somewhere—”
“Near Garberville—there’s a hospital—”
“Do you know how to find it?”
“I drove past it—fifteen miles…”
If he drove here, where’s his car? she thought. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you have an accident?”
He started to speak but his answer was cut off by a sudden flicker of light. Struggling to sit up, he turned and stared at the headlights of another car far behind them. His whispered oath made her look sideways in alarm.
“What is it?”
“That car.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror. “What about it?”
“How long’s it been following us?”
“I don’t know. A few miles. Why?”
The effort of keeping his head up suddenly seemed too much for him, and he let it sink back down with a groan. “Can’t think,” he whispered. “Christ, I can’t think…”
He’s lost too much blood, she thought. In a panic, she shoved hard on the gas pedal. The car seemed to leap through the rain, the steering wheel vibrating wildly as sheets of spray flew up from the tires. Darkness flew at dizzying speed against their windshield. Slow down, Slow down! Or I’ll get us both killed.
Easing back on the gas, she let the speedometer fall to a more manageable forty-five miles per hour. The man was struggling to sit up again.
“Please, keep your head down!” she pleaded.
“That car—”
“It’s not there anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at the rearview mirror. Through the rain, she saw only a faint twinkling of light, but nothing as definite as headlights. “I’m sure,” she lied and was relieved to see him slowly settle back again. How much farther? she thought. Five miles? Ten? And then the next thought forced its way into her mind: He might die before we get there.
His silence terrified her. She needed to hear his voice, needed to be reassured that he hadn’t slipped into oblivion. “Talk to me,” she urged. “Please.”
“I’m tired….”
“Don’t stop. Keep talking. What—what’s your name?”
The answer was a mere whisper: “Victor.”
“Victor. That’s a great name. I like that name. What do you do, Victor?”
His silence told her he was too weak to carry on any conversation. She couldn’t let him lose consciousness! For some reason it suddenly seemed crucial to keep him awake, to keep him in touch with a living voice. If that fragile connection was broken, she feared he might slip away entirely.
“All right,” she said, forcing her voice to remain low and steady. “Then I’ll talk. You don’t have to say a thing. Just listen. Keep listening. My name is Catherine. Cathy Weaver. I live in San Francisco, the Richmond district. Do you know the city?” There was no answer, but she sensed some movement in his head, a silent acknowledgement of her words. “Okay,” she went on, mindlessly filling the silence. “Maybe you don’t know the city. It really doesn’t matter. I work with an independent film company. Actually, it’s Jack’s company. My ex-husband. We make horror films. Grade B, really, but they turn a profit. Our last one was Reptilian. I did the special-effects makeup. Really gruesome stuff. Lots of green scales and slime…” She laughed—it was a strange, panicked sound. It had an unmistakable note of hysteria.
She had to fight to regain control.
A wink of light made her glance up sharply at the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights was barely discernible through the rain. For a few seconds she watched them, debating whether to say anything to Victor. Then, like phantoms, the lights flickered off and vanished.
“Victor?” she called softly. He responded with an unintelligible grunt, but it was all she needed to be reassured that he was still alive. That he was listening. I’ve got to keep him awake, she thought, her mind scrambling for some new topic of conversation. She’d never been good at the glib sort of chitchat so highly valued at filmmakers’ cocktail parties. What she needed was a joke, however stupid, as long as it was vaguely funny. Laughter heals. Hadn’t she read it somewhere? That a steady barrage of comedy could shrink tumors? Oh sure, she chided herself. Just make him laugh and the bleeding will miraculously stop….
But she couldn’t think of a joke, anyway, not a single damn one. So she returned to the topic that had first come to mind: her work.
“Our next project’s slated for January. Ghouls. We’ll be filming in Mexico, which I hate, because the damn heat always melts the makeup….”
She looked at Victor but saw no response, not even a flicker of movement. Terrified that she was losing him, she reached out to feel for his pulse and discovered that his hand was buried deep in the pocket of his windbreaker. She tried to tug it free, and to her amazement he reacted to her invasion with immediate and savage resistance. Lurching awake, he blindly lashed at her, trying to force her away.
“Victor, it’s all right!” she cried, fighting to steer the car and protect herself at the same time. “It’s all right! It’s me, Cathy. I’m only trying to help!”
At the sound of her voice, his struggles weakened. As the tension eased from his body, she felt his head settle slowly against her shoulder. “Cathy,” he whispered. It was a sound of wonder, of relief. “Cathy…”
“That’s right. It’s only me.” Gently, she reached up and brushed back the tendrils of his wet hair. She wondered what color it was, a concern that struck her as totally irrelevant but nonetheless compelling. He reached for her hand. His fingers closed around hers in a grip that was surprisingly strong and steadying. I’m still here, it said. I’m warm and alive and breathing. He pressed her palm to his lips. So tender was the gesture, she was startled by the roughness of his unshaven jaw against her skin. It was a caress between strangers, and it left her shaken and trembling.
She returned her grip to the steering wheel and shifted her full attention back to the road. He had fallen silent again, but she couldn’t ignore the weight of his head on her shoulder or the heat of his breath in her hair.
The torrent eased to a slow but steady rain, and she coaxed the car to fifty. The Sunnyside Up cafe whipped past, a drab little box beneath a single streetlight, and she caught a glimpse of Victor’s face in the brief glow of light. She saw him only in profile: a high forehead, sharp nose, a jutting chin, and then the light was gone and he was only a shadow breathing softly against her. But she’d seen enough to know she’d never forget that face. Even as she peered through the darkness, his profile floated before her like an image burned into her memory.
“We have to be getting close,” she said, as much to reassure herself as him. “Where a cafe appears, a town is sure to follow.” There was no response. “Victor?” Still no response. Swallowing her panic, she sped up to fifty-five.
Though
