bumper. But no one was there. He checked both tires but found no sign of tampering.
âEverything okay?â It was the kid, standing at the door, wind whipping his hair across his face.
âYeah. Thanks.â
Dan checked the area again and rubbed his head. He knew he saw someone. He wasnât going crazy.
After inspecting the tires one more time, he climbed into the car and started the engine. At once, the hair on the back of his neck bristled; he had the sudden feeling that something had followed him into the vehicle. He checked the rearview mirror, but there was no one, only the empty backseats and the snow-covered windows.
11
Dan had the Volvo back on the road and pointed northwest in a matter of seconds. Gusts of wind sliced across the roadway but did not find a chink in the vehicleâs exterior. The clock on the dash read 4:56. It, too, was counting down, like a time bomb clicking off the minutes until the final explosion, that fireworks display that would signal the end of Dan Blakelyâs life.
If he wanted any kind of quality time with his family before the big finale, Dan needed to make good time getting to New York. And as if the forces of nature knew that and were determined to deter him, to slow his progress, to thwart his plans, the snow increased both in the size of the flakes and the intensity with which they fell. Visibility was cut in half. Drifts started to form. Fortunately the car was equipped with four-wheel drive and brand-new tires that found traction in spite of the deteriorating conditions.
A few miles up the road, though, visibility worsened further and Dan had to slow to thirty miles an hour.
He hit the steering wheel and grunted. At this speed it would take him three hours to get to New York. He cursed himself again for telling Constant to take him back to the morning. Heâd been a fool and chosen the wrong time, and now he was bogged down in the middle of a snowstorm a hundred miles from Sue and the boys.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, whiting out the roadway and anything beyond the windshield. The world had been whitewashed and blown clean. Dan tuned the radio to the local AM channel. A meteorologist went on about the misplaced snowstorm. Apparently, it was supposed to track farther north into upstate New York, across into Vermont and New Hampshire, then on into Maine. Northern Pennsylvania was only to get a dusting from the fast-moving front. In two to three hours it would all be over.
But Dan didnât have two or three hours. He needed to make time now. He should be traveling at twice his current speed.
Slowly he pressed the accelerator. The car handled the increase in speed easily, taking turns without even the slightest slippage. Dan continued to accelerate, testing the responsiveness of the vehicle and traction of the tires. Thirty-five. Forty. Wind blew snowflakes directly at the windshield as if it were under heavy fire from an army of snow devils. A sharp right turn approached. Dan eased on the brake and turned the wheel hard. The tires slipped but quickly regained traction and pushed forward.
Again, he eased the accelerator toward the floor. The engine responded; tires turned faster. Forty-five. Fifty. The radio went back to its regular programming, some morning call-in jock going on about the presidentâs new border defense bill. Dan turned it off. He hated that stuff and couldnât have cared less about whether or not to build a fence between Texas and Mexico. Anyone with murder in their belly would find a way to fulfill its hunger; no fence would stop them.
Another turn, this one to the left, took Dan by surprise. He braked hard and jerked the wheel. The car hit a snowdrift, the rear wheels lost traction, and it spun counterclockwise a complete 180-degree rotation. Wind swept by on the other side of the glass and threw snow at the window in cloudy gusts. The tires lost all traction and the vehicle slipped off the road and down an
âEverything okay?â It was the kid, standing at the door, wind whipping his hair across his face.
âYeah. Thanks.â
Dan checked the area again and rubbed his head. He knew he saw someone. He wasnât going crazy.
After inspecting the tires one more time, he climbed into the car and started the engine. At once, the hair on the back of his neck bristled; he had the sudden feeling that something had followed him into the vehicle. He checked the rearview mirror, but there was no one, only the empty backseats and the snow-covered windows.
11
Dan had the Volvo back on the road and pointed northwest in a matter of seconds. Gusts of wind sliced across the roadway but did not find a chink in the vehicleâs exterior. The clock on the dash read 4:56. It, too, was counting down, like a time bomb clicking off the minutes until the final explosion, that fireworks display that would signal the end of Dan Blakelyâs life.
If he wanted any kind of quality time with his family before the big finale, Dan needed to make good time getting to New York. And as if the forces of nature knew that and were determined to deter him, to slow his progress, to thwart his plans, the snow increased both in the size of the flakes and the intensity with which they fell. Visibility was cut in half. Drifts started to form. Fortunately the car was equipped with four-wheel drive and brand-new tires that found traction in spite of the deteriorating conditions.
A few miles up the road, though, visibility worsened further and Dan had to slow to thirty miles an hour.
He hit the steering wheel and grunted. At this speed it would take him three hours to get to New York. He cursed himself again for telling Constant to take him back to the morning. Heâd been a fool and chosen the wrong time, and now he was bogged down in the middle of a snowstorm a hundred miles from Sue and the boys.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, whiting out the roadway and anything beyond the windshield. The world had been whitewashed and blown clean. Dan tuned the radio to the local AM channel. A meteorologist went on about the misplaced snowstorm. Apparently, it was supposed to track farther north into upstate New York, across into Vermont and New Hampshire, then on into Maine. Northern Pennsylvania was only to get a dusting from the fast-moving front. In two to three hours it would all be over.
But Dan didnât have two or three hours. He needed to make time now. He should be traveling at twice his current speed.
Slowly he pressed the accelerator. The car handled the increase in speed easily, taking turns without even the slightest slippage. Dan continued to accelerate, testing the responsiveness of the vehicle and traction of the tires. Thirty-five. Forty. Wind blew snowflakes directly at the windshield as if it were under heavy fire from an army of snow devils. A sharp right turn approached. Dan eased on the brake and turned the wheel hard. The tires slipped but quickly regained traction and pushed forward.
Again, he eased the accelerator toward the floor. The engine responded; tires turned faster. Forty-five. Fifty. The radio went back to its regular programming, some morning call-in jock going on about the presidentâs new border defense bill. Dan turned it off. He hated that stuff and couldnât have cared less about whether or not to build a fence between Texas and Mexico. Anyone with murder in their belly would find a way to fulfill its hunger; no fence would stop them.
Another turn, this one to the left, took Dan by surprise. He braked hard and jerked the wheel. The car hit a snowdrift, the rear wheels lost traction, and it spun counterclockwise a complete 180-degree rotation. Wind swept by on the other side of the glass and threw snow at the window in cloudy gusts. The tires lost all traction and the vehicle slipped off the road and down an
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