relief.
His left hand shook so much he thrust it between his knees and squeezed until it calmed.
âMy God,â he whispered. âJesus, man, Jesus.â
Twenty-five, he swore to himself; he didnât care if it took until dawn, he wouldnât go faster than twenty-five all the way home.
He wasnât sober, but he sure as hell wasnât as drunk as he had been.
The speedometer reached fifty.
He saw the needle, saw it climb again slowly, and decided it would be all right. Sixty, no more; heâd be home quicker, and that was okay because he was a menace to himself out here.
A hard swallow, a deep breath, his right hand flicking the radio off because what he didnât need now was interference with his concentration. Just watch the road, pay no attention to anything thatâ
He saw it again.
Just a suggestion of movement running with him on the other side of the ditch. Which was impossible. He was doing sixty-five, for Godâs sake, there wasnât anything except another car that could go that fast.
He squinted a stare, broke it off when the car began to drift, and licked his lips.
There wasnât anything over there.
Good God, there couldnât be anything over there. It was the headlights, thatâs all, running along a row of juniper maybe, or some piñon, rock, something like that. His eyes caught the strobelike reflection, and the scotch turned it into something that paced him.
Thatâs all it was.
He wished the moon were a little brighter.
Forget the new canvases, he decided a half-mile later; the hell with it, he was done. He had enough money, the house was paid for, what the hell more could he want?
The car jumped sideways when something slammed into the passenger door.
He yelled, and watched his hands blur around the wheel, watched the road blur black to gray and black again, screamed when the car was struck a second time, and looked over to see what drunken idiot was trying to run him off the road.
There was nothing there.
When he looked back, it was too late.
The highway was gone.
All he could do was cross his arms in front of his face, close his eyes, and scream.
Â
There was no fire, no explosion.
Mike Ostrand hung upside down in his seatbelt, listening to the engine tick, listening to the wind blow through the open window.
Listening to the hiss he thought was the tires spinning to a halt.
A few seconds later, he blacked out when something reached through the window and touched his arm.
EIGHT
La Mosca Inn sat between the Rio Grande and a high adobe wall that fronted the road. Eight units extended left and right from a central two-story building that housed the office, a large flagstone waiting room cooled by a small sparking fountain, and a restaurant large enough to seat one hundred without elbows and voices clashing. Spanish tile on the roof, shade provided by cottonwood and mountain ash, and a single huge Russian olive in the center of the courtyard.
Scully sat on a wood bench that ringed the massive tree, facing the arched entrance whose elaborate iron gates were closed each night at, theproprietor told her, precisely midnight. She let her eyes close, and touched a finger to her forehead, to trap a droplet of sweat that had broken from her hairline.
âFeeling better?â a voice rasped beside her.
âNot really.â
The day had gone wrong from minute one: sheâd overslept and had to race to the airport, only to learn that the flight had been delayed. For an hour. Then two. Once airborne, she had planned to set up her laptop computer, so she and Mulder could go over what details of the case they had.
It didnât happen.
Roller-coaster turbulence rode them all the way to Dallas, making reading the computer screen a nauseating experience; she spent most of the time trying, and failing, to doze. Then a series of thunderstorms ringing the Texas city forced them to swerve wide into a holding pattern until the squall line had
His left hand shook so much he thrust it between his knees and squeezed until it calmed.
âMy God,â he whispered. âJesus, man, Jesus.â
Twenty-five, he swore to himself; he didnât care if it took until dawn, he wouldnât go faster than twenty-five all the way home.
He wasnât sober, but he sure as hell wasnât as drunk as he had been.
The speedometer reached fifty.
He saw the needle, saw it climb again slowly, and decided it would be all right. Sixty, no more; heâd be home quicker, and that was okay because he was a menace to himself out here.
A hard swallow, a deep breath, his right hand flicking the radio off because what he didnât need now was interference with his concentration. Just watch the road, pay no attention to anything thatâ
He saw it again.
Just a suggestion of movement running with him on the other side of the ditch. Which was impossible. He was doing sixty-five, for Godâs sake, there wasnât anything except another car that could go that fast.
He squinted a stare, broke it off when the car began to drift, and licked his lips.
There wasnât anything over there.
Good God, there couldnât be anything over there. It was the headlights, thatâs all, running along a row of juniper maybe, or some piñon, rock, something like that. His eyes caught the strobelike reflection, and the scotch turned it into something that paced him.
Thatâs all it was.
He wished the moon were a little brighter.
Forget the new canvases, he decided a half-mile later; the hell with it, he was done. He had enough money, the house was paid for, what the hell more could he want?
The car jumped sideways when something slammed into the passenger door.
He yelled, and watched his hands blur around the wheel, watched the road blur black to gray and black again, screamed when the car was struck a second time, and looked over to see what drunken idiot was trying to run him off the road.
There was nothing there.
When he looked back, it was too late.
The highway was gone.
All he could do was cross his arms in front of his face, close his eyes, and scream.
Â
There was no fire, no explosion.
Mike Ostrand hung upside down in his seatbelt, listening to the engine tick, listening to the wind blow through the open window.
Listening to the hiss he thought was the tires spinning to a halt.
A few seconds later, he blacked out when something reached through the window and touched his arm.
EIGHT
La Mosca Inn sat between the Rio Grande and a high adobe wall that fronted the road. Eight units extended left and right from a central two-story building that housed the office, a large flagstone waiting room cooled by a small sparking fountain, and a restaurant large enough to seat one hundred without elbows and voices clashing. Spanish tile on the roof, shade provided by cottonwood and mountain ash, and a single huge Russian olive in the center of the courtyard.
Scully sat on a wood bench that ringed the massive tree, facing the arched entrance whose elaborate iron gates were closed each night at, theproprietor told her, precisely midnight. She let her eyes close, and touched a finger to her forehead, to trap a droplet of sweat that had broken from her hairline.
âFeeling better?â a voice rasped beside her.
âNot really.â
The day had gone wrong from minute one: sheâd overslept and had to race to the airport, only to learn that the flight had been delayed. For an hour. Then two. Once airborne, she had planned to set up her laptop computer, so she and Mulder could go over what details of the case they had.
It didnât happen.
Roller-coaster turbulence rode them all the way to Dallas, making reading the computer screen a nauseating experience; she spent most of the time trying, and failing, to doze. Then a series of thunderstorms ringing the Texas city forced them to swerve wide into a holding pattern until the squall line had
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