Chapter 2

“Well, I’ll miss you, but you enjoy your time off, Officer.” She winked before grabbing the coffee pot and heading to the table where the gray-haired women were knitting.

She’d miss him? Fred didn’t think anyone would notice if he disappeared off the face of the earth. On bad nights, he convinced himself he’d be one of those people who died in their homes and weren’t found until months later. He had no friends and no contact with his family, and while Raymond might notice if he wasn’t in the patrol car, he doubted he’d waste any energy checking on him.

With a sigh, he went to sit across from Raymond.

“Are you flirting with her?”

What?Fred blinked at him.

“Because I have to tell you, women like men who are a bit brasher.”

Fred nodded. He was sure Raymond was correct, but he wasn’t brash, and he didn’t flirt with women. Jen was lovely, but he liked his partners a whole lot manlier—not that he’d ever tell Raymond. He’d made the mistake of coming out once—hence no contact with his family. It wasn’t something he’d do again.

“What the fuck?” Raymond dropped his bear claw right as a rusty, red Opel Ascona shot through town like a scalded cat.

Fred got to his feet, ready to run to the police car.

“We’re on a break.” Raymond grabbed the bear claw and bit into it.

“What?”

“You have one hour and fifty-three minutes until you’re on vacation, do you want to chase after some idiot in a junk car and spend hours doing paperwork?”

Writing a speeding ticket didn’t take hours. Fred straightened his back. “That car is a danger to everyone else who’s out in traffic around here. The roads are narrow and a lot of logging trucks drive here. If there’s a collision, there would most likely be a fatal outcome, and he drove fast in town. People are walking here.”

“Easy now, no need to go into hysterics. He’s long gone by now anyway. It would’ve been different if we were in the car.” He sipped on his coffee and moaned.

Fred sat again but his hands stayed curled into fists for a few seconds longer.

The driver of that car was a danger to everyone here.

* * * *

Zeppelin “Zen” Cave pushed the old Opel Ascona to the max. Calling it a beauty would be a lie, but the engine purred, and it took the curves smooth as…something. If only he could find the right fucking road.

He had a little more than twenty-five hours to get to Minwall. It should be a piece of cake if he could only get out of these woods.

With one eye on the road, he tried reaching for the map on the passenger seat.

He changed position and his foot pushed down on the gas pedal a little harder as he stretched his back. His black Master of Puppets T-shirt was clinging to his sweat-damp skin. This was a no-frills car; back in 1988, cars didn’t come with a proper AC, and July was extra hot this year

The map almost slid off the seat as he took a turn a little too fast. Straightening it, he tried to find Whiteport. He’d been sure he was in Northfield, but the town he’d driven through a little while ago was too small to be Northfield, and now he had no idea where he was.

A sudden blare made him jump. When he looked up, a logging truck took up most of his visual field. His heart jumped to his throat as he slammed the breaks. The car skidded a little on the road, but Zen managed to get control of it. The truck drove past, all but licking the side of his tiny Opel.

Getting the car rolling again, Zen steered off to the side of the road to park. Fuck

For a few seconds, he sat there staring out through the windshield. This was why most people participating in the race had a buddy with them. If he’d had a companion, he could’ve watched where he was driving while his buddy checked the map. Or, he could’ve done what most sane people would have done and stopped the car before consulting the map.

The blare of that truck still rang in his ears as he drank the last of his water, cursing that he hadn’t brought more bottles. Being in the middle of nowhere, it could be hours until he came across a store, or a place where he could grab something to eat.

Staring at the map, he traced the road he believed he’d been driving on. Could he have missed Northfield and the town back there was Snowmelt? He hadn’t seen any ski-slopes, though. Snowmelt was big on skiing.