He thought of Lois Pettimore, Marco’s accountant. She’d be at the meeting. The same perfume as always, her blouse open one button too deep, with a glimpse of black lace beneath. Sometimes in their office he’d notice her watching him, but he never knew how to respond. He’d look away, his face flushed, then flee as soon as he had their order sheets and contracts.
At the last meeting, two weeks ago, she’d handed him an invoice, let her nails brush the back of his wrist. He’d seen then that her wedding band was gone, only a faint white line left where it had been. He wondered if the imminent divorce she always managed to bring up in conversation had gone through.
His right front tire crossed onto the shoulder, hit gravel. The noise and vibration snapped him awake. He sat up straighter and steered back into his lane, the momentary burst of adrenaline clearing his mind. That was stupid, he thought, dangerous. Stay alert.
Powering down the window to let in the night air, he caught the rotten-egg-and-sulfur smell of the nearby swamp. Trees and wetlands on both sides of the highway here. Even at this hour, the air was warmer than when he’d stopped in Roanoke for dinner eight hours ago.
A car flew by in the far left lane, a blur of taillights as it passed. The speed limit for this stretch of interstate was seventy, and Kirwan kept the Volvo at a safe sixty-five, let the other vehicles pass him.
He turned on the radio, scanned stations. Somewhere south of Charleston, the all-news station he’d been listening to had dissolved into static. Now he got only snatches of rap, country music, preachers. Nothing coming in strong. Get that satellite radio set up, he thought. Do yourself a favor. Or at least get the CD player fixed.
He drove a thousand miles a week, and sometimes during thunderstorms he would pick up faraway AM stations, the signal bouncing off the clouds. Once, near Atlanta, he’d gotten a talk station out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, crystal-clear for a solid half hour before the storm passed.
No such luck tonight. More static; then, near the end of the dial, someone speaking rapid French. A Haitian station out of Miami. He switched over to FM, finally got a country tune he recognized. He left it there, settled back.
Sometimes at night, when the danger of falling asleep at the wheel was strongest, when he felt himself starting to dream, he’d turn off the headlights, the road going black in front of him. The jolt of adrenaline and panic that followed would wake him up, keep him going for another half hour. He’d leave the lights off for only a few seconds, but it was enough.
There was a guardrail on the right now, and the lane seemed to narrow. He signaled, even though there were no other cars around, started to move into the near left lane, heard the sharp bleat of a horn.
He jerked the Volvo back into the right lane, saw the single headlight to his left. A motorcycle had come out of the blind spot there. Had he missed it in the rearview? Had he even checked the mirror before changing lanes? He wasn’t sure.
He turned off the radio, wanted to call out Sorry, realized how stupid that would sound. He slowed, waited for the motorcycle to pass. Instead it came abreast of him, hung there. He could hear the rider shouting. Kirwan kept his eyes forward. He couldn’t make out the words, but his face grew hot.
He slowed to fifty-five, but the bike stayed with him. He looked then. It was a big Harley with extended front forks, black all around, dual silver exhausts. The rider had a beard and mustache, wore a leather jacket and jeans with a wallet chain. No helmet.
Kirwan faced front again. Don’t look. It’ll just aggravate the situation.
The biker was still shouting. Kirwan looked in the rearview, hoping to see a vehicle coming up from behind that would force the bike to speed up or pass him. Only darkness back there. They were alone on the road.
The yelling stopped. He chanced a look, saw the biker’s right hand leave the throttle and come up, middle finger extended. Kirwan shook his head, faced front again. Just go, he thought. I’m sorry about what happened, but it’s over now. Just go.
The bike surged past him, engine growling, went up two car lengths, and swept into his lane. His headlights lit the back of it, the pale-gray Georgia plate, and then the bike slowed and the Volvo was almost on top of it. Kirwan hit the brake, and the Volvo slewed to the right, the front fender inches from the guardrail. The boxed samples in the rear cargo area slid across the floor, bumped into the wall. He straightened the wheel, got centered in the lane once more. The biker twisted around in the headlights, grinning, gave him the finger again, then sped up.
Kirwan felt a rush of anger. Without thinking, he hit the gas, closed the space between them. The motorcycle glided easily back into the left lane, the rider gesturing to Kirwan as if inviting him to pass. When he didn’t, the rider looked at him, grinned, and shrugged. A tractor-trailer came up in the far left lane, rumbled past them, disappeared over the rise ahead.
Kirwan knew this part of 95—no exits for at least another few miles. He could pull over, hope the biker kept going, but there wasn’t much shoulder here. It would be dangerous to stop.
The biker slowed until they were even again, then pointed at him. Kirwan tried to ignore him, kept the speedometer at sixty. It was no use speeding up or slowing down. The motorcycle would stay with him. He just had to wait until the biker lost interest, sped off.
More shouting. He started to power up the window, saw the motorcycle ease ahead of him. The biker’s right arm flashed out, and something clicked against the windshield, flew off. Kirwan jerked his head back, saw the tiny chip in the glass. A coin, maybe. Something too small to do much damage, but enough to mark the glass, get his attention. The bike slowed, and they were side by side again. Kirwan turned to look at him then and saw the gun.
It was a dark automatic. The biker pointed it at him through the half-open window, not shouting now. The gun was steady.
Kirwan stood on the brake. The Volvo’s tires screamed, and its rear end slid to the left, the wagon going into a skid. He panicked, fought the wheel, and pumped the brake, trying to remember what he’d learned—turn in the direction of the skid. Don’t lock the brakes. The front end of the wagon swung from right to left and back again, headlights illuminating the guardrail, the trees beyond, the roadway, then the guardrail again. The sample boxes thudded into the back of the rear seat.
He steered onto the shoulder, gravel rattling against the undercarriage. He braked steadily, avoiding the guardrail, and the wagon came to a stop, bucked forward slightly, settled back, and was still.
A cloud of dust rose in his headlights. He jammed the console gearshift into park, gripped the wheel, tried to slow his breathing. His knuckles were white.
When the dust cleared, he saw the motorcycle. It had pulled onto the shoulder three car lengths ahead. The rider was looking back at him.
Kirwan felt the sharp stab of fear. He waited for the rider to get off, come back toward him, the gun out. For a moment, crazily, he considered shifting back into drive, hitting the gas, plowing into the bike. Decided that’s what he would do if the rider came at him with the gun. Could he do that? Run a man over, maybe kill him?
But the biker stayed where he was, boots on the gravel, balancing the bike under him. No sign of the gun. Kirwan wondered if he’d imagined it, if his fear and the night had colluded to make him see something that wasn’t there. Or had the gun just gone back into wherever he’d pulled it from? Maybe the biker had brought it out only to scare him, make him overreact and oversteer, wreck the Volvo on his own.
The biker watched him as if waiting to see what he would do. Kirwan didn’t move, kept his hands tight on the wheel. The biker grinned, faced forward again. He steered back onto the roadway, gave the Harley gas. His taillights climbed the rise and vanished.
Breathe, Kirwan told himself, breathe. His neck and shoulders were rigid. He could feel a vessel throb in his left temple. What now? Get off at the next exit, find a town, a police station, report what happened? Even if he did, he had no proof except the chip in the windshield, which could have c
ome from a small rock, a piece of gravel. And the Harley had been moving fast. They’d never catch up with the biker, and what if they did? Down here, like as not, the gun would be legal—if there even was a gun. It would be Kirwan’s word against his. No witnesses.
His cell phone was in the console cup holder. He could call 911, give a description of the biker, have the dispatcher alert the highway patrol. But he’d already forgotten the plate number. A G, maybe an X after that, but that was all he had. And calling it in might mean more questions, a report, hours spent in a station house or trooper barracks. And if they caught the biker, Kirwan would have to face him again, the man who’d pointed a gun at him, nearly run him off the road.
Cars passed. When his breathing was back to normal, he powered the window shut, put on his blinker. He shifted into drive, waited until the road was clear, then steered into the lane, gave the Volvo gas.
He would have to get the alignment checked, the tires as well. The Volvo had lost its grip on the road for a moment, and that had frightened him almost as much as the gun—the sense of powerlessness, of being out of control. He’d find a garage in New Smyrna tomorrow, right after the meeting; he wouldn’t put it off. Get the windshield fixed too, before the chip turned into a crack.
Back up to sixty, keeping it steady there. Any cars that came up behind would pass him, give him space. And with every minute the biker would be farther ahead, farther away from him. Kirwan breathed in deep, then exhaled. He turned the radio back on, the same country station.
After a while he realized he had to urinate. He tried to ignore it at first, but the pressure in his bladder grew. He didn’t want to stop, wanted to keep going, make up the time he’d lost. But now there was a twinge of pain, and he knew he couldn’t wait until he found a motel.
There were exits ahead now, motels and mammoth gas stations right off the roadway, their signs raised on poles so they’d be seen from a distance. He took the exit for I-10. At the end of the ramp, signs pointed left and right, logos showing what gas and food were available in either direction, how far they were. It made no difference. The restaurants would be mostly fast-food joints, and some of them would be closed at this hour. If nothing else, he’d top off the tank at a gas station, find a restroom.
He turned right, the road here leading away from the highway. A mile ahead he saw the lights of a truck stop and diner, a Days Inn adjoining them. He thought about checking in, but it was too early still, and he was wired, wouldn’t sleep. He decided to keep driving for a bit longer before he found a place to stay. Then a quick breakfast in the morning and on to New Smyrna. He thought of Lois, her perfume.
He signaled, even though there was no one behind him, pulled into the diner lot. And there, parked alongside an idling tractor-trailer, was the Harley. Kirwan felt his stomach tighten, and for a moment he thought his bladder would let go. He pulled the Volvo beneath a tree on the edge of the lot, out of the light wash from the big pole lamps, killed the engine and headlights.
Half a dozen cars here, and just the one tractor-trailer. Through the big diner windows he could see people sitting at booths, two men at the counter beyond. No sign of the biker.
Was it the same motorcycle? He looked at it again, unsure now. It seemed to be black, like the other one, but that might be a trick of the light. It had the same extended front end, and he could see the Harley insignia on the gas tank, so that much was the same. But he couldn’t be sure.
Turn around. Get back on the road, then onto the highway. Find another diner or truck stop, another bathroom. Drive away.
Inside the diner, a door swung open, gave a glimpse of a white-tiled hallway, where the restrooms and trucker showers would be. The biker stepped out, went to the counter. He looked older in the bright interior lights, gray in his hair and beard. He spoke to the waitress there, his back to the window.
When he came out the front door, he was carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He spit on the ground, looked around the lot.
Kirwan slid lower in his seat. The biker glanced in his direction, then away. He set the cup atop a metal trash can, put both hands on the small of his back and stretched, then reached inside the jacket. He’s going for the gun.
The hand came out with a pack of cigarettes. Kirwan wondered again if the gun had been his imagination, his fatigue, his fear.
The biker lit the cigarette with a plastic lighter, put the pack away, blew out smoke. He was standing in the direct light fall from the windows now, and Kirwan could see the glint of a diamond stud in his right ear. He hadn’t noticed that before. Was it even the same man?
The biker went over to the Harley, opened the right saddlebag. He crouched, looked inside, moved something around, fastened the flap again. He retrieved his coffee, walked around the bike as if checking for damage, the cup in his left hand.
He looked out at the road for a while, smoking and drinking coffee, then flicked the cigarette away. It landed sparking on the blacktop. Straddling the bike, he took a last pull at the cup, pitched it toward the trash can. It fell short, splashed on the sidewalk, sprayed coffee on the door of an SUV parked there. Then he rose in the seat, came down hard, kick-started the engine. It roared into life. The people inside the diner looked out. He sat back, revved the engine, still in neutral, as if enjoying the attention. The heavy throb of the exhaust seemed to fill the night.
He wheeled the Harley around toward the road. Would he go left, back to the lights of I-95? Or right and farther west into unbroken darkness? In that direction, I-10 would eventually take him to Tallahassee, Kirwan knew, but there was a lot of nothing between here and there, mostly sugarcane and swamp.
Kirwan started his engine. Drive away, he thought once more. You’ll never see him again. Your business, your life, is down the road. Places you need to be, people to see. Commitments and responsibilities.
Still, a sourness burned in his stomach. The biker had laughed about what he’d done, and now he was riding off as if nothing had happened. He’d laugh again when he told the story later of how he’d put the fear of death into a middle-aged man in a station wagon.
The Harley pulled out of the lot, back tire spraying gravel. He turned right, as Kirwan had somehow known he would.
Headlights off, Kirwan followed.
No lights on this stretch of road, no moon above, but the Harley was easy to follow. Twice cars coming in the opposite direction flashed their high beams at Kirwan, letting him know his lights were off. But the biker didn’t seem to notice. The Harley kept at a steady speed, didn’t try to race ahead, lose him. He doesn’t know I’m here.
He powered down the window, could hear the deep growl of the Harley’s engine. The swamp smell was strong, and a low mist hung over the roadway, was swept under the front tires as he drove. The urge to urinate was gone.
Houses started to pop up, most of them dark. Concrete and stucco, bare yards. The road began to run parallel to a canal, the Harley’s headlamp reflected in the water.
Past the houses and into tall sugarcane now. In the Harley’s headlamp, Kirwan caught glimpses of dirt roads that ran off the highway. The Harley slowed, as if the rider was watching for an upcoming turn. Kirwan slowed with it. He’s almost there, wherever he’s going. You’ll lose him. And maybe that’s a good thing.
An intersection ahead, with a blinking yellow light in all four directions. The Harley blew through it without slowing. Kirwan did the same. The road began to curve gradually to the right. Ahead, lit by a single pole light, a concrete bridge spanned the canal.
Pull over. Let him go. Put your headlights on, turn around. You’re in the middle of nowhere, and you’re losing time. Don’t be stupid.
The Harley slowed, rider and machine leaning to the right as they followed the curve of the road. Kirwan floored the gas pedal.
The Volvo leaped forward, faster than he’d expected, closed on the Harley in an instant. The bike had almost reached the bridge when the rider shifted in his seat, looked back, saw him for the first time. Kirwa
n hit the headlights, gave him the brights, barely thirty feet between them.
The biker was still turned in his seat when the Harley reached the bridge. Kirwan saw it as if in slow motion—the biker looking forward at the last moment, the bike coming in too sharp, the angle wrong. Then the front tire hit the abutment and the rider was catapulted into the darkness, the bike somersaulting after him, end over end, off the bridge and onto the ground below.
Kirwan’s foot moved from gas pedal to brake, stomped down hard. The Volvo shimmied as it had before, slewed to the right, the samples thumping into the seatback. The tires squealed, dug in, and the Volvo came to a shuddering stop just short of the bridge.
He reversed onto the shoulder, shifted into park, and listened. All he could hear over his engine noise was crickets. He switched on the hazards. Didn’t want another car to come speeding along, rear-end him in the darkness.
He got out, left the door ajar. There were bits of metal and broken glass on the bridge, a single skid mark. He walked up the shoulder, hazards clicking behind him, the headlights throwing his shadow long on the pavement.
At the bridge, he looked down. The ground sloped steeply to the edge of the canal. The bike was about fifteen feet away, had ripped a hole through the foliage. The rear tire was spinning slowly. From somewhere in the darkness came a moan.
He went back to the car, opened the glove box, took out the plastic flashlight, looked at the phone on the console.
Back at the bridge, he switched on the flashlight. The bright narrow beam leaped out, starkly lit the grass below. Torn-up earth down there. The bike had tumbled at least once before coming to rest in the trees.
He aimed the light toward it. It lay on its right side, the forks bent back and twisted, the front tire gone. The left saddlebag had been thrown open and its contents—clothes mostly—littered the grass. The air smelled of gasoline.
The moaning again. He picked his way carefully down the slope, shoes sinking in the damp earth. Playing the light along the edge of the canal, he followed the noise.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2017 Page 41