Drive

Chapter Twenty-three

In his dream the jackrabbit stopped dead still and turned on the coyote, curling its lips back to reveal huge razor-sharp teeth just before it sprang.

That’s when Driver woke and knew someone was in the room. A change in the quality of darkness at the window told him where the intruder was. Driver turned heavily in bed, as though restless, bed frame banging against the wall.

The man stopped moving.

Driver turned again and kept going, springing onto his feet. The radio antenna in his hand slashed at the man’s neck. There was much blood, and for a moment, two beats, three, the man stood as if frozen. By then Driver was behind him. He kicked the man’s legs out from under and, as he went down, slashed again with the antenna, at the other side this time, then at the hand that was reaching for, presumably, a gun.

Bending down, foot planted on the man’s arm, Driver pulled it out. A short-barrelled. 38. As though the poor little thing had had a nose job to help it fit in.

“Okay. On your feet.”

“Whatever you say.” His visitor held up both hands, palm out. “I’m cool.”

Hardly more than a kid, really. Bulked up from workouts and steroids in equal measure. Dark hair cut almost to the scalp on the sides, left long on top. Sport coat over a black T-shirt, couple of gold chains. Small, square teeth. Not like the jackrabbit’s at all.

Driver urged him through the front door and out onto the balcony that circled the building. All the apartments opened onto it.

“Jump,” Driver said.

“You’re crazy, man. We’re on the second floor.”

“Your call. I don’t much care either way. Either you jump or I shoot you where you stand. Think about it. It’s only what, thirty feet or so? You’ll live through it. Any luck at all, you get off with only a couple broken legs, maybe a shattered ankle.”

Driver marked the moment it changed, saw the moment when the tension went away and his body accepted what was about to happen. The man put one hand on the railing.

“Give my regards to Nino,” Driver said.

Afterwards he collected the duffel bag from inside the door and went down the back stairs to his car. Jumpin’ Jack Flash came on the radio when the engine caught.

Shit.

Obviously the station had, as they liked to say, changed its profile. Bought out? Sold down the river? Supposed to be soft jazz, damn it. Still was, just days ago, when he set the buttons. Now this.

Getting to be where you can’t rely on anything.

Driver spun the dial through country music, news, a talk show about aliens of the extraterrestrial sort, easy listening, country again, hard rock, another talk show about aliens of the earthbound sort, news again.

Concerned citizens of Arizona were up in arms because a humanitarian group had begun installing water stations in the desert that illegal immigrants had to cross to get from Mexico to the U.S. Thousands had perished trying to make the crossing. Concerned citizens of Arizona, Driver noted, came out all in a breath, like weapons of mass destruction or the red threat.

Meanwhile the state legislature was trying to pass statutes barring illegal aliens from free medical care in Arizona’s overburdened, uncompensated emergency rooms and hospitals.

Doc should start up a franchise.

Driver pulled onto the interstate.

They’d sent a single dog after him? And a new dog to boot, not even pick of the litter. That was plain stupid, made no sense whatsoever.

Or maybe it did.

Two possibilities.

One: they were trying to set him up. His designated assassin wouldn’t talk, of course. But if Driver had killed him-as whoever sent him had every reason to expect-police even now would be going door to door and checking apartment-house records. All over California and adjoining states, fax machines would be rousing from slumber to spit out stats of the photo from Driver’s old DMV records and whatever other information about him could be unearthed. There wasn’t a lot; even back then, instinctively, he kept his head down.

The second possibility hardened to reality when a blue Mustang came up around the chain of cars behind him outside Sherman Oaks, lodged in his rear view mirror, and wouldn’t be shaken.

So not only did they have a tail on him, they wanted him to know they had a tail on him.

Driver cut abruptly off the interstate and into a service area, bypassing the inner loop. Pulled in and sat, engine purring, out by the truckers. Nearby, a family spilled from its van with dogs in tow, parents shouting at kids, kids shouting at dogs and one another.

The Mustang materialized behind him, in his mirror.

Okay then, he thought. My game now.

Popping the clutch, he shot along the service road. As he gained speed, his eyes swept constantly from rear view mirror to highway and back again. With a car length to spare, he slid onto the highway between two semis.

But he couldn’t lose the son of a bitch whatever he tried.

Periodically he’d go off-road, blend into local traffic to take advantage of it, interpose traffic lights like blockades between himself and his pursuer. Or back on the interstate he’d accelerate with blinkers going as though to take the off ramp, drop in front of a rig, then, once out of sight, floor it and surge ahead.

Whatever he did, the Mustang hung there behind like a bad memory, history you can’t escape.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Well out of the city, out where the first of a crop of white windmills, lazily turning, wound sky down to desert, Driver sailed without warning onto an exit ramp and into a one-eighty. Sat facing back the way he’d come as the Mustang raced towards him.

Then he hit the gas.

He was out for a minute or two, no more. An old stunt man’s trick: at the last moment, he’d thrown himself into the back seat and braced for the collision.

The cars struck head-on. Neither was going to leave on its own steam, but the Mustang, predictably, got the worst of it. Kicking his door open, Driver climbed out.

“You okay?” someone shouted from the window of a battered pickup idling at the bottom of the off ramp.

Then the long blare of a horn and a squeal of brakes as a Chevy van skidded to a stop, rocking, behind the pickup.

Driver stepped up to the Mustang. Sirens in the distance.

Gordon Ligocki’s ducktail would never look good again. His neck was broken. Internal damages too, judging from the blood around his mouth. Probably slammed into the steering wheel.

Driver still had the coupons for Nino’s Pizza.

He tucked one into Gordon Ligocki’s shirt pocket.