occurred to him more than once as the Jeep shuddered in the wake of a passing eighteen-wheeler that this might not be Prowlers at all. Industry had its demands. He was wise enough to know that in business, competition often demanded compromise. But Jack was also stubborn enough to believe that safety should never be compromised, no matter what the competitor was doing.
Lulled by the journey, by the music and momentum, Jack suddenly felt as though he were waking from a kind of trance behind the wheel. He shook his head and glanced at the sign announcing that the exit half a mile ahead was for Hollingsworth. The name jarred him.
"Jack? Are you all right?" He blinked, glanced sidelong at Molly. The Jeep swerved a little, but there was no one in the next lane. "Sorry. Just half-asleep I guess."
"As long as you're only half," she replied with a nervous laugh. "There'd be some seriously cruel irony in you rolling us into a ditch."
A thin smile spread across his features, but it felt pasted on. The exit for Hollingsworth came and went. Molly stared at the sign as they drove past and then glanced at him again.
"So this is supposed to be Prowler-country? I have to say, it doesn't look any different from the rest of the highway we've been looking at all day."
Jack nodded. "I know. But it feels different."
"Does it? I don't . . . well, maybe it's you. I don't mean maybe it's in your head. I mean, you can see into the Ghostlands, so I suppose it's possible you're picking up some kind of . . . vibe or whatever that other people would never notice. Have you seen any?"
Ghosts . That was the word she neglected to use at the end of the sentence. Though they had frequently spoken about his talent, the ghost-sight , as he had jokingly called it several times, ever since Molly had learned that Artie's spirit still wandered the world of the living, she was sometimes tentative when the subject came up.
Static hissed on the radio as they lost the station Molly had enjoyed so much on the drive north.
"Nothing. But I haven't really tried to see, either. Figured it was kind of dangerous while driving. If they appear or whatever, that's one thing. But you know what I find really interesting?"
"What?"
"We've been on the road all day. Not once has either of
Similar Books
