Chapter 3

By the time they had driven from George Mangell's final resting place to the first of the main highway arteries north of the Bay Area, the rush-hour traffic was already building to near impassable levels. Hardcastle had said nothing since their departure, dozing as he lay crossways against the seat, his head lolling between the edge of the seatback and the glass of the door window. He was obviously hurting; his face, previously so pale, had begun to flush under the effects of a rising fever, and he shivered under the overcoat that McCormick had removed from the back seat and spread over him before leaving the park.

At McCormick's tentative suggestion that perhaps they had best go to an emergency room, Hardcastle had not even bothered to argue, replying simply with a determined "No", which seemed to settle the issue, for Hardcastle anyway. As McCormick pulled into a Burger King in Vallejo, he noticed a pay phone just inside the entrance door, and it occurred to him that now might be a good time to look up an address for the nearest hospital. He might well have followed through on the thought if Hardcastle had not sat up and watched as he had gone in and given his order; he could feel those steely eyes upon him the entire time he stood at the counter, waiting patiently for his meal and the glass of ice water that had become Hardcastle's only apparent source of sustenance. Clearly any clandestine attempt to use either the phone or its directory was out of the question.

Now they were sitting in the restaurant parking lot, the map spread out between them, as McCormick wolfed down his hamburger and Hardcastle used the flashlight he had found in the glove compartment to supplement the weak dome light. McCormick peered at the section of the map where the judge had the flashlight aimed. "It might be quickest to take I-5 south, then cut across to Oxnard, but I think what time we'd save going that way, we'd lose by having to head west before starting south. Besides," McCormick added abruptly, "I don't like I-5."

Hardcastle glanced up from the map, his brows raised in amused inquiry. "What is it about I-5 you don't like?"

"I dunno, I just don't like it. Maybe because it's so boring." McCormick looked back at the map. "Judge, let's just stick with the guy what brung us, and go home on 101. Okay with you?"

"You're the one who's driving. Any old route works for me, so long as we get back to Malibu sometime tonight." Hardcastle snapped off the flashlight and returned it to the glove compartment, before settling back against the car seat, with his coat spread over him as before. "You know, kiddo, I kinda got mixed emotions about going home. It'll be nice getting there after the kind of day we've had, but I think we both know where I'm probably gonna be spending tomorrow night."

"Yeah," McCormick replied softly, his face unreadable in the darkness. He paused for a moment, then briskly folded the map and handed it to Hardcastle. "Here, put this in there with the flashlight. We shouldn't need it again tonight, but you never know."

Starting the car, he pulled out the knob that controlled the headlights, and dimmed the lights with a touch of his foot, feeling an odd nostalgia as he did so; he hadn't used a floorboard dimmer switch in years. Then he carefully nudged the Edsel back into the bumper-to-bumper traffic and headed south, through the maze of interstate and multilane highways, in the general direction of home.

As it turned out, Interstate 5 might well have been a better option, despite McCormick's personal prejudice toward its boredom factor. It had taken awhile, but they eventually made their way through the Bay Area congestion to Highway 101, where the traffic finally began to ease around Gilroy. Even without the benefit of the radar detector, they had begun to make a little time, but while they were still midway between San Ardo and Bradley, a fast-moving thunderstorm came in swiftly off the Pacific, hard on the heels of a series of storms that had assaulted this area off and on for the past week or so.

Taken by surprise, McCormick had to hunt to find the wiper control, but the blades had hardly begun swishing across the windshield when suddenly red lights began to blink on ahead of him, reflecting steadily across the wet pavement, and he was forced to brake to a near standstill. With a sigh and a glance toward the sleeping Hardcastle, McCormick turned on the radio and lowered the volume, lucking onto a local station just as the announcer was giving the weather report. According to the deep baritone voice, the area had received an unprecedented ten inches in total rainfall for the month of February, and even though the sky had now cleared as quickly as it had clouded, more rain was promised for later that evening.

Then, abruptly changing his hat from weatherman to newsman, the announcer provided some information that McCormick had already suspected. The latest storm had left not only an additional two unnecessary inches, but also a predictable calling card: a major eighteen-wheeler/multi-car pileup on Highway 101 a mile or two north of the San Miguel exit that had traffic backed up in both directions. So now here they were, at nine o'clock at night, stranded in Monterey County, still much too far from home, stationary among what appeared to be thousands of other frustrated motorists, with the judge clearly far from well.

Hardcastle still seemed to be asleep, but the tightness of his mouth and the unevenness of his breathing showed that his slumber was not a very peaceful one. Reluctant to disturb him, McCormick decided to make an executive decision, and pulling onto the shoulder of the highway, he sped past the other waiting cars to the Bradley exit, only a few hundred yards ahead.

The inevitable reaction of their fellow motorists woke Hardcastle, who peered around in bleary bemusement. "Hey, why are all those people honking at us?"

"We're caught in a traffic jam, Hardcase, and it looks like a big one, so I'm sorta taking a shortcut to find us a detour."

"Well, so long as you don't try honking back," Hardcastle murmured sleepily, settling back down beneath his overcoat. "Or else you might find yourself backing right into a bunch of cars and starting a whole new traffic jam."

McCormick shot him a dirty look as he pulled in behind the already long line of vehicles turning left across 101 toward Bradley, the view from the overpass revealing the southbound lanes glittering red as far as the eye could see, with hardly any traffic at all coming north. Continuing to follow the line of cars whose drivers had similar plans to his own, he turned onto a southbound road that would probably be fairly well traveled under normal conditions, although the traffic headed north tonight was lighter than he would have expected, considering that northbound motorists from 101 would also be seeking an alternate route.

As he drove, absently following the taillights of the car ahead, McCormick propped one arm against the door and leaned his head against the palm of his hand, considering his woefully small number of options. He seldom traveled this section of 101 anymore, its association in his mind with unwilling journeys to and from San Quentin a little too close to home for comfort, but he seemed to remember that San Miguel was only a few miles south; perhaps he could get back on the main highway there. That would be their best bet; otherwise, they would either have to find a route heading across the Diablo Range to Interstate 5, or head back north to the nearest motel with a vacancy. McCormick was still feeling a little stubborn about I-5, but he knew Hardcastle wasn't going to like the last option at all.

It appeared that Plan A would be frustrated at the outset, when he was stopped just north of San Miguel by two San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's cars, parked diagonally across the road to barricade all lanes of traffic. Most of the vehicles ahead of him were either pulling over to the side of the road, taking side streets, or making U-turns to head back the way they'd come, but McCormick rolled down his window to speak to a deputy who was standing nearby.

"Sorry, sir, you can't go this way," said the deputy, sparing an admiring glance for the shiny Edsel that glinted a weird reddish-blue from the flashing lights. "We have an overturned eighteen-wheeler just this side of town; with all this rain we've had, the highway just caved in under the weight. Took most all the traffic lanes with it, too."

McCormick closed his eyes and banged his head once against the steering wheel in exasperation, to the concern of the deputy and the amusement of Hardcastle, who had roused just in time to observe his annoyed reaction. McCormick sighed and said to the deputy, "Look, I expect you know there's been a bad one out on the main drag, too."

"Yup," replied the deputy dryly. "Otherwise, we probably wouldn't be having an eighteen-wheeler overturned this side of San Miguel." He eyed McCormick sympathetically. "You have one of two choices, sir. You can go back the way you came toward King City, take 198 to Coalinga and make your way to I-5 from there, or you can try making it through town and go on to the next exit back onto 101. I'm warning you, though, there's been some road resurfacing around here lately, and a few streets are closed right now. Getting around might be a little confusing."

"Oh, come on, Deputy, how confusing can a little place like San Miguel be?"

There was a sleepy snort from Hardcastle's corner, as the deputy smiled slightly and said, "Okay, sir, but you better get out pen and paper first ..."

0000000000

Thirty minutes later, they were driving down some unknown county road, and McCormick had an uneasy feeling that not only had they missed the exit to 101, they had missed the right road entirely. There had been a whole series of 'turn right here, turn left there' directions, which he had followed as faithfully as he could, considering that he had been trying to read them in the dim light from the dashboard. Finally, he'd found himself on this paved road, but after driving more than twice the indicated number of miles, it was clear that they were no nearer to the turn-off to Highway 101 than they had been when they started.

McCormick was unhappy with the car too. After a smooth, almost luxurious drive upstate and partway back down, the Edsel had developed an intermittent shimmy in the time since they had left San Miguel, sometimes shaking so that he could barely keep it on the road. This could hardly be due to anything that might have happened while McCormick had been driving the car; he had been very careful about road hazards, and they had remained on more-or-less even pavement the entire trip. There was no doubt in his mind that, come early tomorrow morning, Jack would be appeasing one very unhappy, previously very loyal customer.

The last straw was finally reached for an increasingly irate McCormick when he noticed a suspicious lightening of the cobalt blue sky, and his fears were confirmed when a huge moon began to emerge from the hilly horizon just ahead. He nudged Hardcastle, who came awake with a start. "Better get out that map and flashlight, Judge. I think we're gonna need 'em."

The judge obediently began scrounging in the glove compartment for the requested items. "What's the problem?"

"Well, unless the moon has taken to rising in the south, I'm pretty sure I'm on the wrong road."

"You can't say we weren't warned." Hardcastle unfolded the map and peered at it with the aid of the flashlight. "Headed easterly, are we?"

"That's what it looks like to me," McCormick answered, watching the shoulder of the road carefully for any signs that might help them determine where they were.

"How long've we been on it?"

"Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I'm not sure. I was trying to follow that deputy's screwed-up directions, and I lost track of time."

"Oh, I see, it's the deputy's fault we don't know where we are." Hardcastle folded the map over and peered closely at the roads running out from San Miguel. "Looks to me like we're on something called Vineyard Canyon Road." He glanced up through the windshield to the road ahead. "If we keep going, it'll take us a little out of our way, but eventually it makes a big swing south and runs into California 46, and that'll take us back to 101 somewhere near Paso Robles." He watched as McCormick's mouth settled into a grim line, prompting him to say in gruff reassurance, "It's okay, kiddo. We're not lost. We're just sort of misdirected."

McCormick's set expression relaxed as he cast a grateful glance at the judge. "Misdirected, huh?" He laughed ruefully. "If you say so, Kemosabe. Why don't you go on back to sleep? I think I got this covered now."

"I sure won't argue with you." Hardcastle put away the map and flashlight, and curled back against the seat, pulling his overcoat right up under his chin. Even by the dashboard light, McCormick could see the pain was worsening, as evidenced by the lines that had etched themselves ever deeper in the judge's face over the past few hours, and by the way he favored his afflicted side even in his sleep. He'd given up wearing his lap belt hours ago, over McCormick's vehement protests, complaining that it just added to his discomfort. As a racecar driver, McCormick believed in seat restraints; even the simplistic lap belts that had been considered high-end optional equipment back in the Edsel's day were better than nothing, and the thought of Hardcastle unsecured in this metal monster just added to his worries.

His own face grim once more, McCormick tossed a defiant glance toward Hardcastle and reached up to switch on the radar detector, ignoring the faint snicker that sounded from beneath the overcoat. Then he pressed down harder on the accelerator, his anger and worry increasing as he reflected on how long they had been traveling, and how far they still were from home. As it turned out, however, his desire for speed came to naught, as he had been driving at seventy for hardly ten minutes when he found himself braking to an abrupt stop, one arm instinctively flung out toward Hardcastle to keep him from flying into the dashboard. "Damn!"

The judge sat up and looked around irritably. "What now?"

"I've only seen one tree up close in the entire time since we left San Miguel, and darned if it hasn't come down right across the road." It was only an ancient live oak, a little on the stubby side, but it was enough to completely block the road without providing any leeway at all, thanks to the depth of the ditches on either side. If they had been in the truck, there would have been no problem in pulling off the road and driving around it, but the Edsel was another story entirely. McCormick was beyond the point of hitting his head against the steering wheel; the only thing that would have relieved his frustration now would have been to take the Edsel out into a field, spray it with gasoline, and toss a match. He turned to look at Hardcastle. "Well, what do we do now, Hardcase? Go back, or try to find another way?"

The judge already had the flashlight out, shining it on the same folded section of map. "According to this thing, there's not another way. The only side road is still about a mile ahead."

McCormick thought for a minute. "I think I remember a gravel road going off to the left. It had a stop sign, so it must be some sort of county road – what I mean is, it didn't look like a driveway or anything like that."

"May as well take a look."

McCormick silently made a U-turn and headed back the way they had come. In a couple of miles, they came to the road he had noticed earlier. He slowed the car down so they could get a closer view of what appeared to be no more than a country lane, dotted by numerous puddles that bore mute evidence not only of the recent rains, but of the definite unevenness of the road surface.

"Looks more like a cattle track to me," Hardcastle remarked as they stared out the window, McCormick leaning forward against the steering wheel to get a better view. Hardcastle sighed gustily. "Oh, hell, I give in. Take us back to San Miguel, and we'll see what kind of motel we can find. No sense in roaming around all over central California, just because I want to go home."

"Good thing I packed us a bag." As McCormick put the car in gear, he caught a glimpse of Hardcastle, staring at him in surprised exasperation. "Look, Judge, the way you were last night, I wasn't all that sure we'd be coming home tonight, so I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. If it makes you feel any better," McCormick continued, his grin fading as he cast a commiserating glance toward his passenger, "I wanted to get home tonight, too."

"Well, it's not like this is any of your fault," Hardcastle replied dismally as he slumped despondently in his seat. "C'mon, let's go on back."

But five minutes later, McCormick slowed to a stop once more. "I don't believe this!"

This stretch of road was very similar to the one where the tree had fallen, only this part was graced by a rather elderly concrete bridge, built over a ditch that might normally have contained a small creek but which now boasted a rather sizeable rush of water. McCormick had been driving the Edsel at a sedate fifty-five miles an hour when the car's bright beam picked up something odd about that bridge, a narrow fissure near its center that he was quite certain had not been there before. Obviously during the time since they'd passed by here earlier, something had caused the bridge to crack from side to side, right across the middle; it wasn't a very sizeable crack as cracks go, but it was large enough that McCormick had no intention of driving two tons of expensive automobile back across it – to say nothing of himself and the judge.

Hardcastle began to look a little thoughtful. "You haven't noticed anything a little, uh, strange while you've been driving, have you?"

McCormick was looking rather thoughtful himself. "Nooo ... although there were a few times it seemed like the front-end was going out on me, or maybe a tire going down. Kinda rough, hard to hold. Never lasted more than a second or two, though. I thought it was just the car."

The men looked at each other in silent appraisal. Then McCormick said reluctantly, "I guess this means we go back to that little dirt road, huh."

"I don't know what other choice we have. The map didn't show any other main roads around here, and it's not like there's been all that much traffic." Hardcastle didn't mention that he was beginning to have a notion as to just why there had been so little traffic on Vineyard Canyon Road tonight.

McCormick made yet another U-turn. "They just better have some signs further on to show us where we're going. Otherwise, the next stop might be Fresno."

"Nope," answered Hardcastle with a strained grin, "Got bad news for you, kiddo. The next stop would probably be I-5."

McCormick snorted in response as he drove back to the sketchily gravelled road and turned left, and as Hardcastle snuggled under his overcoat once more, the car began to move along the bumpy surface. McCormick drove as carefully as he could, but the occasional sharp intake of breath from the passenger seat showed that each bounce only made the judge that much more miserable.

McCormick had driven slowly along the deserted, hilly road for another five miles or so, when suddenly he felt the steering wheel shiver in his hands, the tires skittering wildly on the surface of the road as the moonlit landscape blurred and quivered for a few brief moments. Then the sensation was gone as quickly as it had appeared, so that McCormick would have thought he had imagined the whole thing if it hadn't been for that toppled tree and the cracked bridge back on the main road. He glanced across at Hardcastle, but the judge still slept beneath his overcoat, slumped awkwardly against the passenger door, his unfastened safety belt still hanging loosely across the seat.

Shrugging, McCormick drove on, wondering if the long hours were finally beginning to catch up to him. But less than a minute later, the wheel suddenly spun against his grip, and he slammed on brakes, staring in horror through the windshield. The road before him seemed to be undulating violently, the few pines that dotted the landscape swaying back and forth, almost pirouetting in the moonlight like ghostly ballerinas in a fantastic ballet. The car was shaking as well, caught up in the constant motion of the road, like a raft negotiating a particularly aggressive span of rapids, and there was a loud rumbling sound, almost like a continual rolling thunder. He became aware of Hardcastle to his right, one hand braced against the dash, yelling to him; he caught something about 'quake', but he was clinging desperately to the steering wheel, concentrating on regaining control of the car, and he could not reply.

All at once the motion stopped, and in its place came a strange leaden silence. McCormick still held the wheel with what amounted to a death grip, breathing so heavily that he wondered if he were hyperventilating. He looked over towards Hardcastle, who was leaned forward, clutching his stomach; his face was a ghastly white in the moonlight, and McCormick could see his throat move as he swallowed repeatedly, apparently trying to force down an onset of nausea. Without a second thought, McCormick reached across to grasp his shoulder, saying shakily, "Are you all right?"

Hardcastle took a deep breath and tried to straighten, bringing a trembling hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow. "No," he replied with blunt honesty. "It hurts like hell, and I'm gonna be sick."

"Not in the car!" was McCormick's immediate and anguished rejoinder; the next moment, he could have crawled under the car in his mortification, but he relaxed at the soft rumble of laughter coming from the passenger seat.

"Okay, McCormick," the judge said with a somewhat green-tinged grin, as he moved to open the door, "I get the point. No barfing in the Edsel."

"Just wait a minute, dammit," McCormick replied in alarm, scrambling out his door; but his feet had hardly touched the ground before he was clinging for dear life to the roof, his legs threatening to give way beneath him.

Hardcastle, already out of the car, turned to stare at him as though he'd grown another nose. "What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing," McCormick replied nonchalantly, his voice a little breathless, "I just can't seem to keep my feet under me, is all."

"Delayed reaction," Hardcastle nodded sagely. "Don't tell me this was your first one."

McCormick didn't reply at once, but carefully pulled himself along and around the door, then to the front of the car, finally dropping facedown across the hood in relief. "No," came his muffled voice in belated response. "But it's the first time I ever got caught in one out on a deserted road in the middle of the night, in a place I've never been before, driving on a beat-up road in an expensive car that doesn't belong to me, with a man who's sicker than any dog I've every known." He lifted his head slightly, a crooked smile on his white lips. "Kinda ups the ante, if you know what I mean."

Laying his head back down for a few moments, McCormick tried to catch his breath, before wearily pulling himself up and coming around the car to Hardcastle's side. Together they crossed the road toward a tangle of bushes strategically placed near the edge of a small, shallow ravine. When the judge tried to shake off the hand that had taken firm grasp of his arm, the grasp just became tighter, only letting go as they came to a break in the dense foliage.

Hardcastle disappeared behind the brush, but the only sounds to issue forth were a series of dry heaves, and McCormick wondered, not for the first time, just when the judge had last eaten. After a brief interval, during which an entirely different, if equally recognizable, noise was heard, Hardcastle was back, and with an inquiring eyebrow, he gestured back toward the brambles. "Might be awhile before we see the next bathroom, hotshot."

"Got news for you, Judge," McCormick replied as he headed hurriedly toward the bushes. "It's already been way too long since we saw the last one!"

Five minutes later, they were back at the car, both men feeling a certain amount of relief in one regard at least, but well aware that in others, things were beginning to look pretty dismal. McCormick began to open the door for Hardcastle, but then paused, looking at him in uncertainty. Finally he said, "Judge, why don't you lie down on the back seat? You'd be a lot more comfortable there." Then he waited for the inevitable explosion about how Hardcastle was perfectly capable of sitting in the front seat, thank you, and get the hell out of my way and lemme sit down.

The fact that no such explosion came was the clearest indicator yet of just how badly Hardcastle felt, and when the judge obediently and without comment clambered stiffly into the back seat, McCormick wanted to lay his head against the roof and weep. But instead, he swallowed, gritted his teeth, and walked around to the back of the car, where he opened the trunk and removed a pillow and a blanket. Slamming the trunk closed again, he brought the items back to the passenger door and tossed them to Hardcastle, who was maneuvering around on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He glanced at McCormick in surprise. "Hey, where'd you get this stuff?"

Too tired for elaborate explanations about how he'd swiped them from the den that morning on his way to the rental car place, McCormick muttered a brief, "They came with the car." As he arranged the blanket over Hardcastle and helped him position the pillow under his head, he was aware of Hardcastle's sidelong, measuring glance, but decided to let it go. "Judge, try to get some sleep, okay?"

Hardcastle stared at McCormick, pausing from his futile attempt to pound a little softness into the flat pillow. "Whaddaya mean, try to get some sleep? I've been sleeping almost nonstop since we left Vallejo!"

"No, you haven't. You've been lying there with your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, just so you could catch me playing with the radar detector!"

"Yeah, and I was right, wasn't I? You couldn't wait to take a crack at it once you thought for sure I was out of it." Even in the dim light from the overhead dome lamp, there was a definite twinkle to be seen in the blue eyes that watched him quizzically, and despite his worry, McCormick could not prevent a slight smile in reply. But after Hardcastle was settled as comfortably as could be hoped for, his overcoat laid carefully over the warm blanket, McCormick walked around the front of the car and slid wearily into the front seat, the smile once more lapsing into what was rapidly becoming a perpetually worried frown.

Praying silently for better luck than they had experienced up to this point, he put the car in gear and nervously ventured forward. Suddenly he found himself thankful that he was of a generation old enough to remember when starters and dimmer switches sat on the floorboard, and almost everything else was operated by a knob on the dash, so that at least the car itself held no real surprises for him. He only wished he could say the same for the little dirt road they now traveled, although it seemed in no worse condition than it had before, and so he pressed against the accelerator a little harder, until they were bumping along at a red hot forty-five miles per hour.

McCormick slowed dramatically when the bright beams of the headlights showed a long wooden bridge up ahead, and he pulled to a stop, with a vivid memory of the concrete bridge they had left only an hour or so before. Frowning, he reached over and pulled the flashlight from the glove compartment; then, leaving the car parked and the motor running, he walked to the edge of the bridge and examined its entire length closely with the light. Seeing nothing to indicate that the structure was any less solid than it appeared to be, he returned to the car and replaced the flashlight in the glove compartment. Then, taking a deep breath, he put the car in gear and cautiously edged the vehicle out onto the old wooden slats. Looking through the window on his left, he could see a rather impressive stream down below, glimmering in the moonlight, a lot further down than he cared to think about. But they crossed without incident, and he released his pent-up breath in a sigh of relief as the front wheels began to roll onto the solid ground that anchored the far side of the bridge.

It was a total shock when, with absolutely no warning, the bridge suddenly disintegrated beneath the car, disappearing in a cascade of wood and rubble. The Edsel hung suspended in the air for a moment before the rear end swung forward to crash heavily against the embankment; then the car began sliding down the steep stone walls, its passage marked by an eerie screech of tortured metal against solid rock. Reaching the bottom of the bank with a violent crash, the car teetered precariously on its bumper before slamming backwards onto its roof, a well-placed assortment of rock fragments barely preventing its submersion into the rain-swollen river.

But McCormick never heard the scream of metal, or felt the impact of the car landing upside down in a mélange of water, debris, and mud. Just as the Edsel crashed hard against the stone cliff, he had become momentarily aware of something small and solid flying directly at his head, followed by an excruciatingly brilliant flash of white light that ripped through his brain as though borne on the blade of a rapier. He was already collapsed back against the seat, without one coherent thought to accompany him to a bottomless oblivion, even as the car and its passengers began their precipitous and uncompromising descent toward the river that waited far below.