The Highway Kind(26)

Powering down the window to let in the night air, he caught the rotten-egg-and-sulfur smell of the nearby swamp. Trees and wetlands on both sides of the highway here. Even at this hour, the air was warmer than when he’d stopped in Roanoke for dinner eight hours ago.

A car flew by in the far left lane, a blur of taillights as it passed. The speed limit for this stretch of interstate was seventy, and Kirwan kept the Volvo at a safe sixty-five, let the other vehicles pass him.

He turned on the radio, scanned stations. Somewhere south of Charleston, the all-news station he’d been listening to had dissolved into static. Now he got only snatches of rap, country music, preachers. Nothing coming in strong. Get that satellite radio set up, he thought. Do yourself a favor. Or at least get the CD player fixed.

He drove a thousand miles a week, and sometimes during thunderstorms he would pick up faraway AM stations, the signal bouncing off the clouds. Once, near Atlanta, he’d gotten a talk station out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, crystal clear for a solid half hour before the storm passed.

No such luck tonight. More static; then, near the end of the dial, someone speaking rapid French. A Haitian station out of Miami. He switched over to FM, finally got a country tune he recognized. He left it there, settled back.

Sometimes at night, when the danger of falling asleep at the wheel was strongest, when he felt himself starting to dream, he’d turn off the headlights, the road going black in front of him. The jolt of adrenaline and panic that followed would wake him up, keep him going for another half hour. He’d leave the lights off for only a few seconds, but it was enough.

There was a guardrail on the right now, and the lane seemed to narrow. He signaled, even though there were no other cars around, started to move into the near left lane, heard the sharp bleat of a horn.

He jerked the Volvo back into the right lane, saw the single headlight to his left. A motorcycle had come out of the blind spot there. Had he missed it in the rearview? Had he even checked the mirror before changing lanes? He wasn’t sure.

He turned off the radio, wanted to call out Sorry, realized how stupid that would sound. He slowed, waited for the motorcycle to pass. Instead, it came abreast of him, hung there. He could hear the rider shouting. Kirwan kept his eyes forward. He couldn’t make out the words, but his face grew hot.

He slowed to fifty-five, but the bike stayed with him. He looked then. It was a big Harley with extended front forks, black all around, dual silver exhausts. The rider had a beard and mustache, wore a leather jacket and jeans with a wallet chain. No helmet.

Kirwan faced front again. Don’t look. It’ll just aggravate the situation.

The biker was still shouting. Kirwan looked in the rearview, hoping to see a vehicle coming up from behind that would force the bike to speed up or pass him. Only darkness back there. They were alone on the road.

The yelling stopped. He chanced a look, saw the biker’s right hand leave the throttle and come up, middle finger extended. Kirwan shook his head, faced front again. Just go, he thought. I’m sorry about what happened, but it’s over now. Just go.

The bike surged past him, engine growling, went up two car lengths, and swept into his lane. His headlights lit the back of it, the pale gray Georgia plate, and then the bike slowed and the Volvo was almost on top of it. Kirwan hit the brake, and the Volvo slewed to the right, the front fender inches from the guardrail. The boxed samples in the rear cargo area slid across the floor, bumped into the wall. He straightened the wheel, got centered in the lane once more. The biker twisted around in the headlights, grinning, gave him the finger again, then sped up.

Kirwan felt a rush of anger. Without thinking, he hit the gas, closed the space between them. The motorcycle glided easily back into the left lane, the rider gesturing to Kirwan as if inviting him to pass. When he didn’t, the rider looked at him, grinned, and shrugged. A tractor-trailer came up in the far left lane, rumbled past them, disappeared over the rise ahead.

Kirwan knew this part of 95—no exits for at least another few miles. He could pull over, hope the biker kept going, but there wasn’t much shoulder here. It would be dangerous to stop.

The biker slowed until they were even again, then pointed at him. Kirwan tried to ignore him, kept the speedometer at sixty. It was no use speeding up or slowing down. The motorcycle would stay with him. He just had to wait until the biker lost interest, sped off.

More shouting. He started to power up the window, saw the motorcycle ease ahead of him. The biker’s right arm flashed out, and something clicked against the windshield, flew off. Kirwan jerked his head back, saw the tiny chip in the glass. A coin, maybe. Something too small to do much damage, but enough to mark the glass, get his attention. The bike slowed, and they were side by side again. Kirwan turned to look at him then and saw the gun.

It was a dark automatic. The biker pointed it at him through the half-open window, not shouting now. The gun was steady.

Kirwan stood on the brake. The Volvo’s tires screamed, and its rear end slid to the left, the wagon going into a skid. He panicked, fought the wheel, and pumped the brake, trying to remember what he’d learned—turn in the direction of the skid. Don’t lock the brakes. The front end of the wagon swung from right to left and back again, headlights illuminating the guardrail, the trees beyond, the roadway, then the guardrail again. The sample boxes thudded into the back of the rear seat.

He steered onto the shoulder, gravel rattling against the undercarriage. He braked steadily, avoiding the guardrail, and the wagon came to a stop, bucked forward slightly, settled back and was still.