D. MacHale - The Pilgrims of Rayne

“Stop… the… car!” he ordered.

“Why are you doing this?” Courtney yelled. “If you wanted to kill me, you could have done it a thousand times over.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Chetwynde. I just want to have a little fun.”

“It’s below you to torture me,” Courtney said, trying to keep her voice in control. She was scared to death, but she didn’t want to let Saint Dane know that.

“Then consider this a favor,” he said.

“Favor?” Dodger shouted. He kicked at the glass. It was too thick to break.

Mitchell skidded into a turn. Courtney saw the Hudson River directly in front of them. The demon spun the wheel again and they were on the West Side Highway, headed south, parallel to the wide river.

“Why is this a favor, Saint Dane?” Courtney asked, trying to stay focused and keep the fear back.

“Your job is done, Chetwynde,” Andy Mitchell said. “You did exactly what I needed you to do. Now it’s time for you to toddle on home.”

“I can’t break the glass,” Dodger screamed.

Courtney barely knew Dodger was even there. She was focused on Andy. On Saint Dane.

“What did I do?” she asked.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Mitchell laughed. “Sorry you nearly died in Vermont but, hey, if that’s what it took, so be it. Nice to see you’re not crippled anymore.”

Mitchell laughed and jammed past two drivers who were going too slowly for him. They blasted their horns. Mitchell giggled and waved at them.

“What are you talking about?” Courtney demanded.

“Are you stupid or do you just look it?” Mitchell asked. “We came to your rescue. Dimond and me. It was a real bonding experience. After I helped save your life, I looked like a real hero to him. After that, he trusted me, and it was all thanks to you.”

Mitchell bashed into the traffic divider, blowing out the right front wheel. The car lurched to the right, but Mitchell kept in control and charged on.

“That’s why you ran me off the road in Massachusetts?” Courtney asked. “So you and Mark could come to my rescue?”

Mitchell turned all the way around, taking his eyes off the road. He looked right at Courtney and grinned. “Face it, Chetwynde. You delivered Mark Dimond. Now that I’ve got him, I’ve got Halla.”

“No!” Courtney lost it. She screamed and banged on the glass. Her fists were only inches from Andy Mitchell. From Saint Dane. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to bash his smug face. She wanted him to die.

“Look out!” Dodger shouted.

The cab flew down an exit ramp and off the elevated highway. Andy Mitchell casually looked forward and took the wheel, steering clear of a cement barrier.

“Whoa, that would have hurt,” he said calmly.

The flat tire was shredded but the car charged on. Sparks flew from the metal rim that was now the fourth wheel. They were at the bottom of Manhattan, where the river widened out to become a harbor. Long piers jutted out into the water. Traffic picked up, but Andy Mitchell didn’t slow down.

“Where is he?” Courtney screamed, banging on the glass. “Tell me where he is!”

Mitchell turned the wheel one last time. He flew off the road, cut off a car, and bounced over the sidewalk. They were headed for one of the piers that stretched into the river. People strolled along casually, enjoying the day and admiring the view. Not for long. At the sound of the oncoming cab, they dove out of the way to avoid being mashed. The cab charged forward, blasting onto the wide pier.

“Hey! Dead end!” Dodger shouted.

“Is it?” Mitchell asked innocently. “Oops.”

Courtney didn’t care. She was beyond caring.

“Go home, Chetwynde,” Mitchell said calmly. “See your parents. Cuddle up with your mechanical cat. You have a couple of older brothers, don’t you? Spend some time with them. The battle is over. There’s nothing left for anybody to do but sit back and watch me fly.”

Courtney became calm. It didn’t matter that they were hurtling toward the end of the pier. She sat back in the seat and folded her arms.

“You’re wrong,” she said calmly. “It’s not close to being over. Bobby won’t let that happen, and neither will I.”

Andy Mitchell whipped around to look into the backseat. Only he wasn’t Andy Mitchell anymore. His face had transformed into that of Saint Dane. His blue-white eyes flashed. The bloodred veins in his bald head flared.

“Then you’ll just have to die!” he hissed.

Dodger screamed.

The car crashed through a wooden barrier at the end of the pier and sailed into the air. Saint Dane melted into black smoke and blew out the window. Courtney and Dodger were alone as the cab sailed down and hit the water with a bone-jarring shudder.

(CONTINUED)

Cars didn’t come equipped with seat belts in 1937.

When the cab hit the water, Courtney and Dodger were thrown forward. They hit the glass partition separating the seats and bounced back like rag dolls being tumbled in a clothes dryer. Courtney hit her head, hard. She was knocked senseless.

“Courtney!” Dodger yelled. “Courtney, you all right?”

D. J. MacHale

The Pilgrims of Rayne

Courtney didn’t hear him. She was barely conscious.

“We’re going down!” Dodger yelled.

The car floated on its belly for only a few seconds. The nose tipped down quickly. That’s where the weight was. The engine acted like an anchor, pulling the vehicle under. Water poured in the open front windows. The heavier the front became, the steeper the angle became. Soon the car was floating near vertical, with the tail up in the air.

“Courtney!” Dodger yelled. He shook her. Courtney was totally disoriented.

“What happened?” she asked dreamily.

“We’re gonna drown!” Dodger screamed.

The back of the front seat was now the floor. Courtney and Dodger sat on the glass partition as water rose up around them.

“Where’s Saint Dane?” Courtney asked.

“Gone!” Dodger shouted. “He turned into smoke and flew out the window! I swear!”

“I believe you,” Courtney said, dazed.

The water was up to their waists and bubbling higher. In seconds the car would be submerged and on its way to the bottom.

“Move!” Dodger ordered Courtney.

He pushed her out of the way and slid toward one of the back doors. He pushed up off his bottom with his hands and kicked at the window, desperate to smash it out. The higher the water got, the tougher it was to get enough leverage to put force into his kicks.

“Help me!” he shouted at Courtney.

Courtney rolled over. Her head went underwater. She sputtered, coughed, and sat back up. The cold shock cleared her head. “What’s going on?” she shouted.

“We’re sinking,” Dodger shouted. “We’ve got to kick out the window or we’re done.”

He gave another kick, and another, but it was tough getting power because of the rising water. Courtney scrambled next to Dodger, put her arms down and started to kick the window on her own. The window didn’t budge.

“Together!” Dodger commanded.

They sat next to each other, up on their arms, their bellies pointed to the sky. The water was nearly at their shoulders.

“Ready?” Dodger called out. “One, two, three, kick!”

They both kicked the window with their heels, but not at the exact same time.

“Again!” Dodger ordered. “One, two, three, kick!”

They both pounded the window again, hitting it together this time. It didn’t budge.

“We can’t get enough force!” Dodger yelled. “Don’t stop!” Courtney ordered.

She shifted position, moving her hands so she was closer to the window, when something slipped, making her lose balance.

“Whoa!” Courtney exclaimed as her face slid under the water.