in the girl’s hands became more terrible by the second, though she continued to be unaware of them and seemed to feel no pain.
Suddenly Joey understood that the increasing grisliness of his paranormal vision meant that this girl was in growing danger. The fate for which she had been destined—the fate that he had postponed by taking Coal Valley Road and stopping to assist her—was grimly reasserting itself. Delaying by the side of the road was apparently the wrong thing to do.
“Maybe he’s coming back,” Joey said.
She closed her hands, as if shamed by the intensity with which he stared at them. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and he looked into the distance along Coal Valley Road, into the impenetrable gloom that swallowed the two rain-swept lanes of blacktop.
“You mean that other car?” she asked.
“Yeah. Did you get a glimpse of whoever was in it?”
“No. A man. But I didn’t see him clearly. A shadow, a shape. Why does it matter?”
“I’m not sure.” He took her by the arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
As they hurried toward the Chevy, she said, “You sure aren’t anything like I thought you’d be.”
That struck him as a peculiar statement. Before he could ask her what she meant, however, they reached the Chevy—and he stumbled to a halt, stunned by what stood before him, her words forgotten.
“Joey?” she said.
The Chevy was gone. In its place was a Ford. A 1965 Mustang. His 1965 Mustang. The wreck that, as a teenager, he had lovingly restored with his dad’s help. Midnight blue with white-wall tires.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He had been driving the Mustang that night twenty years ago. It had sustained major body damage when he had spun out on the interstate and collided with a signpost.
There was no body damage now. The side window, which had shattered when his head hit it, was intact. The Mustang was as cherry as it had ever been.
The wind picked up, shrieking, so the night itself seemed mad. Silvery whips of rain lashed around them and snapped against the pavement.
“Where’s the Chevy?” he asked shakily.
“What?”
“The Chevy,” he repeated, raising his voice above the storm.
“What Chevy?”
“The rental car. The one I was driving.”
“But … you were driving this,” she said.
He looked at her in disbelief.
As before, he was aware of mysteries in her eyes, but he had no sense that she was trying to deceive him.
He let go of her arm and walked to the front of the Mustang, trailing one hand along the rear fender, the driver’s door, the front fender. The metal was cold, smooth, slick with rain, as solid as the road on which he stood, as real as the heart that knocked in his chest.
Twenty years ago, after he’d hit the signpost, the Mustang had been badly scraped and dented, but it had been drivable. He had returned to college in it. He remembered how it had rattled and ticked all the way to Shippensburg—the sound of his young life falling apart.
He remembered all the blood.
Now, when he hesitantly opened the driver’s door, the light came on inside. It was bright enough to reveal that the upholstery was free of bloodstains. The cut that he’d suffered in his forehead had bled heavily until he’d driven to a hospital and had it stitched, and by that time the bucket seat had been well spattered. But this upholstery was pristine.
The girl had gone around to the other side of the car. She slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
With her inside, the night seemed as utterly empty of life as a pharaoh’s crypt undiscovered beneath the sands of Egypt. All the world might have been dead, with only Joey Shannon left to hear the sound and know the fury of the storm.
He was reluctant to get behind the steering wheel. It was all too strange. He felt as though he had surrendered entirely to a drunkard’s delirium—although he knew that he was stone sober.
Then he remembered the wounds that he’d foreseen in
Suddenly Joey understood that the increasing grisliness of his paranormal vision meant that this girl was in growing danger. The fate for which she had been destined—the fate that he had postponed by taking Coal Valley Road and stopping to assist her—was grimly reasserting itself. Delaying by the side of the road was apparently the wrong thing to do.
“Maybe he’s coming back,” Joey said.
She closed her hands, as if shamed by the intensity with which he stared at them. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and he looked into the distance along Coal Valley Road, into the impenetrable gloom that swallowed the two rain-swept lanes of blacktop.
“You mean that other car?” she asked.
“Yeah. Did you get a glimpse of whoever was in it?”
“No. A man. But I didn’t see him clearly. A shadow, a shape. Why does it matter?”
“I’m not sure.” He took her by the arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
As they hurried toward the Chevy, she said, “You sure aren’t anything like I thought you’d be.”
That struck him as a peculiar statement. Before he could ask her what she meant, however, they reached the Chevy—and he stumbled to a halt, stunned by what stood before him, her words forgotten.
“Joey?” she said.
The Chevy was gone. In its place was a Ford. A 1965 Mustang. His 1965 Mustang. The wreck that, as a teenager, he had lovingly restored with his dad’s help. Midnight blue with white-wall tires.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He had been driving the Mustang that night twenty years ago. It had sustained major body damage when he had spun out on the interstate and collided with a signpost.
There was no body damage now. The side window, which had shattered when his head hit it, was intact. The Mustang was as cherry as it had ever been.
The wind picked up, shrieking, so the night itself seemed mad. Silvery whips of rain lashed around them and snapped against the pavement.
“Where’s the Chevy?” he asked shakily.
“What?”
“The Chevy,” he repeated, raising his voice above the storm.
“What Chevy?”
“The rental car. The one I was driving.”
“But … you were driving this,” she said.
He looked at her in disbelief.
As before, he was aware of mysteries in her eyes, but he had no sense that she was trying to deceive him.
He let go of her arm and walked to the front of the Mustang, trailing one hand along the rear fender, the driver’s door, the front fender. The metal was cold, smooth, slick with rain, as solid as the road on which he stood, as real as the heart that knocked in his chest.
Twenty years ago, after he’d hit the signpost, the Mustang had been badly scraped and dented, but it had been drivable. He had returned to college in it. He remembered how it had rattled and ticked all the way to Shippensburg—the sound of his young life falling apart.
He remembered all the blood.
Now, when he hesitantly opened the driver’s door, the light came on inside. It was bright enough to reveal that the upholstery was free of bloodstains. The cut that he’d suffered in his forehead had bled heavily until he’d driven to a hospital and had it stitched, and by that time the bucket seat had been well spattered. But this upholstery was pristine.
The girl had gone around to the other side of the car. She slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
With her inside, the night seemed as utterly empty of life as a pharaoh’s crypt undiscovered beneath the sands of Egypt. All the world might have been dead, with only Joey Shannon left to hear the sound and know the fury of the storm.
He was reluctant to get behind the steering wheel. It was all too strange. He felt as though he had surrendered entirely to a drunkard’s delirium—although he knew that he was stone sober.
Then he remembered the wounds that he’d foreseen in
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