Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

11

Daddy Bliss decided to skip the tour of the Repair Unit itself. “You’ve already seen the ‘before’ and ‘after’ of the process. The ‘during’ portion would be a bit of overkill at this point, I think.”

We were back in the holding room, having re-traced our route through the halls and elevators. I’d almost looked in on Pinto again but closed my eyes at the last moment and just kept moving.

Someone had prepared a lovely meal for me; broiled pork chops in garlic-and- butter sauce, steamed vegetables, homemade rolls, a nice side salad with parmesan cheese and no dressing, and a generous slice of pecan pie topped with an even more generous portion of real whipped cream for dessert. A large, frosty mug of A&W Root Beer sat on a coaster, the ice cracking and rising to the top, thin beads of condensation running slow rivulets down the sides.

When we’d first entered the room, all I could do was stare at everything. If it were possible to have all of my favorite foods in one place at one time, prepared exactly the way I preferred them, then this meal was it. “How did you know?” I asked him as I picked up the mug and sipped at the root beer. “How did we know what?” I stared at him. “Please don’t be cute with me, sir.” He grinned. “Apologies. You want to know how we knew what to prepare, and how to prepare it?” I looked at the food. “Or you could just tell me that you already know all there is to know about me and be done with it.”

“We already know all there is to know about you. We’ve known since the moment you took that map from Road Mama’s apartment. I’m sensing more questions coming, am I correct?”

“You have to admit, this is an awful lot to take in.”

“Agreed.” He glanced at the clock on the wall—a clock that had not been here earlier. “We have some time—not much, but enough. Ask your questions but, please, do eat your food as you do so. Nova prepared the meal herself, and she is by far the best cook in town.”

I picked up the knife and fork and began carving up the first pork chop. I paused with the first piece halfway to my mouth and said, “Some people might look at this—all their favorite foods prepared just how they like them—and think, ‘This is a last meal.’”

His only response was to stare at me.

“I did nothing to deserve this.” I popped the piece into my mouth and chewed. It was perfection.

“On the contrary,” said Daddy Bliss. “The moment you took that map, you put yourself in this position—wait, that’s not entirely correct. The moment you asked Mr. Dobbs to take a close look at everything on Road Mama’s bedside table, you were already on your way here, you just didn’t know it—ooh, that sounds so ominous, doesn’t it? I would apologize, but I so rarely have the opportunity to indulge my flair for the dramatic.”

“You were watching, even then?”

“The Highway People were watching, dear boy. They are always watching.”

I stopped carving up the pork chop and stared at an empty space in the middle of the table. It wasn’t quite as effective as staring at my feet, but it got results. “The bowl and the prescription bottles.”

“Yes…?”

I looked at him. “I was right. They were left there on purpose, weren’t they? You—or the Highway People—wanted someone to figure it out.”

“‘Needed’ would be the more applicable term but, yes, it was the will of the Road that those items be left in plain sight. Had you kept quiet when Mr. Dobbs came back into the room, had you said nothing at all, then there might have been some doubt as to whether or not you had known. But fortunately for us, you did not keep quiet.” He smiled. “But even if you had, you still took the map off the wall. Either way, you’d marked yourself.” “So the coroner, the mayor, the chief of police…all of them knew that Miss Driscoll—that Road Mama—had committed suicide?” “Of course. And they also know that there are certain protocols that must be followed if and when something like this occurs.” I thought of Barb, and how she’d told me three times to be careful. “What is it?” asked Daddy Bliss. “You have the look of someone who’s just realized his lover has betrayed him.” “Barb, my lawyer. She’s in on this, isn’t she?”

“This may come as surprise to you, dear boy, but no, she isn’t. She knows only as much as those in authority told her. But she’s a sharp one, your Barbara. She suspects there’s more going on than what she’s been told, but she also knows enough to not speak of it too loudly, if at all. You needn’t worry, Driver. Your friend did not betray you.”

My hand was shaking, but I still managed to hold the fork. “Exactly how many people do know about you? I mean, outside of here?”

He thought about this for a moment, then replied: “There’s an old conspiracy theory joke about what happens when a man is elected President of the United States. It is said that, as soon as he assumes office, the president is taken to a room in the basement of the White House where the people who really control the country sit him down in a chair and show him a film of the Kennedy assassination—not the famous Zapruder film,

another film, shot at the same time, but this one taken from a radically different angle and much, much closer—so close, in fact, that some of Kennedy’s blood spatters on the lens. Once this film has been shown to him, the president is asked, ‘Do you have any questions?’ To which he replies, ‘Just tell me what my agenda is.’

“It’s not so different with us and the people who hold office in this country. It doesn’t matter if they’re the president or a governor or simply the mayor of some backwater township. If they are in power, they are aware of us. And they are very careful with whom they choose to share this knowledge.

“This country—and arguably the world—survives because of the Road. Of course there are planes and ships and trains for transporting people and supplies, but mostly, dear boy, it is the Road that sustains us, that serves as the main artery of the economy. Delivering food, medicine, building supplies, fuel, books and newspapers, moving the sick, transporting children to and from school…ultimately, everything that enables a society to function on a day-to-day basis is made possible because of the Road. Close a single busy street in the middle of a city for even a day, and you have an immediate effect on that city’s economy—people are late for work because they have to drive however-many miles out of their way, service stations see more business because of the fuel needed to make these detours, or maybe they see less, it all depends on the location of the street, doesn’t it? Merchants can see either a large climb or a massive drop in their business because of a street closing. A person who is, say, suffering a heart attack—or a woman in labor—may not be able to make it to the hospital in time because of this closing. The possibilities for loss and gain are endless. And that’s with just a single street…providing it’s the right street.

“Now imagine what might happen if several streets, major streets, were all closed simultaneously for a prolonged period of time. A month. Two months. Three. A year. A city’s economy—not to mention the well-being of its citizens—would be adversely affected in a matter of days. Then close enough of the right highway exits and entrances on top of that, and one could theoretically make access to a particular city or town nearly impossible. People like your mayor, your coroner, your chief of police, know all too well that the economy of their city can be destroyed if we decide to close enough streets and highway access ramps for an indefinite period of time. That is why they cooperate with us. You think it’s the city planning commissions who decide what streets to close for construction, or where the new mall is going to be located? No, dear boy, everything is decided for them by the Road, and the Road’s orders are delivered by the Highway People, and are then carried out by us—and, of course, our emissaries.” “Like Road Mama and that guy in Bloomington?” “Precisely. You’re not eating your meal.” I dropped my fork. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

“Then find it again. I will not have you return an uneaten meal to our Nova. There will be no argument on this point.”

I glared at him for a moment, then picked up the fork and shoved a piece of the pork chop into my mouth. It was still perfection, and I continued to eat. It gave a sense of normalcy to things, and I needed that.

Besides, Nova was one hell of a cook. I would have liked to have told her that in person.

“How else do you ensure their cooperation?” I asked. “I mean, assuming that threatening the economy of their city isn’t enough?”

“Their loved ones. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Driver. No one threatens their friends or families. We protect them. As long as those in power cooperate, their loved ones never come to any harm while on the Road. In fact, their loved ones couldn’t be hurt in an accident if they tried.”

I remembered the way Sheriff Hummer’s car had driven itself earlier, and had no reason to disbelieve what Daddy Bliss was telling me. I swallowed a sip of root beer. “And if they fail to cooperate…?” “Then our protection is lifted, and their loved ones’ numbers are placed back into the order.” “The order?”

Daddy Bliss nodded toward my meal. “Do try Nova’s rolls. Flaky on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. She uses just the right amount of butter.”

Not looking away from his face, I took a bite from one. It practically melted in my mouth. God this was good food.

“The order…?” I said again.

His eyes were as cold as his voice. “The moment that you are born, Driver, you are either chosen by the Road as an acceptable sacrifice or are spared by it—that’s not to say that those who are spared won’t meet an even more terrible fate somewhere down the line, but for whatever reason, the Road doesn’t choose them and so their fates are of no interest to us. But those who are chosen, those whom the Road deems an acceptable sacrifice, are given a number. It’s quite a long number, actually, containing as it does the year, month, day, time, and location of death—and before you ask, yes, the location is also a number, albeit one that also contains letters. Every inch of highway, road, and street in this country is identified on the national grid as a specific number in a topological pattern—how do you think satellite navigation works in newer automobiles with systems that employ GPS technology? It’s all broken down into numbers, dear boy. Even those sections of new road and highway that have yet to be built have a number, one only the Road knows in advance.”

“So the accident I saw earlier tonight—”

“—the occurrence, Driver, the occurrence. There are no accidents.”

“Fine—the occurrence I saw earlier, all of those people were predetermined to be in that place at that time since the moment of their birth?”

“Yes.”

Something clicked in my head at that moment. It wasn’t any kind of epiphany, not even close. I once read a line in novel that went something like, “There comes a time when the human mind can no longer deal with the amount of horror being heaped upon it, and so it all starts to become kind of funny.” That’s what happened to me at that moment: some small part of the rational area of my mind clicked off and all of this became oddly surreal. I went with, and continued eating throughout the rest of our conversation, eventually finishing every bite of Nova’s delicious dinner.

“So if someone’s number is put back into the order, what happens if it turns out that number has already come and gone?”

Daddy Bliss grinned. “They are sacrificed immediately. If we are well past the point in the order where that number should have fallen, the very next time they climb into an automobile, they will not emerge from it alive. It causes a little extra bookkeeping for us, but it’s a small price to pay for keeping the Road satisfied.”

I gobbled down the second half of the roll. “So how is it that the Road came to dictate all of this?”

He stared at me for a moment. “You’re really a much more perceptive fellow than you give yourself credit for, Driver. You’ve asked a surprising amount of insightful questions this evening. One would not expect that from a person who holds your station in life.” “I’m guessing that was meant to be a compliment?” “It was.” “Then thank you. Now would you mind answering my most recent insightful question?” “Ah, yes…the ‘how’ of it all.

“Even in the midst of death, dear boy, life resonates. It seethes, trapped, waiting to be given release, to be given form. You’ve been in jail, Driver, you must have some idea to what I’m referring. You’ve been in a cell where the massed feelings of hatred, deprivation, claustrophobia, and brutalization have seeped into the very stones. One can feel it. The emotions resonate. It is the same when someone dies on the Road. That energy spills from their mangled bodies and is absorbed by the Road. And when a place or thing absorbs the resonating sentience of enough life, it’s only a matter of time before it achieves sentience itself. That’s why one can sense the despair emanating from the walls of a jail cell, or why you felt the death seeping from every corner of the Leonard house all those years ago. It’s not so much an unnatural phenomenon as it is what a physicist might deem an ‘unconscious confluence’ of resonating energies. That is how the Road came into full being.” I nodded my head. “Okay.” “That’s all? ‘Okay’? Just like that?” “Just like that.”

He blinked. “How utterly intriguing.” He looked once more at the clock. “Have you anything further you’d like to discuss with me?”

I finished with the first pork chop and began carving up the second one, my mouth watering. “Do I have a number?”

“No, you do not. You were not deemed an acceptable sacrifice. You were, however, of interest to the Road, and so you were watched.” He moved his chair closer to me. “I will tell you that your friend Barbara Greer does have a number, as do several of the employees on your crew. And your ex-wife.” I almost couldn’t swallow the food, but managed to force it down. “Why tell me this?” “Because if the Road decides about you as I think it will, you might find this information to be helpful.” “Helpful how?” He shook his head. “Cart before the horse, and all that. We’ll see if I am correct, and then proceed from there.”

There was a knock on the door, and a moment later Ciera entered, carrying a phone. “It’s time, Daddy. The Highway People are gathering.”

I looked at him. “So the jury’s coming in, is that it?”

“Indeed.” He maneuvered the chair around and started toward the opened door. “You and I may not have any further time alone after this, Driver, so allow me to say that it has been a genuine pleasure getting to know you. The Road has chosen wisely with you.” “Thanks, I guess.” “You’re welcome, perhaps.” And with that, he rolled out the door and was gone. “Did you two have a nice talk?” asked Ciera as she plugged the phone into the jack on the wall. “It was very…informative.” “Cool.” She set down the phone next to me and began to leave. “Wait a second.”

She turned back. “You need a refill on the root beer? We’ve got plenty.” She giggled. “I had some earlier, though I wasn’t supposed to—we got it just for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No. What I do mind is this.” I held up the phone and turned it toward her. It had no number keys. “What about it?” she asked. “How am I supposed to make a call when I can’t punch in or dial the number?”

She smiled. “Operators are standing by.” Then she laughed. “Sorry, I’ve always wanted to say that in real life but never got the chance. Just pick up the receiver when you’re ready and your call will be put through. You’ve got about fifteen or twenty minutes now. I’ll be back for you soon.” She blew me a kiss and began closing the door behind her, then stopped and said, “Listen, it’d be a good idea if you didn’t try to leave this room until I come back. When the Highway People call for a gathering like this, things become a bit…well, for you, anyway…things would be kind of confusing.”

“In what way?”

She thought about this for a minute, and as she did, I caught a glimpse of the young girl she’d once been, one who was now searching for a way to express in words something for which her previous life-experience had given her no point of reference. She looked almost…innocent. If I’d been a couple of decades younger, the look on her face would have really turned me on; now it just me feel sad and old.

Finally she said: “You ever wake up from a dream in the middle of the night and for a couple of seconds you’re, like, not sure whether you’re awake in your own bed or still in the dream? Some parts of the dream are so fresh in your memory that you can still see them, and for a couple of seconds it’s like the dream and the real world are the same thing, only you can’t tell which is which? Like you’re looking at a double-exposed photograph. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. “Sure does.”

“Well, if you leave this room on your own, that’s what everything’s going to seem like to you. You won’t be able to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because part of what holds this all together is everyone being here and doing their jobs, living their lives. But when the Highway People call for a gathering and everyone leaves their posts, there’s, like, no glue, right? Things start to…come apart, change, whatever. But when we come back, it all snaps back into place. That’s because we know what it’s all supposed to be like. You don’t, so everything would look real screwed-up to you, and you’d get lost in a hurry, and I don’t think we could find you again.”

I looked around the holding room. “Is that why this room is so bare? So it would be easy for me to remember what it looked like?”

“Yeah. We move around a lot—the town, I mean—and we move pretty fast. Fast like” —she snapped her fingers— “that. So it’s important that you stay here in this room you know so you don’t get lost in the empty places.” She gave me a sweet, slightly melancholy look, blew me another kiss, and left.

I expected her to lock the door behind her to make sure I’d stay right where I was supposed to, but she didn’t. She trusted me. Not that it mattered; I couldn’t have found my way out of town on my own. I could maybe get myself as far as the gas station, but that’d be about it.

So I finished Nova’s superb dinner, sat back in my chair, and stared at the phone, wondering who I knew who wouldn’t hang up on me for calling at this hour. Maybe Brennert, but what could I tell him? Barbara Greer might not get too upset, but if she were being watched, a call from me would only draw more attention to her.

I sat forward and picked up the receiver to see if there was an operator waiting at the other end. I listened to the ringing, still having no idea who I was going to call if and when the operator answered. In the middle of the third ring the call was answered, but instead of an operator I got a moment of hiss, followed by a recorded voice-mail introduction:

“Hi, this is Dianne. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message…oh, you know the rest. You’ll have three minutes after the beep, so don’t feel like you have to talk really fast. I hate that, don’t you? Okay, thanks for calling.”

This was the first time in five years that I’d heard her voice, and it almost broke me in half; clear and musical, with a subtle South Carolina accent that caused her to end every sentence on a smoothly descending note of embarrassed laughter that snuggled down in the back of her throat and wrapped itself up in something like a purr…I could almost feel her voice with my fingertips. In those few seconds it took to listen to her message, all those parts of her that I’d purposefully chipped away bit by bit in an effort to make her just another memory came together again, and there she was: her smile, her laugh, her eyes, the smell of her in the morning, the scent of her shampoo lingering on the pillow long after she’d lifted her head, the ghost of her touch against the back of my hand, and before I could even release the breath I didn’t know I was holding, the empty space in my life that had once been filled by her hummed so intensely with her absence that the last half-decade of my existence suddenly seemed inane and empty, a prolonged delusion, a vaudeville of what a life was supposed to be.

God, how I’d missed her.

Then came the beep and I began talking.

“Hi, Dianne, it’s, uh…it’s me.”

And then it hit me: I had less than three minutes. What the hell do you say to someone under these circumstances when you’ve only got three minutes, and it might very well be the last time you ever have the chance to say anything to them? For a second I flashed upon a high school drama club production of Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology that I’d been in; the director had explained to us that we needed to approach each of the monologues as that character’s only chance to come back from the grave and say all the things they wished they’d said to everyone while they were still alive. “Their only shot at finally making things right,” she’d told us.

So, I thought, just pretend you’re a dead man back for a few moments from the grave. Got it? Good. Places…

“Please don’t skip over or erase this. I don’t have a lot of time. Listen to my voice. I’m not drunk, okay? What I am is in a lot of trouble, and I don’t know if I’m going to be…ah, hell, Dianne. I never stopped loving you, and I’ve never stopped missing you. I was a jerk—no, wait, that’s not quite right, is it? I was cruel and selfish and cold, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it. Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask for your forgiveness, though I’d bet you would forgive me if I asked. You were always so compassionate, and thoughtful, everything any man who had the brains God gave an ice cube would want or hope for. But me? I blew it. And I want you to know how sorry I am. I hope that whoever you’re with now treats you with all the respect and affection you should have gotten from me.

“You told me after the divorce hearing that you figured I’d go on and live my life like you’d never been a part of it. I tried. And it worked for about a week. Then one morning I got up and started making my lunch for the day and realized halfway through that I was packing yours, as well, like I used to some days, remember? I’m standing there in the middle of kitchen looking at a tuna fish sandwich and wondering if I used enough mayo—you still like lots of mayo on your tuna fish?—anyway, I’m standing there with this goddamn sandwich and realize that you’re not going to be eating it, and I started…well, I kinda lost it, and I hugged the sandwich to my chest and squashed it all the hell over my shirt…it was one of those mawkish moments that always used to make you laugh when you saw them in a movie. It was really pitiful.” I looked at the clock; I had less than a minute.

“I want you to know something, Dianne. You were the love of my life—you are the love of my life, and whatever happens tonight, even if I never see or hear from you again, my soul was blessed because you were once a part of my life, and even though I didn’t treasure it at the time like I should have, I treasure it now, and wish to God I’d have the chance to treasure it—to treasure you—again. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. Just know that everything you did, all you tried to give to me, all of it mattered, all of it. And whatever happens after I hang up, if this is it, I want you to know that my last thought will be of you and how you made my world rich, even if I was too much of an idiot to appreciate it at the time.

“I love you. I always will. I just…I just wanted to thank you for all you gave to me when we were together.

“And it just occurred to me that all of this must sound melodramatic as hell, and I’m sorry. It’s been an…odd couple of days. But it’s almost over now. I love you. Be happy, and never let yourself think that any part of what happened was because of you. You were wonderful—shit, you were perfect. I was an asshole. I didn’t deserve you. This isn’t self-pity, hon, it’s just plain old regret. Six of one, half-dozen of the other, I know.

“Good-bye, Dianne. I love you. Think about using a little less mayo in the tuna fish, okay? I hear it’s not good for the cholesterol. You may quote me.” The beep sounded again, I hung up, covered my eyes with my hands, and wept quietly for a minute or two. The lights flickered and I looked up just as Ciera opened the door. “It’s time.” She stared at me. “Are you okay?” Wiping my eyes, I shook my head, then said, “Just ducky, thanks.”

“Nobody wants you to get hurt, Driver.” “So I keep hearing.” I wiped my eyes once again, let out a breath, and rose. We stared at each other for a moment. “So?” I asked. “I take three giant steps, or what?” “I wish you wouldn’t be so mean to me.” “I didn’t think I was.”

She glanced down at the floor for a second, then back up at me. There was some genuine hurt in that gaze. “I keep trying to be nice, but you act like you don’t like me very much.”

“Like you? I don’t even know you. Until a few hours ago, I had no idea you or anyone else in this place even existed! All I knew was that I was supposed to deliver a body so the family could bury it, that’s all. Now, suddenly, I’m right smack in the middle of something pretty seriously goddamn scary, I might be dead before the sun rises, and you’re getting defensive about my bad manners?”

Her eyes began tearing up. “Please don’t yell at me.”

“What the fuck would you do if you were in my position?”

“Please stop yelling.”

I opened my mouth to really let her have it, then her words—Please stop yelling—echoed back, only this time it was Dianne’s voice I heard speaking them, as it had so many time during the course of our marriage whenever I had been made aware of my shortcomings and was looking for someone to blame, usually her.

Please stop yelling. Oh, hon…. “I’m sorry,” I said to Ciera, stepping forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just…mad.” “Okay,” she said, not meeting my gaze. “Hey?” She looked up at me.

“What’s your name—your real name?”

A single tear slipped from her eye and slid a slow path down her cheek. “I don’t remember.”

“Really?”

“Really. Only Road mama and Daddy Bliss remember their real names. The rest of us, we kinda…don’t bring them with us when we come back.” “How old were you?” “I would have been twenty-one on my birthday.” “Christ…I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. I really like you, Driver. It’s been a long time since…well, since a new guy’s been here who’s still got all of his face and stuff.” She shrugged. “I get lonely sometimes.”

I touched her face, using my thumb to wipe away the tear. “How bad is it, being trapped here?”

She stared at me for a moment, blinked, then gave her head the slightest shake. “I’m not trapped her. None of us are.”

“You stay here by choice?”

“Yes. Everyone here is given that choice. The Highway People bring them back, and if you choose to stay, then your Repairs begin.”

I really couldn’t get my head wrapped around this one. “But…for God’s sake, why would you choose to stay here and take part in all of this?”

“The people we leave behind. If we choose to stay, they are protected. I mean, it’s not like it can be all the people we leave behind, but our immediate family and closest friends, they’re okay.”

“Their numbers are withdrawn from the order?”

“If they have a number, yes. If, like, my sister didn’t have a number—and she didn’t—then I got to pick an extra friend.”

“How long do you have to stay here?”

“Until the people we pick die of natural causes, or however it is they do die. Just not by the Road. Once they’ve all passed on, then we can follow them.”

I tried doing a little arithmetic in my head—if you picked five people, and the youngest was only twelve, then how long…?—then realized it was pointless. She was talking about a long time, no matter how you looked at it. “Can I ask you stupid question?” She smiled. “You can ask me anything. I won’t think it’s stupid.” “How do you get by on a day-to-day basis? How do you stay sane?”

She thought about this for a moment, and then shrugged. “Like everybody else does, I suppose. You go to work when you’re supposed to, you do your job, then you go home, eat dinner, maybe watch some TV or put in a movie. Hang out with friends. Y’know…normal stuff.” “Watch TV or movies?” “Uh-huh.” “Hang out with friends?” “Uh-huh…?” “I guess I’m asking…what do you do for fun? What do you do to relax?” “I like to take walks.” For a moment I thought she was joking, then just as quickly realized she wasn’t. She took hold of my hand, leaned up, and kissed my cheek. “We really need to get going.”

“Ciera, please, please tell me what’s going to happen.” “I can’t. I could get into a lot of trouble if…” She broke off, stared at me, and smiled. “Let me ask you something, okay?” “Okay…?” “Am I prettier than Dianne?”

No way was I going to lie to her—she was the closest thing to an ally that I had (and something told me she’d know instantly if I tried bullshitting her)—but maybe I could respond without actually answering the question.

I touched her cheek and said, “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’re going to race Fairlane.”

I remembered Daddy Bliss’s words from earlier—Some of us have been able to be Repaired almost immediately, while others—like myself and Fairlane, who you’ll be meeting later on—have to make due with more…primitive results—and felt myself shudder. If Fairlane had to make do with results even worse than Daddy Bliss’s, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet him at all…so sayeth the King of Understatement. “A race?” She nodded. “The Road decided long ago that a race was the most direct and just way to settle a matter.” “What happens if I win?” She almost giggled. “Silly—you get to leave and go home.” “And if I lose?”

She stared at me for a moment, and then threw her arms around my neck and planted a kiss on me that would have killed a kid half my age; as it was, it left me weak in the knees.

“Then,” she said, “you and I can be together.”

So it was that simple; win, and I could leave; lose, and here I’d remain. It seemed almost too simple, but at the time I didn’t dwell on it. I was only interested in getting the hell out. In one piece, if possible.

She took hold of my hand and led me from the holding room, through the offices, and to the front doors. I looked out the windows and saw a long, dark limousine parked at the curb, engine purring. Ciera opened the door and out we went. As we neared the limo I saw, at last, how it was that Sheriff Hummer’s car was able to drive itself; a deep groove ran all along the center of both street lanes: the whole city was built on a gigantic HO track.

Ciera opened the back door of the limo and held my hand until I was seated inside.

“This is as far as I go,” she said. “I have to do a couple of things to get ready, but don’t worry, I’ll see you there in a few minutes.” She started to let go of my hand and I did something that surprised both of us: I tightened my grip and put my free hand on top of hers. “What is it?” she asked. “I…I don’t want to…let go just yet.” She gave me a tender smile and nodded her head. “I can hang for a minute.” “Good.”

I sat there trying to steady both my breathing and the beating of my heart. Ciera neither moved nor spoke, just kept hold of my hand until I was ready to let go. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re welcome. Tell you something weird—I kinda hope you win, but I also hope you don’t, you know?” An idea came to me. “You could come with me.”

“What?”

“You and me. We get the meat wagon and hightail it out of here.”

She pulled in a breath, held it, then released it with a soft little moan as she leaned in and kissed me again. “Do you have any idea how tempting that is?”

I sure hoped so. Shame on me.

“But you know I can’t. I couldn’t do that to my family and friends. But thank you for asking.” She pulled her hand from my grip and closed the door, which locked automatically.

The limo pulled away, and I looked through the back window, watching her stand there in the street until the car turned a corner and she was gone.

Strange as it might sound, I missed her.

I looked up front to see that the divider window was up; it was tinted, so I couldn’t make out anything about the person driving. I looked around until I found the intercom button, pressed it, and said: “Can you lower the window, please?”

There was a soft click, followed by a low, steady hum, and the window glided downward. There was no one driving. I should have known.

There was, however, a small television mounted on the dashboard, and as the window finished lowering, the screen flickered to life and I was looking at Daddy Bliss’s face.

“This is a pre-recorded message, Driver, so please don’t do anything so pointless and predictable as talking back to the screen. They lock people up for that sort of behavior.

“I’m fairly certain that you’ve by now managed to charm some information from our dear Ciera—I was, in fact, counting on it. So let’s proceed on that assumption, shall we?

“You are being driven to the only stretch of road in our fair metropolis that is smooth blacktop from beginning to end. A three-mile straightaway that my children long ago named ‘Daddy’s Dead Run’. A bit over-the-top, I know, but their hearts were in the right place and I’ve never been able to bring myself to tell them that I think it’s a silly, melodramatic name, but what is one to do?

“Once this limousine—and isn’t it a lovely vehicle? You should help yourself to some snacks and the wet bar, both are well-stocked. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.

“Once this limousine comes to a stop, you will be taken to your vehicle for this evening’s contest. You will be driving a car that I personally chose for you. I call it ‘The Ogre.’ Yes, I know—I have the gall to make fun of ‘Daddy’s Dead Run’ and then name a car ‘The Ogre’? It’s the little contradictions in one’s character that makes one fascinating to others. An enigma, so to speak.

“‘The Ogre’ was a1964 Triumph Spitfire in its previous life. Allow me to gloat a bit of its history—after all, I designed and supervised its metamorphosis myself, so I think I’ve earned the right to boast.

“I began with a Spitfire frame that was made ready for a Chevy V-8 engine, Muncie transmission, and modified Corvette rear suspension. When the chassis was complete—with engine, transmission, rear suspension and third member, brake lines, front suspension with stock rack and pinion steering, as well as new body-mounts—the body from the stock Spitfire was prepared and set on the frame. The electrical systems were re-established and the bonnet added. Its present engine is a 383 Stroker. On the Dyno, she checked out at 470 horsepower and 500 ft-lbs of torque. This a small but very powerful car you’ll be climbing into, Driver. It has a maximum speed of 180 miles per hour, and goes from 0 to 90 in just under ten seconds.

“For the first ten seconds of the race, both The Ogre and Fairlane’s vehicle will be under the sole control of The Road. Once you have passed from the sight of the crowd, control of the vehicles will be given over to you. I trust you can drive a shift. If not—well, then, this could be a short but spectacular contest.

“You have a few minutes before you reach your destination, dear boy. Why not raid the refrigerator and wet bar? Godspeed, Driver. No pun intended.”

And with that, the screen snapped off.

I looked out the window and saw the lights reflecting from the massive car-cubes along Levegh Lane in the distance, and realized that these dead piles rose so high they could be probably be seen from any place in the city.

I wondered if, very soon, the smashed corpse of the Ogre would be added to them for future Repair material.