Was she out of her mind? If he waited any longer, the truck would be on top of them. He started to turn and Jan grabbed the wheel. “Two,” she said.
Then it dawned on him what Jan was doing: she wanted the Firebird to cross the line and deal with the oncoming truck. If the Firebird waited until the truck was past, they would have some breathing room.
“Three! Go for it!”
They were close enough to the truck to see the driver’s face. The Firebird banged their side as Hardare spun the wheel sharply. With a rubbery squeal the Volvo jumped off the highway and took down a rusted sign that said Barstow, 25 miles. The Firebird tried to follow, then swerved back into the right lane, as the truck roared by, blowing its horn.
They pitched and heaved across the desert. A reddish cloud swirled around them, the fine brown dust blowing on their clothes through the air conditioner. Watching the mirror, Hardare kept his foot pressed to the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between his car and the highway as possible.
“Where did he go?” said Jan, craning her neck.
“Don’t know.” He drove another bumpy mile until a large reservoir came into view. Only when he felt certain they were not being followed did he brake. He unhitched his seat belt.
Crystal buried her face in her hands and wept softly. “Why did he kill that poor boy on the motorcycle? Why? He just ran over him like an animal.”
He leaned through the seats and gently ran his fingers through his daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry honey. I don’t know. Just be glad it wasn’t us.”
“Vince,” Jan said sharply.
He followed the direction of his wife’s stare. Less than a hundred yards away the Firebird sat on a grassy incline, its engine racing. The car inched treacherously down the hill towards them.
Crystal’s voice nearly broke. “What does he want?”
Hardare watched the Firebird’s guarded advance. A red cloud blew around the Volvo, and just as quickly died away. The Firebird’s driver blew a strange little tune — it had the familiar ring of a television theme song — over his car horn. A numbing fear crept over him, and he thought back to the night before, and his prediction on the Tonight Show.
“Me,” he said, reaching under the seat for the Louisville Slugger he kept for road trips. “Stay in the car.”
Before Jan could protest Hardare jumped out, slamming the door. “Lock the doors.”
He walked to front of his car and planted his feet in the dusty earth. Then he whacked the baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The Firebird braked to a halt fifty feet away. Hardare saw his opening, and took it.
No one is going to terrorize my family, he thought, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the car. When he had halved the distance between then, the Firebird raced its engine, as if preparing to run him over. He pointed his bat at the driver.
“Let’s get it on,” Hardare challenged, his voice angrier than he’d ever heard it. “Right here, right now. No more chicken games.”
The Firebird let out three short beeps, laughing at him. Then it went into reverse, made a 45 degree turn, and started driving in a circle around the Volvo. Hardare retreated to his car, watching the Firebird increase its speed and choke the air with dust as it did doughnuts around them.
“Come on!” he yelled. In frustration he picked up a rock and bounced it off the hood as the Firebird made another pass. The car braked with a squeal.
The driver hopped out, unarmed. A leather cap and shades covered his face. He did not look human but humanoid, his entire body swathed in taut black leather. His broad shoulders tapered down to a tiny waist, and through the leather his muscles bulged perceptibly. Hardare had never trusted body-builders; they were always out of proportion with the rest of the world.
“Know who I am?” he demanded.
Hardare nodded that he did.
“Let’s hear it, Mr. Magico.”
“Your name is Death,” Hardare replied, taking a short step forward. For a moment the driver was speechless. Seeing his chance, he said, “You killed Sybil Blanchard — I saw it in a dream.”
Hardare took another step, his eyes locked on Death’s face, trading evil stares. The face of Crystal’s look-alike flashed through his mind, and he said, “Death is the killer of helpless women and children. Death killed twelve in San Francisco. But he didn’t call himself Death then.”
Death’s arms slowly fell to his sides, a man transfixed. Hardare stole another step, his hands tensed around the bat handle. “So Death moved to LA. Bigger city, easier to stay lost. Death felt left out as a child, inferior. Death has no real friends, no one he really loves, or really loves him. Death is a loner—”
“Shut up,” Death said, the swagger gone from his voice. “I don’t want to hear anymore. Just shut your mouth..!”
“Death is a loser,” he countered, trying to keep the momentum in his voice, each sentence drawing him a yard closer, in range to take his head off. “Death taunts the police. You like to frighten people. Puts them on the defensive, doesn’t it? Let me ask you something. Did you frighten Lori from Tulsa? Remember her? Eighteen, sunny blond hair, dimples. You killed her. I know you did. I know everything about you.”
“Because the police told you,” Death seethed, his body noticeably tensing. “I know who came to your hotel last night. That big dummy Harry Wondero. Isn’t he a barrel of laughs? He told you everything he knows about me, of should I say doesn’t know. You’re a phony.”
His voice had changed again, more masculine and assertive, and he unexpectedly slipped behind the open car door. Hardare froze: what if he had a gun? Five running steps and he had a swing at him. Death reappeared holding a bowling ball bag.
“I want you to meet someone,” Death said, reaching into the bag. His fingers came out slowly, clenched around thick locks of red hair. He let the bag fall and a woman’s head dangled from his gloved hand. “This is my friend, Lorraine. She thinks you’re a fake, too.”
Hardare was suddenly tasting his breakfast. Back in the Volvo his daughter emitted a blood-curdling scream. Death tossed Lorraine into the dirt at his feet, and Hardare jumped back in revulsion, her frozen eyes staring at him like a Medusa. Within seconds her face was covered with a swarming colony of ants.
Death clapped his hands together. A sleek black Doberman Pincher scrambled out of the back seat of the Firebird. Death petted him fondly, and pointed a finger at Hardare.
“Bad man, Tyson. Kill him!”
The dog let out a killer’s growl and charged him. Hardare reflexively tossed his bat into the dog’s chest, heard a pained yelp, and ran back to his car and jumped in. He slammed his door with the snarling dog on his heels. In a rage Tyson leapt onto the hood, his snapping jaws fogging the already dirty windshield.
“Do something, Daddy,” Crystal said.
He started the car, went nowhere. The engine had overheated and stalled. Twisting the key in the ignition, he heard the engine sputter and turn over. Throwing the car into gear, he saw Death’s leather figure sprinting towards the car.
“Vince, he’s got a bomb..!” Jan said.
The Volvo lurched forward. Death stopped, lit a cloth fuse hanging from the bottle’s mouth, and tossed it. His aim was deadly, and the bottle shattered against the roof. Within seconds bright orange flames engulfed the car as well as the crazed dog standing on top of it, its head snapping back and forth in a blind fury. Hardare violently shifted gears and the animal slid off the hood.
The car’s interior grew hot, the air conditioner spitting smoke. Hardare drove as best he could toward the reservoir, at any moment expecting a radial to blow, or worse, the gas tank to explode.
They ran roughshod across the desert, taking down lopsided rows of cactus and numerous molehills, and burst through a wire fence as if it were paper. Up a short embankment, over it, his foot to the floor, the car literally flying in the air — looking sideways, his eyes met Jan’s, her face the last memory he wanted to have if the reservoir was only a foot deep — and then hit the reservoir’s murky blue water with tremendous impact.