Simon clamped down on the steering wheel. He felt his pulse in his hands. They streaked down the hill, the forest a blur on both sides. The extra speed increased the moisture spattering his windshield, making the glass blurry for seconds at a time, but Simon didn’t want to take his hands off the wheel to speed up the wipers.
They barreled along, his speedometer passing over seventy, then eighty, then ninety...
As his engine screamed, Simon held his breath. The dotted white line vanished. The road narrowed. The punk still wasn’t backing off, and there was no way Simon was letting off the juice now. He took a quick glance at the biker and, with a chill, saw the guy look over at the same time.
The extra lane disappeared, and then the two of them shared a lane, Simon partially over the double yellow. A bend in the road loomed ahead, a wall of trees beyond it.
Knowing his Miata cornered well, he kept his speed high and squealed around the bend. The biker stayed right with him, leaning into the curve, his shoulder nearly touching Simon’s passenger-side window. That’s when a pair of headlights appeared.
Simon had only a second to react. The gap between the lights made him think the vehicle was a semi or a motor home, and he jerked his wheel to the right. He knew the biker was there, but he had no other choice. As the truck — and it was indeed a semi truck — rumbled past, shaking his little car with its wall of wind, the Miata bumped the motorcycle.
The guy swerved onto the shoulder and beyond, kicking up a shower of mud. Simon’s momentum drifted him toward the shoulder, and for a second he thought he was going to hit the guy again, but the biker suddenly dropped behind. By then they had rounded the corner and Simon had the Miata under control.
He gasped for breath, finally remembering to breathe. Heart pounding in his ears, he roared up a hill in the storm, nothing but open road in front of him. The surge of adrenaline lit every one of his senses on fire. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw only blurry darkness behind him. The guy was gone. He must have pulled off, shaken up by the whole thing. Simon had actually proven the cooler customer.
“Hot damn,” he said.
The glass splintered instantly into a spider web of cracks, the sound as loud as a gunshot. Simon yelped and ducked to the right, car swerving. He glanced up just in time to see a fist strike the window — a black leather fist wearing gleaming brass knuckles.
This time the glass gave way in the center, shards landing on Simon’s lap. The wind roared in his ears. Wet air rushed into the car, smelling of pine and mud. Simon saw the outline of the biker outside the window, and seeing the shine of the leather through the broken glass suddenly made the guy more real — as if before he was merely a projection of Simon’s tired mind, or a villain in a video game.
They neared the top of the hill. Leaning away from the window, Simon edged closer to the edge of the road, but the biker followed, punching the glass again. More glass went flying, and this time a piece struck him above his mouth.
Tasting blood on his lips, Simon hit the brakes, hoping his attacker would race by, but the guy slowed along with him. The fist came through the window again, and this time the burly hand struck him on the cheek. It was only a glancing blow, more leather than brass making contact, but it was still powerful enough to jerk his head to the right. Purple and red stars flashed in front of his eyes.
When his vision cleared, the Miata was halfway in the ditch. As it plowed over the uneven ground, the car trembled and shook. The side of his face throbbing, the skin around his left eye already swelling, Simon steered the car back onto the highway. The biker was there, but Simon wasn’t going to get punched again. As they roared over the hill, the night a swirl of black and green around them, he let out a primal scream and swerved at the biker.
The guy was too fast. He moved even farther to the left. They banked around a gentle curve, and it was then that a white motor home emerged from the night like a whale surfacing from the depths of the ocean.
Just in time, Simon whipped the Miata back into his own lane. He cringed, expecting to hear a sickening crunch.
But there was no such sound.
After the motor home roared past, blaring its horn, there was the biker on the far left shoulder, keeping pace. He turned and looked at Simon.
Simon’s stomach churned even worse — now he really needed a bathroom. As they hit another straight stretch, not a car in sight, the biker barreled across the lanes. Simon swerved back and forth, trying to keep his attacker at bay, but these feints didn’t fool him. He turned along with Simon, and then deftly sidled up to him. Simon leaned away, expecting another blow, but this time the fist grabbed his steering wheel.
The brass knuckles, shiny with moisture, were still there. The leather glove was covered with hundreds of pin-sized holes. Simon had no idea what the guy was doing until the wheel moved to the right. Along this stretch, the pine trees grew awfully close to the road, and if he hit one of them at this speed...
Slamming on the brakes was the most obvious thing to do, and he almost did it, but then he had a flash of insight.
With his left hand, he grabbed the door handle and jerked the door open, putting his forearm behind it.
It worked better than he expected. The door struck the motorcycle’s handlebars, sending them careening in the other direction. The biker obviously hadn’t expected this move; he held onto the steering wheel a split second too long. His weight was going one way, his bike the other, and the bike began to tilt.
In the next instant the biker was gone. This time Simon did hear the sound of a wreck — a series of bangs and thuds. Swerving into the center of his lane, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw, through the smear of black and gray, a flickering headlight in the middle of the road, receding behind him. Then he rounded the corner and was alone with the rain and the highway.
In addition to his throbbing cheek, his whole body was trembling. Nobody could survive a crash like that. He had killed a man. He had actually killed. Dear God... His life was over. Even if it was manslaughter, he’d go away for years. His wife... his daughter...
He tasted bile. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and only through force of will did he keep from throwing up in the car. He descended a slight hill and, with fortunate timing, saw the sign for the Van Duzen National Forest Campground — and then another: Rest Area — 1 Mile Ahead. He’d stupidly left his cell phone at home, so a pay phone was his best bet.
He could make it to the rest area.
The rain sliced into his car, dampening his left arm. The highway widened, a lane appearing in the center for a turnoff to the left, for the campground, and another lane on the right, to the rest area. Still shaking, he turned to the right, slowing gently, turning into the gap in the trees.
He’d never been to this particular rest stop. He’d passed it lots of times, even a few times when he had to take a leak, but by the time he reached it the pull of the casino had always carried him the last twenty miles. But this time he couldn’t wait, and he was glad when he entered the pothole-infested parking lot and saw no other cars. He didn’t want anyone to see him in his present condition — or his smashed window. He still hadn’t decided if he was going to go back and fess up to what he did.
His mind raced, trying to understand how it all had happened. He had just wanted to pass. He didn’t even see what he had done wrong. Honked the horn a few times, maybe. Had that really been enough for the guy to want to kill him?