The Highway Kind(28)

Kirwan slid lower in his seat. The biker glanced in his direction, then away. He set the cup atop a metal trash can, put both hands on the small of his back and stretched, then reached inside the jacket. He’s going for the gun.

The hand came out with a pack of cigarettes. Kirwan wondered again if the gun had been his imagination, his fatigue, his fear.

The biker lit the cigarette with a plastic lighter, put the pack away, blew out smoke. He was standing in the direct light fall from the windows now, and Kirwan could see the glint of a diamond stud in his right ear. He hadn’t noticed that before. Was it even the same man?

The biker went over to the Harley, opened the right saddlebag. He crouched, looked inside, moved something around, fastened the flap again. He retrieved his coffee, walked around the bike as if checking for damage, the cup in his left hand.

He looked out at the road for a while, smoking and drinking coffee, then flicked the cigarette away. It landed sparking on the blacktop. Straddling the bike, he took a last pull at the cup, pitched it toward the trash can. It fell short, splashed on the sidewalk, sprayed coffee on the door of an SUV parked there. Then he rose in the seat, came down hard, kick-started the engine. It roared into life. The people inside the diner looked out. He sat back, revved the engine, still in neutral, as if enjoying the attention. The heavy throb of the exhaust seemed to fill the night.

He wheeled the Harley around toward the road. Would he go left, back to the lights of I-95? Or right and farther west into unbroken darkness? In that direction, I-10 would eventually take him to Tallahassee, Kirwan knew, but there was a lot of nothing between here and there, mostly sugarcane and swamp.

Kirwan started his engine. Drive away, he thought once more. You’ll never see him again. Your business, your life, is down the road. Places you need to be, people to see. Commitments and responsibilities.

Still, a sourness burned in his stomach. The biker had laughed about what he’d done, and now he was riding off as if nothing had happened. He’d laugh again when he told the story later of how he’d put the fear of death into a middle-aged man in a station wagon.

The Harley pulled out of the lot, back tire spraying gravel. He turned right, as Kirwan had somehow known he would.

Headlights off, Kirwan followed.


No lights on this stretch of road, no moon above, but the Harley was easy to follow. Twice, cars coming in the opposite direction flashed their high beams at Kirwan, letting him know his lights were off. But the biker didn’t seem to notice. The Harley kept at a steady speed, didn’t try to race ahead, lose him. He doesn’t know I’m here.

He powered down the window, could hear the deep growl of the Harley’s engine. The swamp smell was strong, and a low mist hung over the roadway, was swept under the front tires as he drove. The urge to urinate was gone.

Houses started to pop up, most of them dark. Concrete and stucco, bare yards. The road began to run parallel to a canal, the Harley’s headlamp reflected in the water.

Past the houses and into tall sugarcane now. In the Harley’s headlamp, Kirwan caught glimpses of dirt roads that ran off the highway. The Harley slowed, as if the rider was watching for an upcoming turn. Kirwan slowed with it. He’s almost there, wherever he’s going. You’ll lose him. And maybe that’s a good thing.

An intersection ahead, with a blinking yellow light in all four directions. The Harley blew through it without slowing. Kirwan did the same. The road began to curve gradually to the right. Ahead, lit by a single pole light, a concrete bridge spanned the canal.

Pull over. Let him go. Put your headlights on, turn around. You’re in the middle of nowhere, and you’re losing time. Don’t be stupid.

The Harley slowed, rider and machine leaning to the right as they followed the curve of the road. Kirwan floored the gas pedal.

The Volvo leaped forward, faster than he’d expected, closed on the Harley in an instant. The bike had almost reached the bridge when the rider shifted in his seat, looked back, saw him for the first time. Kirwan hit the headlights, gave him the brights, barely thirty feet between them.

The biker was still turned in his seat when the Harley reached the bridge. Kirwan saw it as if in slow motion—the biker looking forward at the last moment, the bike coming in too sharp, the angle wrong. Then the front tire hit the abutment and the rider was catapulted into the darkness, the bike somersaulting after him, end over end, off the bridge and onto the ground below.

Kirwan’s foot moved from gas pedal to brake, stomped down hard. The Volvo shimmied as it had before, slewed to the right, the samples thumping into the seat back. The tires squealed, dug in, and the Volvo came to a shuddering stop just short of the bridge.

He reversed onto the shoulder, shifted into park, and listened. All he could hear over his engine noise were crickets. He switched on the hazards. Didn’t want another car to come speeding along, rear-end him in the darkness.

He got out, left the door ajar. There were bits of metal and broken glass on the bridge, a single skid mark. He walked up the shoulder, hazards clicking behind him, the headlights throwing his shadow long on the pavement.

At the bridge, he looked down. The ground sloped steeply to the edge of the canal. The bike was about fifteen feet away, had ripped a hole through the foliage. The rear tire was spinning slowly. From somewhere in the darkness came a moan.

He went back to the car, opened the glove box, took out the plastic flashlight, looked at the phone on the console.