coiled and swallowed the emerald light.
Â
Mike Ostrand was a little drunk.
Hell, he was a lot drunk, and could barely see the dashboard, much less the interstate. The gray slash of his headlamps blurred and sharpened, making the road swing from side to side as if the car couldnât stay in its proper lane.
This late, though, he didnât much give a damn.
The road from Santa Fe was, aside from occasional rises not quite hills, fairly straight all the way to Bernalillo, and into Albuquerque beyond. Just aim the damn thing and hold onto the wheel. Heâd done it hundreds of times.
He hiccuped, belched, and grimaced at the sour taste that rose in his throat, shaking his head sharply as if to fling the taste away.
The radio muttered a little Willie Nelson.
He wiped his eyes with one hand and checked the rearview mirror. Nothing back there but black.
Nothing ahead but more black.
The speedometer topped seventy.
If he were lucky, if he were really lucky, heâd be home by two and asleep by two-ten, assuming he made it as far as the bedroom. Two-five if he couldnât get past the couch.
He laughed, more like a giggle, and rolled down the window when he felt a yawn coming. Drunk or not, he knew enough to understand that cold air blasting the side of his face was infinitely preferable to dozing off and ending up nose-down in a ditch, his head through the windshield.
The air smelled good.
The engineâs grumble was steady.
âAnd so am I,â he declared to the road. âSteady as a rock and twice as hard.â
Another laugh, another belch.
It had been a good night. No, it had been a great night. Those pinheads in Santa Fe, thinking they knew ahead of the rest of the world what the next artsy trend would be, had decided he was it. Living collages, they called it; the desert genius, they called him.
âMy God!â he yelled, half in joy, half in derision.
After a dozen years trying to sell paintings even he couldnât abide, heâd sliced a small cactus in half, glued it to a canvas, added a few tiny bird bones and a couple of beads, called it something or other, and as a lark, brought it north.
They loved it.
They fucking loved it.
He had meant it as a thumbed nose at their pretensions, and they had fallen over themselves trying to buy it.
The wind twisted through the car, tangling his long blond hair, tugging at it, threatening a headache.
Five years later, twenty-five carefully assembled when he was roaring drunk canvases later, his bank account was fat, his home was new, his car was turned in every year, and the women were lined up six to the dozen, just waiting for his living desert fingers to work their magic on them.
It almost made him sick.
It didnât make him stupid.
Trends were little more than fads, and he knew full well that the next season might be his last. Which was why he needed to hole up for a while, work through an even dozen more projects, and get himself out before he ended up like the othersâflat broke and saying, âI used to be someone, you know, really, I was,â while they cadged another beer from a stranger in a strange bar.
The speedometer topped eighty.
The headache began.
Acid bubbled in his stomach.
The back of his hand scrubbed across his face, and when his vision cleared, he saw something to the right, just beyond the edge of the light.
He frowned as he stared at it, then yelped asthe car followed his stare and angled for the shoulder. The correction was too sharp, and he swung off toward the wide empty median, swung back again, hit the accelerator instead of the brakes, and yelled soundlessly when the right-side tires bit into the earth off the blacktop.
The car shuddered.
He frozeâturn into the skid? turn out of the skid?âand watched in horror as the low shrubs and deep ditch charged him and veered away at the last minute, putting him back on the road.
Sweat masked his face.
His bladder demanded immediate
Â
Mike Ostrand was a little drunk.
Hell, he was a lot drunk, and could barely see the dashboard, much less the interstate. The gray slash of his headlamps blurred and sharpened, making the road swing from side to side as if the car couldnât stay in its proper lane.
This late, though, he didnât much give a damn.
The road from Santa Fe was, aside from occasional rises not quite hills, fairly straight all the way to Bernalillo, and into Albuquerque beyond. Just aim the damn thing and hold onto the wheel. Heâd done it hundreds of times.
He hiccuped, belched, and grimaced at the sour taste that rose in his throat, shaking his head sharply as if to fling the taste away.
The radio muttered a little Willie Nelson.
He wiped his eyes with one hand and checked the rearview mirror. Nothing back there but black.
Nothing ahead but more black.
The speedometer topped seventy.
If he were lucky, if he were really lucky, heâd be home by two and asleep by two-ten, assuming he made it as far as the bedroom. Two-five if he couldnât get past the couch.
He laughed, more like a giggle, and rolled down the window when he felt a yawn coming. Drunk or not, he knew enough to understand that cold air blasting the side of his face was infinitely preferable to dozing off and ending up nose-down in a ditch, his head through the windshield.
The air smelled good.
The engineâs grumble was steady.
âAnd so am I,â he declared to the road. âSteady as a rock and twice as hard.â
Another laugh, another belch.
It had been a good night. No, it had been a great night. Those pinheads in Santa Fe, thinking they knew ahead of the rest of the world what the next artsy trend would be, had decided he was it. Living collages, they called it; the desert genius, they called him.
âMy God!â he yelled, half in joy, half in derision.
After a dozen years trying to sell paintings even he couldnât abide, heâd sliced a small cactus in half, glued it to a canvas, added a few tiny bird bones and a couple of beads, called it something or other, and as a lark, brought it north.
They loved it.
They fucking loved it.
He had meant it as a thumbed nose at their pretensions, and they had fallen over themselves trying to buy it.
The wind twisted through the car, tangling his long blond hair, tugging at it, threatening a headache.
Five years later, twenty-five carefully assembled when he was roaring drunk canvases later, his bank account was fat, his home was new, his car was turned in every year, and the women were lined up six to the dozen, just waiting for his living desert fingers to work their magic on them.
It almost made him sick.
It didnât make him stupid.
Trends were little more than fads, and he knew full well that the next season might be his last. Which was why he needed to hole up for a while, work through an even dozen more projects, and get himself out before he ended up like the othersâflat broke and saying, âI used to be someone, you know, really, I was,â while they cadged another beer from a stranger in a strange bar.
The speedometer topped eighty.
The headache began.
Acid bubbled in his stomach.
The back of his hand scrubbed across his face, and when his vision cleared, he saw something to the right, just beyond the edge of the light.
He frowned as he stared at it, then yelped asthe car followed his stare and angled for the shoulder. The correction was too sharp, and he swung off toward the wide empty median, swung back again, hit the accelerator instead of the brakes, and yelled soundlessly when the right-side tires bit into the earth off the blacktop.
The car shuddered.
He frozeâturn into the skid? turn out of the skid?âand watched in horror as the low shrubs and deep ditch charged him and veered away at the last minute, putting him back on the road.
Sweat masked his face.
His bladder demanded immediate
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