He drove on. He drove for twenty minutes and came to a gas station with a pay phone. He got out of the car stiffly, his pants sticky and wet, and fumbled in his sticky pocket for a sticky dime, which he put in the phone. He dialed the emergency number.
"I-- I passed a car on the Salt Flats. In flames. About fifteen miles before this Chevron station. Flames."
He hung up. He drove on. A few minutes later he saw a patrol car, lights whirling, speeding past going the other way. From Salt Lake City out into the desert. And still later he saw an ambulance and a fire truck go by. Stanley gripped the wheel tightly. They would know. They would see his skid marks. Someone would tell about the Z that was following the Hornet from Reno until the woman in the Hornet died in Utah. But even as he worried, he knew that no one would know. He hadn't touched her. There wasn't a mark on his car.
The highway turned into a six-lane street with motels and shabby diners on either side. He went under the freeway, over the railroad tracks, and followed North Temple street up to Second Avenue, the school on the left, the Slow signs, everything normal, everything as he had left it, everything as it always had been when he came home from a long trip. To L Street, to the Chateau LeMans apartments; he parked in the underground garage, got out. All the doors opened to his key. His room was undisturbed.
What the hell do I expect? he asked himself. Sirens heading my way? Five detectives in my living room waiting to grill me?
The woman, the woman had died. He tried to feel terrible. But all that he could remember, all that was important in his mind, was the shuddering of his body, the feeling that the orgasm would never end. There was nothing. Nothing like that in the world.
He went to sleep quickly, slept easily. Murderer? he asked himself as he drifted off.
But the word was taken by his mind and driven into a part of his memory where Stanley could not retrieve it. Can't live with that. Can't live with that. And so he didn't.
Stanley found himself avoiding looking at the paper the next morning, and so he forced himself to look. It wasn't front-page news. It was buried back in the local news section. Her name was Alix Humphreys. She was twenty-two and single, working as a secretary to some law firm. Her picture showed her as a young, attractive girl.
"The driver apparently fell asleep at the wheel, according to police investigators. The vehicle was going faster than eighty miles per hour when the mishap occurred."
Mishap.
Hell of a word for the flames.
Yet, Stanley went to work just as he always did, flirted with the secretaries just as he always did, and even drove his car, just as he always did, carefully and politely on the road. It wasn't long, however, before he began playing freeway games again. On. his way up to Logan, he played Follow, and a woman in a Honda Civic smashed headon into a pickup truck as she foolishly tried to pass a semi-truck at the crest of a hill in Sardine Canyon. The police reports didn't mention (and no one knew) that she was trying to get away from a Datsun 26OZ that had relentlessly followed her for eighty miles. Her name was Donna Weeks, and she had two children and a husband who had been expecting her back in Logan that evening. They couldn't get all her body out of the car.
On a hop over to Denver, a seventeen-year-old skier went out of control on a snowy road, her VW smashing into a mountain, bouncing off, and tumbling down a cliff. One of the skis on the back of her bug, incredibly enough, was unbroken. The other was splintered into kindling. Her head went through the windshield. Her body didn't.
The roads between Cameron trading post and Page, Arizona, were the worst in the world. It surprised no one when an eighteen-year-old blond model from Phoenix was killed when she smashed into the back of a van parked beside the road. She had been going more than a hundred nifles an hour, which her friends said did not surprise them, she had always sped, especially when driving at night. A child in the van was killed in his sleep, and the family was hospitalized. There was no mention of a Datsun with Utah plates.
And Stanley began to remember more often. There wasn't room in the secret places of his mind to hold all of this. He clipped their faces out of the paper. He dreamed of them at night. In his dreams they always threatened hun, always deserved the end they got. Every dream ended with orgasm. But never as strong a convulsion as the ecstacy when the collision came on the highway.
Check. And mate.
Aim, and fire.
Eighteen, seven, twenty-three, hike.
Games, all games, and the moment of truth.
"I'm sick." He sucked the end of his Bic four-color pen. "I need help."
The phone rang.
"Stan? It's Liz."
Hi, Liz.
"Stan, aren't you going to answer me?" Go to hell, Liz.
"Stan, what kind of game is this? You don't call for nine months, and now you
just sit there while I'm trying to talk to you?"
Come to bed, Liz.
"That is you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Well, why didn't you answer me? Stan, you scared me. That really scared me."
"I'm sorry."
"Stan, what happened? Why haven't you called?"
"I needed you too much." Melodramatic, melodramatic. But true.
"Stan, I know. I was being a bitch."
"No, no, not really. I was being too demanding."
"Stan, I miss you. I want to be with you."
"I miss you, too, Liz. I've really needed you these last few months."
She droned on as Stanley sang silently, "Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie,
where the coyotes howl--"
"Tonight? My apartment?"
"You mean you'll let me past the sacred chain lock?"
"Stanley. Don't be mean. I miss you."
"I'll be there."
"I love you."
"Me, too."
After this many months, Stanley was not sure, not sure at all. But Liz was a
straw to grasp at. "I drown," Stanley said. "I die. Morior. Moriar. Mortuus sum." Back when he had been dating Liz, back when they had been together, Stanley hadn't played these freeway games. Stanley hadn't watched these women die. Stanley hadn't had to hide from himself in his sleep. "Caedo. Caedam. Cecidi."
Wrong, wrong. He had been dating Liz the first time. He had only stopped after
- after. Liz had nothing to do with it. Nothing would help. "Despero. Desperabo. Desperavi." And because it was the last thing he wanted to do, he got up, got dressed, went out to his car, and drove out onto the freeway. He got behind a woman in a red Audi. And he followed her.
She was young, but she was a good driver. He tailed her from Sixth South to the place where the freeway forks, I-15 continuing south, I-80 veering east. She stayed in the right-hand lane until the last moment, then swerved across two lanes of traffic and got onto I-80. Stanley did not think of letting her go. He, too, cut across traffic. A bus honked loudly; there was a screeching of brakes; Stanley's Z was on two wheels and he lost control; a lightpost loomed, then passed.
And Stanley was on I-80, following a few hundred yards behind the Audi. He quickly closed the gap. This woman was smart, Stanley said to himself. "You're smart, lady. You won't let me get away with anything. Nobody today. Nobody. today." He meant to say nobody dies today, and he knew that was what he was really saying (hoping; denying), but he did not let himself say it. He spoke as if a microphone hung over his head, recording his words for posterity.