Dark Pursuit

A second wail pierced the night, mixing pain and anger and defilement. The sound sawed through Kaitlan’s nerves.

At the third cry she recognized the sound. Cat/i>.

Kaitlan sucked in air, trying to still her shaking limbs.

Long moments passed. Time filled only with the sound of her own breathing, the tick of the clock. Outside—no approaching car. Just echoing, mocking blackness.

Kaitlan tilted her wrist up near the window, trying to check her watch. How long had she been waiting?

The light was too dim to see.

She dropped her hand—and sudden anger welled within her. After all her struggles to overcome her addiction and make a life for herself. Now that she had a baby to think about—this happened. It wasn’t fair. And she was not going to let it get the best of her.

Headlights spilled down the street.

Kaitlan jerked up straight. She listed toward the window, eyes glued to the road, waiting to see the car.

A realization punched her in the gut. She’d forgotten to ask Margaret what she drove.

The ghostly form of a vehicle materialized out of the dimness.

Kaitlan grabbed the window sill, willing the car to stop, her muscles tensed to sprint for the front door.

At the edge of the Jensons’ property line it slowed.

Margaret! Kaitlan rocketed to her feet.

As she turned to run a sound registered. The rumble of an engine. Far too loud.

Kaitlan stilled. Looked back.

The car passed her window into shadows beyond the street lamp. It was a dark-colored Mustang.

OBSESSION

thirty-six

The glove box of my car had a glow around it.

For weeks after I’d put the strip of cloth inside, every time I slid into my car this strange euphoria would settle over me. I’d drive humming. Smile at red lights. Traffic no longer bothered me—I had the cloth for company. Besides, the longer I stayed in the car the better I felt.

I never touched the fabric. Never even opened the glove compartment. But I knew it was there. That’s all that mattered.

In one word my life was … contented. At work. At home. As for that party night and what I’d done—the memory faded.

Had it really happened at all?

If so, it had been necessary. The only right thing to do in such a situation.

I took to driving around just to be in my car.

One Saturday I ended up driving for hours. I found myself on the freeway headed south. After well over one hundred miles I turned around. The pleasant feeling had melted away and my insides had started to churn. It was barely noticeable at first. I thought heading back home might help. Maybe my subconscious was simply bored at driving for no reason.

My unease only got worse, like an itch deep inside me, moving around. Couldn’t be scratched. I shifted in the seat, leaned forward over the wheel, leaned back. Switched on the radio. The music sounded out of tune. I smacked it off.

Funny how the hillsides were graying. The sky muddied. The road, the horizon, everything seemed to run together. Even the colors of cars faded out.

The glove box heated up.

Its warmth radiated to me, skimming over my arms, brushing my face. I felt no fright. I wasn’t even surprised. Hadn’t I known all along?

My whole body started to sweat.

By the time I got home I couldn’t wait to slip that cool cloth through my fingers. Chill the burning of my skin.

That night I was supposed to go out with some friends. How to hide my angst? I wanted to cancel and stay home until it was time. But my rational side said no. I’d need as much alibi as I could create.

We went to dinner, then had a few drinks at a bar. Amazing how normal I was able to act. No one would have known a thing was wrong.

Leaving the bar around midnight, I cruised the streets. Twice I had to pull over and open the glove compartment. Feel the fabric.

The third time I hid it under my seat.

I spotted her on a lonely stretch of road. Her car was pulled over to the side, flashers on. She stood by the driver’s door, feet apart, hands to her mouth as if beside herself over what to do.

As soon as I got out of my car I recognized her. The mother on meth. The one who could only say “I don’t know” when asked why she was destroying her own life and the lives of her kids. At that moment the universe slid into place, like the final pieces of a giant frame.

This woman deserved to die.

She didn’t remember me until I reminded her. Apparently I’d made little impression on her flighty, self-absorbed mind. She’d made a big one on me.

No car insurance, she wailed. Now how was she supposed to get home to her children, just sent back from their foster home? The policy had run out and she’d had no money to renew it.

Of course not. Every dime she earned went into her veins.

Her kids would be better off without her.

I offered to drive her home. “Oh, yes, thank you!” she cried. I told her to turn off her flashers and lock the car.

Two miles, that’s all I managed. My fingers branded themselves into the steering wheel.