The wildness went out of me all at once, leaving me limp and shaken. Neither panic nor rash action was going to get me out of this. It would have to be guile, cunning, my wits against his. Now, trapped here in transit, there was nothing to do but wait it out until we got to wherever we were going. And not let my imagination create any more horror-film scenarios. Reality was never quite as hideous as anything you could dredge up from the depths of your subconscious.
He seemed disinclined to talk anymore for the time being, and that was to my benefit. The less I heard of that calm, whispery, goading voice, the better off I would be. I lay still, emptying my mind, concentrating on what I could see of the night outside.
Clouds obscured some of the stars now, fast-moving and thick. Rain clouds? Thunderheads? I couldn’t tell. Couldn’t tell anything about our surroundings, either, except that the lower part of the sky and the underbellies of the clouds were stained with a faint shimmery glow. City lights created a sky glow like that. But so did densely populated smaller towns and suburbs.
Time passed in silence broken only by the sporadic swish of passing cars. Hardly any traffic at all now; must be very late, after three at least. Almost one when he abducted me… that would put us two to three hours away from San Francisco. But there was nothing much in that. Several highways led out of the city, to all sorts of connecting roads. We could be just about anywhere.
The silence began to get to me after a while. I did not want to start him talking again, but I wished he would turn on the radio. No chance. More miles, more silence. And then a rhythmic snicking sound filled the car: He’d flipped on one of the directional signals. We slowed, swung off to the right. Secondary road this time, one that ran straight for several miles. There was virtually no traffic here. The darkness outside was clotted, with more of the gathering clouds cutting off the starshine altogether.
We came into some kind of town, lights at intervals on the outskirts, a chain of lights as we got into the center of it, then flashing signal lights where we made a left turn onto still another road. This one was a little bumpy, not quite as straight; the jouncing motion began to affect my stomach, start it churning again. I shut my eyes, rolled onto my side. It was an effort of will to keep from throwing up.
A long time later lights came into the car, and when I glanced up I saw that we were passing through some kind of village: streetlamps, the silhouetted tops of old-fashioned buildings pressing in close on both sides. Then we were out of it, into darkness again. And more miles of silence, and tortuous curves, and the constant struggle to keep from emptying what was left in my stomach.
He slowed again, without putting on the directional signal this time, then pulled off onto the side of the road and stopped. He put on the emergency brake but did not shut off the engine or the lights. Outside, there was nothing to see except dark and a spot of reflected light somewhere in the distance. I thought: End of the line?
But it wasn’t. He said, “Have you figured out yet who I am?”
“No.”
“Good. Then roll onto your belly and turn your head toward the seatback. Don’t look around. I’m going to get out and make sure you’re covered with the blanket.”
“Why?”
“There’s a service station up ahead and we need gas. When we drive in there I want you to lie perfectly still and make no sound. If you do anything to alert the attendant I’ll shoot both of you. Is that clear?”
“Clear enough.”
“On your belly, then. Face toward the seatback.”
I did as I was told. He must have leaned up to watch me because he didn’t get out until I had finished moving. The rear door opened, letting in a gust of icy air scented with pine and fir and tinged with snow. Mountain country, I thought. Somewhere to the northeast, east, or south of San Francisco: You weren’t likely to find mountainous pine and fir forests and the threat of snow in any other direction.
He leaned in, arranged the blanket over me, leaned back out. Pretty soon we were under way again, but only for about a minute. Then we turned off the road, came to a stop: the service station. He got out, shut the door, but I could hear him unscrewing the gas cap, getting the hose off the pump, inserting it into the tank opening. A voice came from somewhere, asking a question I couldn’t make out. He said from close by the rear window, in that same disguised voice, “Cash. I’ll bring it over when I’m done.” I could feel him looking in at me as he filled the tank. I lay motionless, sweating a little, waiting.
It seemed to take a long time before he finished. I heard the hose nozzle rattle as he extracted it, heard the gas cap rattle as he replaced that. He went away, came back, got into the car. Then we were moving again, out of the light into heavy darkness.
“Very good.” he said. “You didn’t even twitch.”
“Yeah.”
“You can come out from under the blanket now. But don’t try to sit up. I wouldn’t like that.”
I squirmed around on the seat, pulled the blanket down, got my body turned so that I could look out through the window. We passed occasional lighted buildings, and in the glow from them I could see the tops of evergreens. And a thin sifting of snow, slanting down from the direction in which we were heading.
I said, “How much farther?”
“Oh, not far now. Another forty-five minutes or so. Unless I have to stop and put on chains, but I don’t think that will be necessary. There hasn’t been much snow here lately.”
“We’re up in the mountains.”
“Yes, we are. You’re such a good detective.”
“Which mountains?”
“Not relevant,” he said.
“I’d like to know.”
“Be quiet now. You’ll know all you need to soon enough.”
We made a right turn, drove on an even surface for ten minutes, made a couple more turns. Then we were on a road with a rougher surface, and climbing before long through a series of endless turns that grew sharper, now and then became hairpins and switchbacks. Sickness simmered up into the back of my throat; I closed my eyes again, swiveled my head downward toward the floorboards. Gagged once but didn’t let anything come up.
On and on, on and on. Turn, turn back, turn, turn back. The road surface got bumpier, seemed to be studded here and there with potholes; the jarring vibration as we bounced through the holes set up a fresh pounding in my head. Wind whistled outside, tugging at the car. He put the windshield wipers on: I could hear their steady clack-clacking. Must be snowing harder now, limiting visibility. He had also slackened speed, so that we were moving at less than twenty-five.
We had been climbing steadily, and the higher up we got, the worse the road surface became. For a time we seemed to be following an up-and-down roller coaster course; then the terrain flattened out and we were into more twists and turns. I opened my eyes, looked out through the window. Nothing to see but dark restless clouds emptying snow in thin, wind-swirled flurries; the upper branches of trees silhouetted against the clouds, most of them wearing thin jackets of snow. There was a layer of frozen powder on the ground here, too: the rear tires spun in it from time to time, briefly losing traction before he maneuvered free of the deeper patches. We were down to a crawl in low gear.
God, I thought, how much longer?
Ten minutes. Or maybe fifteen; my mind was fuzzy and I no longer had a clear conception of time.
The car cut away to the left, tires crunching on thinly packed snow; went up and over some kind of hill, down through a dip and up a long gradual slope on the other side, and finally came to a halt. “Here we are,” he said.
The words brought a small measure of relief: I could not have stood much more of that jarring and jouncing. But I didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Just waited.