Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

“You’re not going to get much reception now,” Hudson observed, but Becca pressed the green On button and hoped for the best. The cell phone went through its waking-up routine, but the words “no service” filled the screen.

“When we get over the mountains,” she said and settled in to wait, her cell phone in her hand.

Snow fell in earnest as they reached the summit and started down the other side, causing Hudson to take the Jetta down to a slow creep. Almost immediately over the pass, however, the snow turned to a mix, then the ever-present drizzle. It was dark as pitch out. No illumination other than their own headlights.

Becca realized they were only a few miles from where she’d had her accident, and her right hand squeezed her cell phone hard. Hudson was concentrating on the road. Visibility was less than perfect.

As they hit a longer, straight stretch, the forest dropping off on either side of the blacktop, headlights came up behind them, bright around a last curve. Their illumination scoured the inside of the Jetta, throwing Hudson’s profile into sharp relief.

Becca half glanced around in fear. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t. It was just her irrational terror. “He’s awful close.”

“For these road conditions, he sure is.”

The vehicle pulled closer. A truck.

“Jesus,” Hudson muttered. There was no shoulder. They were driving on a ridge where the asphalt ended abruptly and the land dropped away. Becca knew this section of the highway well, and her heart began a deep, slow tattoo. “Pass, you idiot!”

The truck rumbled loudly, shattering the night. Hudson yanked the wheel, trying to pull over, but there was nowhere to go. Becca’s phone flew from her hand. She scrambled for a hold.

Ram!

The truck hit them from behind, throwing Becca forward. “Shit!” Hudson yelled. The seat belt jerked Becca back. Ringo yelped and his toes scrabbled for purchase as he slammed into the back of the front seats.

“Christ!” Hudson muttered. He twirled the wheel the other way, turning into the spin, keeping the car on the road with everything he had.

“It’s him,” Becca moaned. “It’s him.”

She turned to gaze back, her face caught in the glare of his headlights. She saw the grill on the front of the vehicle. A truck.

Hudson hit the accelerator and the Jetta spurted forward, shimmying across the road, righting itself for a moment in the oncoming lane.

Ram!

The truck caught the Jetta on the driver’s side, spinning it back. Hudson didn’t wait. There was no more trying to stop. No searching for a place to land. He was going to have to outrun the bastard.

He punched the accelerator. The Jetta’s wheels grabbed the pavement and lurched ahead of the truck with a jump. The truck’s driver threw it into reverse, then ground the gears, readying for another assault. Hudson pressed the accelerator further and the Jetta charged forward, shaking like a rattletrap.

“The axle,” Hudson muttered. “Shit.”

“Hudson, he’s coming!”

“Bastard.”

He punched the Jetta. Shivering madly, the compact car ran forward like a runner fighting a limp.

The headlights pinned them. The truck’s horn bellowed a cry of war, then slammed them with enough force to slide the Jetta over the edge. One moment they were following the center line of the highway, the next they were plunging over an embankment into black nothingness.

Becca screamed. In her mind’s eye she saw Hudson cold and bleeding. Eyes closed in death.

Blam! The Jetta hit the ground with force enough to break the axle entirely. Becca’s teeth slammed together. The car surged through underbrush. Ringo yipped. Hudson swore and then suddenly the bole of the tree raced toward them.

The driver’s side hit the tree dead on. Becca jerked into her seat belt again. The windshield shattered. Cold air and glass rained.

“Hudson! Hudson!”

Becca didn’t immediately realize she was calling his name. She surfaced as if from a dream and saw something stuck into the arm of her jacket. A sharp chunk of wood. She reached for it and pulled it out, felt searing pain. It had been jabbed into her bicep. She yanked it out before any of that penetrated her brain and she felt the ooze of blood on her skin.

Hurry, she told herself. Hurry!

Her gaze shot to Hudson. He was slumped over the wheel. The area above his right ear was dark with blood. The steering wheel had pinned him to his seat. “Hudson,” she said brokenly.

Steam sizzled into the cold night. Rain poured in through the half-missing windshield.

“Hudson,” she whispered again. She tried to move forward but the seat belt held her fast. The dog whimpered and she glanced back. Ringo was trapped in the backseat. The car had folded inward on the driver’s side and the dog was blocked from jumping to the front, but he appeared to be unhurt.

Hurry! He’s coming back!

With dull fingers Becca unclasped her seat belt. It zipped back as if the car were in perfect working order. She was having trouble getting her brain to command herself to move with urgency.

She pushed on her door and it groaned open with the sound of grinding metal. A frigid wind slapped her face.

The cell phone.

She glanced at Hudson again. He was pale and his breathing was labored. Was that the effect of being crushed by the steering wheel? Please, God, let him be okay.

Think.

The cell phone, yes.

She reached a hand around the floor of her seat, feeling dull and disconnected. Where was it? She couldn’t find it.

Hudson kept his cell in his jacket.

Gently, she reached a hand in his right pocket, but it was empty. Making mewling sounds of distress, she reached over him, flashing anger at the steering wheel, throwing her shoulder against it as if that could help to release him.

She caught the other side of his jacket and hauled it up, heavy with his phone. She struggled to get it free and when she did, she flipped it open.

No service.

Tears squeezed from her eyes. Ringo was whining and whining and she gazed back at him. “Stay put, boy. It’s okay. It’s all right. We’re okay.” She glanced around and felt a zap of pain jump up her neck. Something twisted there. Muscle pain. Immediately her arms went to her abdomen, but she was fine. Her baby was fine.

Rage ran through her like wildfire, burning through her torpor.

Bastard. Murdering, killing bastard!

With new strength she pulled herself from the car, slipping in mud and fir chips and needles. Glass tinkled against itself and fell off her clothes as she hung on to the car. She could feel the pain in her left arm. The wrench of her neck. And there was something with her left hip-a deep bruise.

But her head was clearing rapidly. The rain was good for that, at least. She blinked against the drizzle and listened hard. No sound but the rain and the whoosh of an impish wind.

No engine. He had moved on. He had driven his truck far away.

Just like last time.

Her teeth started instantly chattering. She felt a headache building. From the accident? No! A vision. For the first time she welcomed it.

Please. Please, Jessie.

And suddenly there she was. Standing precariously on the headland. Alone.

Where was he?

Jessie mouthed the word to her. Two syllables. A warning.

Becca wanted to cry with frustration. “What is it?” she cried aloud.

“Justice,” Jessie answered.

Becca came back to the moment as if someone had turned a switch. She turned her face to the high heavens and shrieked, wanting answers, not riddles.

And Hudson?

She had to get help.

Struggling, she grabbed on to exposed tree roots to help her scale the embankment back to the road above. She was glad for her beach clothes, her sneakers and jeans and jacket, but she still scrambled for purchase against the slippery mud.