NOS4A2(130)

“I can’t help you, Bing,” Manx said. “The car doesn’t want you.”

The Wraith began to roll backward.

Bing wouldn’t let go of the handle and was pulled alongside. He jerked at the latch again. His jowls wobbled.

“Mr. Manx! Don’t go! Mr. Manx, wait for me! You said I could come!”

“That was before you let her get away, Bing. You let us down. I might forgive you. You know I have always thought of you as a son. But I have no say in this. You let her get away, and now the Wraith is letting you get away. The Wraith is like a woman, you know! You cannot argue with a woman! They are not like men. They do not operate by reason! I can feel that she is spitting mad at you for being so careless with your gun.”

“No! Mr. Manx! Give me another chance. Please! I want another chance!”

He stumbled and banged his suitcase against his leg once again. It spilled open, dumping undershirts and underwear and socks down the length of the driveway.

“Bing,” Manx said. “Bing, Bing. Go away. I’ll come and play some other day.”

“I can do better! I’ll do whatever you want! Please, oh, please, Mr. Manx! I want a second chance!” Screaming now.

“Don’t we all,” Manx said. “But the only person who has been granted a second chance is Victoria McQueen. And that’s just no good, Bing.”

As the car backed up, it began to swing around, to face the road. Bing was pulled right off his feet and collapsed on the blacktop. The Wraith dragged him for several feet, squalling and yanking at the handle.

“Anything! Anything! Mr. Manx! Anything for you! My life! For you!”

“My poor boy,” Manx said. “My poor, sweet boy. Do not make me sad. You are making me feel awful! Let go of the door, please! This is hard enough!”

Bing let go, although Wayne could not say if he was doing as he was told or if his strength simply gave out. He flopped in the road, on his stomach, sobbing.

The Wraith began to accelerate away from Bing’s house, away from the burned wreck of the church up the hill. Bing scrambled back to his feet and jogged after them for perhaps ten yards, although he was quickly outdistanced. Then he stopped in the middle of the road and began to beat his head with his fists, punching himself in the ears. His pink sunglasses hung askew, one lens smashed in. His wide, ugly face was a bright, poisonous shade of red.

“I would do anything!” Bing screamed. “Anything! Just! Give! Me! One! More! Chance!”

The Wraith paused at a stop sign, then turned the corner, and Bing was gone.

Wayne turned to face forward.

Manx glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry you had to see all of that, Wayne,” Manx said. “Terrible to see someone so upset, especially a goodhearted fellow like Bing. Just terrible. But also . . . also a bit silly, don’t you think? Did you see how he wouldn’t let go of the door? I thought we were going to drag him all the way to Colorado!” Manx laughed again, quite heartily.

Wayne touched his lips and realized, with a sick pang in his stomach, that he was smiling.





Route 3, New Hampshire


THE ROAD HAD A CLEAN SMELL, OF EVERGREENS, OF WATER, OF WOODS.

Vic thought there would be sirens, but when she looked in the left-hand mirror, she saw only a half mile of empty asphalt, and there was no sound at all but the controlled roar of the Triumph.

A passenger jet slid through the sky twenty-four thousand feet above her: a brilliant spoke of light, headed west.

At the next turn, she left the lake road and swung into the green hills mounded over Winnipesaukee, headed west herself.

She didn’t know how to get to the next part, didn’t know how to make it work, and thought she had very little time to figure it out. She had found her way to the bridge the day before, but that seemed a fantastically long time ago, almost as long ago as childhood.

Now it seemed too sunny and bright for something impossible to happen. The clarity of the day insisted on a world that made sense, that operated by known laws. Around every bend there was only more road, the blacktop looking fresh and rich in the sunshine.

Vic followed the switchbacks, climbing steadily into the hills, away from the lake. Her hands were slippery on the handlebars, and her foot hurt from pushing the sticky shift through the gears. She went faster and then faster still, as if she could tear that hole in the world by speed alone.

She blew through a town that was little more than a yellow caution light hanging over a four-way intersection. Vic meant to run the bike until it was out of gas, and then she might drop it, leave the Triumph in the dust, and start running, right down the center of the road, running until the f*cking Shorter Way Bridge appeared for her or her legs gave out.

Only it wasn’t going to appear, because there was no bridge. The only place the Shortaway existed was in her mind. With every mile this fact became clearer to her.

It was what her psychiatrist had always insisted it was: an escape hatch she leaped through when she couldn’t handle reality, the comforting empowerment fantasy of a violently depressed woman with a history of trauma.

She went faster, taking the curves at almost sixty.

She was going so fast it was possible to pretend the water streaming from her eyes was a reaction to the wind blowing in her face.

The Triumph began to climb again, hugging the inside of a hill. On a curve, near the crest, a police cruiser blasted past, going the other way. She was close to the double line and felt the slipstream snatch at her, giving her a brief, dangerous moment of wobble. For an instant the driver was just an arm’s length away. His window was down, his elbow hanging out, a dude with two chins and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. She was so close she could’ve snatched the toothpick from between his lips.