Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  have overturned. Goddamn it, what was wrong with that

  son of a bitch? Mann honked his hom in frightened rage.

  Cranking down the window suddenly, he shoved his left

  arm out to wave the truck back. “Back!" he yelled. He

  honked the hom again. “Get back, you crazy bastard!”

  The truck was almost on him now. He’s going to kill

  me! Mann thought, horrified. He honked the hom repeatedly, then had to use both hands to grip the steering wheel as he swept around another curve. He flashed a

  look at the rearview mirror. He could see only the

  bottom portion of the truck’s radiator grille. He was

  going to lose control! He felt the rear wheels start to drift

  and let up on the pedal quickly. The tire treads bit in, the

  car leaped on, regaining its momentum.

  Mann saw the bottom of the grade ahead, and in the

  distance there was a building with a sign that read c h u c k ’s

  c a f e . The truck was gaining ground again. This is insane!

  he thought, enraged and terrified at once. The highway

  straightened out. He floored the pedal: 74 now— 75.

  Mann braced himself, trying to ease the car as far to the

  right as possible.

  Abruptly, he began to brake, then swerved to the right,

  raking his car into the open area in front of the cafe. He

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  cried out as the car began to fishtail, then careened into a

  skid. Steer with it! screamed a voice in his mind. The rear

  of the car was lashing from side to side, tires spewing dirt

  and raising clouds of dust. Mann pressed harder on the

  brake pedal, turning further into the skid. The car began

  to straighten out and he braked harder yet, conscious, on

  the sides of his vision, of the truck and trailer roaring by

  on the highway. He nearly sideswiped one of the cars

  parked in front of the cafe, bounced and skidded by it,

  going almost straight now. He jammed in the brake pedal

  as hard as he could. The rear end broke to the right and

  the car spun half around, sheering sideways to a neck-

  wrenching halt thirty yards beyond the cafe.

  Mann sat in pulsing silence, eyes closed. His heartbeats felt like club blows in his chest. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. If he were ever going to have a heart

  attack, it would be now. After a while, he opened his eyes

  and pressed his right palm against his chest. His heart

  was still throbbing laboredly. No wonder, he thought. It

  isn’t every day I’m almost murdered by a truck.

  He raised the handle and pushed out the door, then

  started forward, grunting in surprise as the safety belt

  held him in place. Reaching down with shaking fingers,

  he depressed the release button and pulled the ends of

  the belt apart. He glanced at the cafe. What had its

  patrons thought of his breakneck appearance? he wondered.

  He stumbled as he walked to the front door of the cafe.

  t r u c k e r s w e l c o m e , read a sign in the window. It gave

  Mann a queasy feeling to see it. Shivering, he pulled

  open the door and went inside, avoiding the sight of its

  customers. He felt certain they were watching him, but

  he didn’t have the strength to face their looks. Keeping

  his gaze fixed straight ahead, he moved to the rear of the

  cafe and opened the door marked g e n t s .

  Moving to the sink, he twisted the right-hand faucet

  and leaned over to cup cold water in his palms and

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  splash it on his face. There was a fluttering of his

  stomach muscles he could not control.

  Straightening up, he tugged down several towels from

  their dispenser and patted them against his face, grimacing at the smell of the paper. Dropping the soggy towels into a wastebasket beside the sink, he regarded himself

  in the wall mirror. Still with us, Mann, he thought. He

  nodded, swallowing. Drawing out his metal comb, he

  neatened his hair. You never know, he thought. You just

  never know. You drift along, year after year, presuming

  certain values to be fixed; like being able to drive on a

  public thoroughfare without somebody trying to murder

  you. You come to depend on that sort of thing. Then

  something occurs and all bets are off. One shocking

  incident and all the years of logic and acceptance are

  displaced and, suddenly, the jungle is in front of you

  again. Man, part animal, part angel. Where had he come

  across that phrase? He shivered.

  It was entirely an animal in that truck out there.

  His breath was almost back to normal now. Mann

  forced a smile at his reflection. All right, boy, he told

  himself. It’s over now. It was a goddamned nightmare,

  but it’s over. You are on your way to San Francisco.

  You’ll get yourself a nice hotel room, order a bottle of

  expensive Scotch, soak your body in a hot bath and

  forget. Damn right, he thought. He turned and walked

  out of the washroom.

  He jolted to a halt, his breath cut off. Standing rooted,

  heartbeat hammering at his chest, he gaped through the

  front window of the cafe.

  The truck and trailer were parked outside.

  Mann stared at them in unbelieving shock. It wasn’t

  possible. He’d seen them roaring by at top speed. The

  driver had won; he’d won! He’d had the whole damn

  highway to himself! Why had he turned back?

  Mann looked around with sudden dread. There were

  five men eating, three along the counter, two in booths.

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  He cursed himself for having failed to look at faces when

  he’d entered. Now there was no way of knowing who it

  was. Mann felt his legs begin to shake.

  Abruptly, he walked to the nearest booth and slid in

  clumsily behind the table. Now wait, he told himself; just

  wait. Surely, he could tell which one it was. Masking his

  face with the menu, he glanced across its top. Was it that

  one in the khaki work shirt? Mann tried to see the man’s

  hands but couldn’t. His gaze flicked nervously across the

  room. Not that one in the suit, of course. Three remaining. That one in the front booth, square-faced, blackhaired? If only he could see the man’s hands, it might help. One of the two others at the counter? Mann studied

  them uneasily. Why hadn’t he looked at faces when he’d

  come in?

  Now wait, he thought. Goddamn it, wait! All right, the

  truck driver was in here. That didn’t automatically

  signify that he meant to continue the insane duel.

  Chuck’s Cafe might be the only place to eat for miles

  around. It was lunchtime, wasn’t it? The truck driver had

  probably intended to eat here all the time. He’d just been

  moving too fast to pull into the parking lot before. So

  he’d slowed down, turned around and driven back, that

  was all. Mann forced himself to read the menu. Right, he

  thought. No point in getting so rattled. Perhaps a beer

  would help relax him.

  The woman behind the counter came over and Mann

  ordered a ham sandwich on rye toast and a bottle of

  Coors.
As the woman turned away, he wondered, with a

  sudden twinge of self-reproach, why he hadn’t simply left

  the cafe, jumped into his car and sped away. He would

  have known immediately, then, if the truck driver was

  still out to get him. As it was, he’d have to suffer through

  an entire meal to find out. He almost groaned at his

  stupidity.

  Still, what if the truck driver had followed him out and

  started after him again? He’d have been right back where

  he’d started. Even if he’d managed to get a good lead, the

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  truck driver would have overtaken him eventually. It just

  wasn’t in him to drive at 80 and 90 miles an hour in

  order to stay ahead. True, he might have been intercepted by a California Highway Patrol car. What if he weren’t though?

  Mann repressed the plaguing thoughts. He tried to

  calm himself. He looked deliberately at the four men.

  Either of two seemed a likely possibility as the driver of

  the truck: the square-faced one in the front booth and the

  chunky one in the jumpsuit sitting at the counter. Mann

  had an impulse to walk over to them and ask which one

  it was, tell the man he was sorry he’d irritated him, tell

  him anything to calm him, since, obviously, he wasn’t

  rational, was a manic-depressive, probably. Maybe buy

  the man a beer and sit with him awhile to try to settle

  things.

  He couldn’t move. What if the truck driver were

  letting the whole thing drop? Mightn’t his approach rile

  the man all over again? Mann felt drained by indecision.

  He nodded weakly as the waitress set the sandwich and

  the bottle in front of him. He took a swallow of the beer,

  which made him cough. Was the truck driver amused by

  the sound? Mann felt a stirring of resentment deep

  inside himself. What right did that bastard have to

  impose this torment on another human being? It was a

  free country, wasn’t it? Damn it, he had every right to

  pass the son of a bitch on a highway if he wanted to!

  “Oh, hell,” he mumbled. He tried to feel amused. He

  was making entirely too much of this. Wasn’t he? He

  glanced at the pay telephone on the front wall. What was

  to prevent him from calling the local police and telling

  them the situation? But, then, he’d have to stay here, lose

  time, make Forbes angry, probably lose the sale. And

  what if the truck driver stayed to face them? Naturally,

  he’d deny the whole thing. What if the police believed

  him and didn’t do anything about it? After they’d gone,

  the truck driver would undoubtedly take it out on him

  again, only worse. God! Mann thought in agony.

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  The sandwich tasted flat, the beer unpleasantly sour.

  Mann stared at the table as he ate. For God’s sake, why

  was he just sitting here like this? He was a grown man,

  wasn’t he? Why didn’t he settle this damn thing once and

  for all?

  His left hand twitched so unexpectedly, he spilled beer

  on his trousers. The man in the jumpsuit had risen from

  the counter and was strolling toward the front of the

  cafe. Mann felt his heartbeat thumping as the man gave

  money to the waitress, took his change and a toothpick

  from the dispenser and went outside. Mann watched in

  anxious silence.

  The man did not get into the cab of the tanker truck.

  It had to be the one in the front booth, then. His face

  took form in Mann’s remembrance: square, with dark

  eyes, dark hair, the man who’d tried to kill him.

  Mann stood abruptly, letting impulse conquer fear.

  Eyes fixed ahead, he started toward the entrance. Anything was preferable to sitting in that booth. He stopped by the cash register, conscious of the hitching of his chest

  as he gulped in air. Was the man observing him? he

  wondered. He swallowed, pulling out the clip of dollar

  bills in his right-hand trouser pocket. He glanced toward

  the waitress. Come on, he thought. He looked at his

  check and, seeing the amount, reached shakily into his

  trouser pocket for change. He heard a coin fall onto the

  floor and roll away. Ignoring it, he dropped a dollar and a

  quarter onto the counter and thrust the clip of bills into

  his trouser pocket.

  As he did, he heard the man in the front booth get up.

  An icy shudder spasmed up his back. Turning quickly to

  the door, he shoved it open, seeing, on the edges of his

  vision, the square-faced man approach the cash register.

  Lurching from the cafe, he started toward his car with

  long strides. His mouth was dry again. The pounding of

  his heart was painful in his chest.

  Suddenly, he started running. He heard the cafe door

  bang shut and fought away the urge to look across his

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  shoulder. Was that a sound of other running footsteps

  now? Reaching his car, Mann yanked open the door and

  jarred in awkwardly behind the steering wheel. He

  reached into his trouser pocket for the keys and snatched

  them out, almost dropping them. His hand was shaking

  so badly he couldn’t get the ignition key into its slot. He

  whined with mounting dread. Come on! he thought.

  The key slid in, he twisted it convulsively. The motor

  started and he raced it momentarily before jerking the

  transmission shift to drive. Depressing the accelerator

  pedal quickly, he raked the car around and steered it

  toward the highway. From the corners of his eyes, he saw

  the truck and trailer being backed away from the cafe.

  Reaction burst inside him. “No!” he raged and

  slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. This was

  idiotic! Why the hell should he run away? His car slid

  sideways to a rocking halt and, shouldering out the door,

  he lurched to his feet and started toward the truck with

  angry strides. All right, Jack, he thought. He glared at the

  man inside the truck. You want to punch my nose, okay,

  but no more goddamn tournament on the highway.

  The truck began to pick up speed. Mann raised his

  right arm. “Hey!” he yelled. He knew the driver saw him.

  “Hey!” He started running as the truck kept moving,

  engine grinding loudly. It was on the highway now. He

  sprinted toward it with a sense of martyred outrage. The

  driver shifted gears, the truck moved faster. “Stop!”

  Mann shouted. “Damn it, stop!"

  He thudded to a panting halt, staring at the truck as it

  receded down the highway, moved around a hill and

  disappeared. “You son of a bitch,” he muttered. “You

  goddamn, miserable son of a bitch.”

  He trudged back slowly to his car, trying to believe

  that the truck driver had fled the hazard of a fistfight. It

  was possible, of course, but, somehow, he could not

  believe it.

  He got into his car and was about to drive onto the

  highway when he changed his mind and switched the

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  motor
off. That crazy bastard might just be tooling along

  at 15 miles an hour, waiting for him to catch up. Nuts to

  that, he thought. So he blew his schedule; screw it.

  Forbes would have to wait, that was all. And if Forbes

  didn’t care to wait, that was all right, too. He’d sit here

  for a while and let the nut get out of range, let him think

  he’d won the day. He grinned. You’re the bloody Red

  Baron, Jack; you’ve shot me down. Now go to hell with

  my sincerest compliments. He shook his head. Beyond

  belief, he thought.

  He really should have done this earlier, pulled over,

  waited. Then the truck driver would have had to let it

  pass. Or picked on someone else, the startling thought

  occurred to him. Jesus, maybe that was how the crazy

  bastard whiled away his work hours! Jesus Christ Almighty! was it possible?

  He looked at the dashboard clock. It was just past

  12:30. Wow, he thought. All that in less than an hour. He

  shifted on the seat and stretched his legs out. Leaning

  back against the door, he closed his eyes and mentally

  perused the things he had to do tomorrow and the

  following day. Today was shot to hell, as far as he could

  see.

  When he opened his eyes, afraid of drifting into sleep

  and losing too much time, almost eleven minutes had

  passed. The nut must be an ample distance off by now,

  he thought; at least 11 miles and likely more, the way he

  drove. Good enough. He wasn’t going to try to make San

  Francisco on schedule now, anyway. He’d take it real

  easy.

  Mann adjusted his safety belt, switched on the motor,

  tapped the transmission pointer into drive position and

  pulled onto the highway, glancing back across his shoulder. Not a car in sight. Great day for driving. Everybody was staying at home. That nut must have a reputation

  around here. When Crazy Jack is on the highway, lock

  your car in the garage. Mann chuckled at the notion as

  his car began to turn the curve ahead.

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  Mindless reflex drove his right foot down against the

  brake pedal. Suddenly, his car had skidded to a halt and

  he was staring down the highway. The truck and trailer

  were parked on the shoulder less than 90 yards away.

  Mann couldn’t seem to function. He knew his car was

  blocking the westbound lane, knew that he should either