June 1 2023
It was always the same.
The Mustang's steering wheel shuddered for the briefest moment before the adaptive suspension kicked-in, stiffening to stabilize the ride. That fraction of a second's worth of wonderful loss of control, where the machine fights the man, taking him back twenty-five years to when life was simple : fast cars with carburetors, cheap beer on tap. Work, drive, sleep, eat, repeat. Back to when he was immortal, indestructible, to when the road was a straight line.
The five-litre, near its 7500 redline, thudded its breath down though the exhaust as Jesse popped the clutch a little too hard into fifth, feeling the intense satisfaction of pressure in his guts as the acceleration drove him into the leather upholstery.
Outside, Bucoda Highway Southeast wove northwards in his headlights' blue ice. Guardrails ticked-off the distance in little yellow dashes. On the radio, guitars whomped through reverb as the frontman of the Kinks sang far too loudly about needing someone.
Jesse glanced at his speed- twenty over and climbing- fast enough for three-thirty AM on a Monday morning. Off the gas, eyes on the road.
A quick wipe of the eyes, Jesse cracked the kink out of his neck and thought about smoking another of Dana's cigarettes.
He definitely did not think about the dead girl in the passenger seat, definitely didn't look over into the baleful judgment of those clouded eyes. He definitely couldn't smell her, at least if he breathed through his mouth.
Jesse's mouth worked a tight, satisfied smile.
And with the music cranked to full volume, he definitely couldn't hear what she was trying to say to him.
Eighty-five miles an hour in a car designed to top out at one-hundred-fifty-seven and that he and Jiro had tuned to one-hundred-eighty-three. There were no other cars on this stretch of road. County cops were probably headed back for their morning shift change.
Sixth gear. Jesse's foot fanned the accelerator. Just a bit more gas.
Like a junkie who spent years being spoon-fed methadone, he yearned for that sweet spot, between control and disaster, where the only thing that required his attention was the road, the wheel and the pedals : simplicity.
Stacey pulled at his elbow desperate to get his attention. Jesse kept the tight smile screwed-on. Let the dead bitch pull. He was in control. The car, with its wires, chips, transducers and solenoids, was in control, clutched greedy to the blacktop. That said, it was all still methadone. A nice big hit of the stuff but not the real dope, nowhere near.
Not looking at her more insistent attempts to get his attention, Jesse glanced at the GPS. Less than two hours from downtown Seattle, with twenty minutes to burn in case he hit bad traffic on the I-5. He was ahead of schedule. He was late. Late by approximately twenty-one years.
The song cut out. Stacey pounced. 'For fuck's sake, stupid! The lane's out ahead!'
He looked over, skeptical. Her teeth were bared in raw fury, one hand clawed into the fabric of his Carhartt jacket, the other pointed straight toward. He followed that finger into the dark and caught the faintest blur of an emergency barricade, about three-hundred yards up and closing hard.
His jaw clenched. Muscle memory made quick work with the brakes- twenty miles an hour scrubbed. The whole lane was gone, half the other too. Some sort of sinkhole. No problem. Still time. Still blacktop.
The barricade rushed-up - Twenty yards… ten. Off the brakes, No gas. Hard left. The car canted. Tires bit, skidded. The suspension stiffened, a few more seconds bought for the counter steer.
Barricade flashed-by. Black emptiness to the right. A quick whistling breath. Gas on. Cut hard right.
The Mustang settled firm. His phone, his coffee and Dana's Lucky Strikes ended up at his feet.
Back in his lane. Barricade well behind. Still rolling five above the speed limit. Jesse blew out a stake breath, shakier than it should have been, just as Roger Daltrey screamed that he won't be fooled again.
Eyes over to his passenger. Even in the dark of the car, where all he could see was the grey of her skin and the black pit of her cruel mouth, the dull glint of those awful eyes, he knew that she knew that he knew that he screwed-up.
He turned the volume down and let the Mustang settle to sixty miles-an-hour.
That was too close for comfort. He had to admit. Why the Hell didn't the GPS warn him the road was out? Besides, where were the warning signs?
Had he missed them?
It wouldn't have been the first time.
'Wow. Really great job.' She gave him a little shove. 'That was impressive'.
He granted her the slightest side-eye.
'What? You mean to tell me that losing Susan. Losing that lawsuit. Losing your shop to pay for that lost lawsuit wasn't enough to teach you anything ? For the first time in a long time, TJ and Dana need you, and you almost kill yourself because you won't slow down? You're really that self-absorbed? That's fucking spectacular.'
Jesse gave a slow nod.
'I guess I am.' He paused, gestured to the passenger door. 'You're free to leave-'
'-if you don't like it,' she finished for him. 'Sorry, Big Brother, I'm yours for life. You know that, so don't waste my time.'
She gave his shoulder another shake. 'And if you even give half the shits you claim to have for your kids, stop being an asshole. Slow down and make the appointment in one piece'.
He glanced at her again. Suddenly hesitant to take his eyes off the road.
'You going to stay quiet?'
Her eyes glinted white. 'Not if I have something to say.'
'You got anything else to say?'
Her crooked and cracked smile, 'not at the moment.'
'Good. I'm tired of music.'
But, of course, Stacey would know that this wasn't even the half of it. Truth was he was just tired. So incredibly, deeply, tired.
But maybe, hopefully, this meeting with miss Alyssa Ashcroft may finally give him some rest.
Maybe, hopefully, it will bring peace to the two unlucky souls he chose to invite into his nightmare.
Maybe, hopefully, he wasn't too late.
'You're over twenty years too late Jesse,' Stacey murmured, almost kindly this time, with a shake of the head.