The heavy glass door to the studio clicks open as they saunter into my studio. They’re obviously next on the air.
“I’m Taylor,” one says.
“I’m Tyler,” says the other.
“Two minutes, guys,” Saskia yells as the studio door closes behind them. Time for me to go.
“What I heard, not a bad show,” one of them says, looking me up and down.
The other one nods. “Ever thought of going into broadcasting?”
“We’re not going to crash, that’d be way too much irony.” I open the driver’s-side door of the black Vallero hatchback J.T. and I just rented from the Rental Car King and slide into the driver’s seat. No news from Maysie yet. It’s Saturday morning. There are no weekends in TV.
“Take as long as you want, McNally. Listen, I’ll shoot you driving from the backseat. Then I’ll hang the camera out the window-get us some hot on-the-road video. We did it at the network. It’ll rock.”
“Just get a few shots of me driving from inside the car,” I say. I don’t want to squash his enthusiasm, but I’m not so happy behind the wheel of a car the feds say needs to be repaired. It’s only ten-thirty or so, but the morning’s electric-blue sky has dulled to gray and white. And it’s starting to snow.
“Then I’ll pull over, you hop out, and you can get some footage of me driving by. We just need about a minute of usable video. Four or five good shots, okay? Franklin will meet us at the mechanic’s.”
What’s more, technically, I shouldn’t be doing this. Only J.T.’s name is on the rental agreement as a driver, since it’s too risky for me even to show my face inside RCK. But local news is all about “reporter involvement,” so if I’m doing a story about driving recalled rented cars, I’ve got to be driving a recalled rented car.
Yes, it makes no sense. Yes, I have no choice. J.T. clambers into the backseat, struggling to fit his camera onto his shoulder without the light bracketed to the top smashing into the fabric-covered roof.
“When I was with the network in the Mideast, we were lucky to have a car at all, let alone with power steering. One that’s recalled, who cares, right? Piece of cake.” J.T. flips on his battery-powered camera light, glaring it briefly in my rearview, then adjusts it so I can see again. “Okay, McNally. I’m rolling. Hit it.”
Flicking on the windshield wipers to battle the intensifying snow, I slowly back out of our parking spot, then turn into the shopping-mall lot. The power steering seems to be fine.
“These recalls are precautionary, anyway,” I say, reassuring myself as much as him. I maneuver around a few shoppers and head for the exit to the highway. “But if the power steering goes, make sure you get the whole thing on camera at least. Ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha,” from the backseat. “You can get your Emmy posthumously. They can roll my spectacular video of the fiery crash at the awards ceremony. Very network.”
“Just get the shots and then we can get this baby’s rotary valve fixed,” I say. “Whatever a rotary valve is.”
At least I understand the accelerator. Easing it down, I guide the hatchback up the ramp onto I-93 North. Our destination is the Power House, the state-of-the-art garage run by the top-notch mechanic who takes care of Franklin’s silver Passat and the adorable Stephen’s red Miata. Apparently the two of them take their cars in for service together, just like they do everything together. Somehow, Franklin never worries about his job distracting from his love life. Somehow, that relationship works perfectly. Of course, they live in the same city.
“A rotary valve is the thing that gauges how hard you’re turning the steering wheel,” J.T. says. “I had to deal with all our cars at the network. Check it out. You’d have big trouble turning a two-thousand-pound car. So the rotary valve is what makes the power steering-”
I glance into the rearview. J.T.’s still shooting. And talking. And talking. And, though it’s not his fault, he’s annoying. Every time he says network it reminds me of Kevin’s offer. And that reminds me of Josh. And that reminds me I’ve got a decision to make. An impossible decision. Unless I can clone myself.
“Let’s make sure the audio is clean, okay?” I say, trying to come up with a reasonable reason to keep him quiet. “Tell me all that later. We need the sounds of the highway. Without anyone’s voice.”
“You’re the boss,” J.T. says. “It’s your funeral.”
I wish people would stop saying that.
I see it almost in slow motion. Coming right at us. A rickety dump truck has been an annoying obstacle ever since the Neponset Road exit. Every time I try to pass the thing, some jerk driver, who for some reason needs to stay one second ahead of us, refuses to get out of the way. Other drivers, panicked by the increasing snow and squalling wind, decide creeping along at thirty miles an hour is somehow safer. Trapped, J.T. and I stay in the center lane.
Now something big is flying out of the back of the truck. A-bat? Part of my brain struggles to name it, while the rest of me, focused, calculates the best way to avoid it. A huge piece of-paper? It’s metal. Metal. Metal. A huge scrap of metal, caught by the increasing wind, is flying toward us. We’re caught. Hemmed in. I have no place to go. Teeth gritting, I steer straight ahead, hoping it won’t slam into our windshield.
“Holy-” J.T. leans forward, clamping both hands on the seat in front of him. “Look out, Charlie! Floor it! Or get out of the-”
The hunk of debris misses, flying over us. Behind me, brakes squeal, horns blare, tires skid on the slickening highway. Both my hands clutch the steering wheel. Every part of me is clenching.
“That was close,” I say. My heart is thudding, relief making my voice shaky and thin. Danger never feels real when you’re shooting a story. Fires, floods, tornadoes. You’re just doing your job. I hadn’t really thought about the stupid power steering thing. Now I do.
“Yeah,” J.T. replies. “Should we call the police?”
And then another flash of solid black escapes from under the fluttering green tarpaulin in front of us. Another shard, the size of a newspaper, careening across the highway, cutting through the snow. The driver-hauling scrap metal-must be oblivious. His wooden-sided panel truck picks up speed in the center lane. He thunders across a massive pothole, the truck lurching, and then the entire tarp comes loose, unleashing from its moorings, ropes flailing, plastic flapping.
It’s a barrage of metal, piece after piece. All sizes, weird shapes, scattering in the wind, picked up by gusts and flying, like demented crows. Random. Wild. Terrifying. And inescapable.
On either side, other drivers, each attempting the same impossible calculations, are slowing. Dodging. Speeding. Swerving. Slowing. Switching lanes. And everyone honking. I’m as frightened of getting too close to the cars around me as I am of being battered by the slicing shower of metal. Which would be worse, to plow into another car? Or to get slammed by a knifing scrap of jagged-edged-
And then I can’t avoid it. I see it, black metal, broad and flat, twisting across the snowy pavement and sliding to a stop. Right in front of us.
If I slam on the brakes, we’ll skid. I glance to each side. I can’t steer to avoid it. No room.
“McNally! Watch out for the-” J.T.’s voice is tense.
“I see it!”
Our wheels clatter over the bent and battered fragment, jouncing us out of our seats. J.T. yells something from the backseat. Whatever he says is drowned out by my own cry of dismay.
The truck, tarp now attached by just one corner and billowing like the cape of some comic-book supervillain, turns off the exit. I feel our right front tire make an unmistakable and stomach-churning rumble.
The rear of the car swings wide. Cars fly by us, but my view through the windshield is no longer forward. I’m seeing the side of the highway flash by. And we’re spinning.