The Night Parade(83)

43


Blessedly, there was a spare tire and a jack in the trunk. He changed the tire while jacked up on the shoulder of the highway, working up a sweat despite the autumn chill in the evening air. Ellie stood beside him, studying him for a time, then turning her attention toward the headlights that occasionally cruised along the road. She held the shoe box against her chest, cradling it in both arms.

“All right,” he said, standing up and wiping the grease from his hands. He was out of breath and trembling, though less from exhaustion and more out of anxiety. For some reason, he felt like they were standing still while the whole world shifted beneath them. He felt as though he might be knocked flat at any moment.

He opened the passenger door for her. “Come on. Get in.”

Back in the car, he cranked the ignition but nothing happened. Not a series of clicks, not a grumble from the engine, not the stubborn rrr-rrr-rrr of the motor struggling to turn over.

“No. Come on.”

He cranked it again. Again. Again.

Dead.

“Son of a bitch!” He pounded the steering wheel with a fist. Then he ran his shaking hands through his hair. Ellie stared at him from the passenger seat. After closing his eyes and counting to ten in his head, he turned to her, forced a smile, and tried not to let her see the fear in his eyes.

“It’s broken,” she said. It was not a question.

“I’ll have a look under the hood. Is there a flashlight in the glove compartment?”

She opened the compartment, but it was obvious there was no flashlight in there.

“Okay.” David nodded at her. His arm ached. Again, he felt light-headedness threaten to overtake him. He took several deep breaths to regulate his respiration. “Just sit tight. I’ll go have a look.”

He climbed out of the car and pulled up the hood. His arms felt like rubber. As he stared at the assemblage of mechanical parts, his vision threatened to pixelate. He felt his respiration ratchet to a fever pitch . . . yet at the same time it seemed impossible to suck any air into his lungs.

This is it, said the head-voice. This is the end of the road. This is as far as you were meant to go. The Night Parade stops here and death takes over. What will it be? A heart attack? Or maybe Kapoor and that Craddock guy weren’t pulling your leg after all—maybe it’s the Folly that’s getting ready to take you down. You will die of a hemorrhage and leave your daughter stranded all alone and in the middle of the night on the shoulder of a Colorado highway.

“Go f*ck yourself,” he muttered. His voice sounded hollow and tinny in his ears.

The blast of an air horn caused him to jerk upright and slam the back of his head against the hood. He twisted out from beneath it in time to see two large headlights settling behind the Monte Carlo on the shoulder of the road. The stink of diesel exhaust filled the air.

Ellie had gotten out of the car and was standing on the shoulder again, her small shape silhouetted against the approaching headlights. David winced at her, as if it hurt to see her. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“Daddy?” she said, fear in her voice.

He reached out, touched her shoulder. She felt very much real. “Get back in the car, honey,” he told her. Then he continued toward the truck, one arm up to shield his watery eyes from the glare of the headlamps.

He heard the hiss of air brakes and, a moment later, the sound of someone’s boots crunching along the gravelly blacktop. A man’s hard voice said, “Shitty place for car trouble.”

“Yeah,” said David.

The man was nothing more than a barrel-shaped silhouette until he stepped around the side of the Monte Carlo. He was a big guy in a nylon vest and a flannel shirt, a John Deere hat pushed back on his head. He pressed his large fists on his hips as he approached David, sizing up the Monte Carlo with evident disappointment.

“Hate to say it,” said the trucker, “but American-made cars ain’t what they used to be.” The man turned toward David, his frown brightening into a grin. In the glow of the truck’s headlights, the man’s teeth looked as large and as gray as tombstones. “I’m Heck. Hector.” He held out one thick hand.

“Tim,” David said—the first name on his mind. He shook the man’s hand. “You wouldn’t know how to fix it, would you?”

“That depends. What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “Everything was fine until we blew a tire. I changed it with no problem, but when I went to start it up again—nothing. Not a sound.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Heck asked while simultaneously leaning in through the open driver’s window. He reached for the keys in the ignition, then saw Ellie in the passenger seat. “Well, hello, sugar.”

“Hi,” said Ellie.

Heck cranked the ignition a few times with nothing to show for it. “Bummer, ain’t it?” he said to Ellie.

“Sucks,” said Ellie.

Heck chuckled. “You said it, darling.” He withdrew from the window, then went around to the open hood. David trailed behind him. Those large meathooks parked back on his hips, Heck surveyed the engine in silence. After a full minute had passed, he stared at David and said, “Can I make an admission?”

“Sure.”