Tunnel Vision

58

Mitch turned onto Connecticut Route 84 and headed north for the Vernon exit. It was Saturday night, and he had been at the Outback in Manchester, celebrating his promotion to floor manager at the Buckland Hills Sears. And, of course, he’d had a few beers and was wiped out and dying to get to bed.

He was driving a 1992 Mitsubishi 3000 VR-4—one of the few all-wheel-drive sports cars on the road and one of the best looking. He had bought it used four years ago and had it repainted and detailed. Today it was in mint condition, even though it had seen 162,000 miles. He loved the sculpted design, the wide wheel base, the low-slung macho look. And with three hundred horses under the hood, the Mitsu had balls.

He was maybe two miles shy of the exit when he heard a deep rumble. “Shit!” he cried, and slammed his hand on the wheel. His muffler had blown a hole. He growled down the highway, sounding like something out of a NASCAR race. He had gone maybe half a mile when he heard the connector pipe hit the ground and drag, no doubt leaving a trail of sparks. “Fuck!” The car began filling with fumes.

He opened the window and took the next exit down Bolton Road to a clearing among trees. There were no streetlamps in this area, but he had a flashlight and some rope in the hatch to tie up the pipe. Luckily it had happened a few miles from home.

He pulled the flashlight and a fishing knife from the glove compartment and got out. He looked under the car. The muffler was still intact, but the pipe was on the ground. He opened the hatch and removed the jack, then raised the car maybe a foot so he could slide under.

The hangers that held the pipe to the muffler had come loose. But it had cooled enough to be roped to an opening. Unfortunately, the pipe had rusted through and would have to be replaced. By the time the Midas people got through with him, he’d be talked into a whole new exhaust system, putting him back at least a thousand bucks. And given the year of the car, it might take a week for parts to arrive, which meant he’d have to get a rental. Hell, he didn’t need this.

Even though the air was cool, it was hot and cramped under the car, and his arms tired working the rope. Worse, he was exhausted and yearning to be in bed.

He had worked for maybe twenty minutes when he heard something. He didn’t know if it was the wind or the traffic, but it sounded as if someone had approached the car. He looked down the length of his body, then to the right and left. Nothing. He squirmed to face the rear of the car, maneuvering the flash in the tight space. Still nothing. Just the underbrush and shadows.

Yet he had a sensation that he was no longer alone.

After a few moments, he dismissed the feeling and continued tying the pipe to the car’s underside.

A minute or so later, he again thought he heard something. And again he looked around, half expecting to see feet out there. Nothing. Probably the sound of the engine cooling, the metal contracting in the cool night air.

He was just finishing the last makeshift rope hanger when he heard some scuffling just to his right.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

Mitch waited until he was sure it was only in his head. He continued securing the rope to the pipe.

“Mitchell.”

His name. Someone had whispered his name. But it was so soft, it could have been the wind in the trees.

The next moment, he heard the jack cranked down a notch. The sound shot through him like a bullet.

The car had lowered on him.

He turned the flash toward the jack, expecting to see a pair of feet, but only the jack lit up. Before he could move to squirm out, another snap of metal, and the underside of the car came down an inch closer to his face. He could feel the searing heat of the engine. He could smell oil and rust. He could taste terror.

Before the car came down another notch, he squirmed out from under. He fanned the flashlight around, but no one was there. Just the trees and scrub, making shadows against the light. He pulled himself to his feet, then moved around to the other side of the car. Through the passenger window he reached into the glove compartment, where he kept a loaded .38-caliber Smith & Wesson. “Okay, you son of a bitch.” He turned a complete circle, holding the gun straight out.

Nothing. Nobody was there. A couple of sets of headlights came down the road, and he lowered the gun so he wouldn’t draw attention.

The cars passed and he stood there in the silent black, a flash in one hand, the pistol in the other. The only sound was that of the crickets. He sprayed the trees again with light. Nothing.

Your imagination, he told himself. He was tired and edgy from a long day, sore and pissed from having to crawl in the dirt to fix a muffler pipe.

But he hadn’t imagined the car being lowered on him.

He inspected the jack. It was still in place, but the tire iron was gone. He had used it to crank up the car and thought he had left it on the ground by the jack. But it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d brought it with him when he slid under the car. He dropped to one knee and shone the flash under the car. No tire iron.

As he pulled himself up, he heard that whispery voice again. “Mitchell.”

By reflex, he shot in that direction. The explosion filled the night air, and in the flash of the gun, he saw a hooded figure like the Grim Reaper.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Go to hell, asshole.”

In a flicker of light, a blackened figure stood with the raised tire iron in hand. Before Mitch could scream, it crashed down on his head.