Wildwood Road Read Free Page A

until he had rounded it before he took a quick glance into the backseat again. Jillian was out cold. He doubted the radio would wake her. But even if it did, better that than to have her wake up in a ditch . . . or worse. Michael turned on the radio and scanned quickly over to Kiss 108. He hated the entire hip-hop/rap scene, but he knew that it would keep him awake. The thumping bass he had heard so often rattling other cars as they passed him or while waiting for a green light erupted from the speakers and he turned it up even louder, grimacing as he did so.
    At the back of his skull, a dull ache had begun to grow. He was not certain if it was the Guinness or the music or the cold air.
Probably the combination,
he thought. He became aware of a bitter taste in his mouth and ran his tongue across his teeth. He loved Guinness, but like any other beer, it left a film in his mouth. Michael wanted something else to drink. He tried to remember if there was a Dunkin' Donuts on Old Route 12. If it was still open he could get a coffee. Replace one bitter aftertaste with another.
    The road hummed. The engine growled. His eyelids grew heavy again despite the music. His cheeks felt numb, and though he wanted to think it was the chilly October night, he knew better. Mainly because his feet were sort of numb, too, and it wasn't that cold down on the floormats. No, it was the Guinness, settling in.
    Maybe he'd had more than he had realized.
    The music thudded in his ears and the ache at the back of his skull began to throb. A streetlight strobed past the windshield and he blinked the glare away. The tires on the road were white noise. His mind drifted back to when he was eight years old, taking a bus trip to Florida with his family, riding through Lafayette in the middle of the night.
    His head tilted forward, and the motion jerked him awake. Michael snapped his head up, panic trip-hammering through his heart. The road was curving to the right . . . but he was going straight, crossing into the oncoming lane, the nose of the Volvo headed for a pair of telephone poles, a new one lashed to an older one to keep it from falling.
    His mouth tasted like aluminum foil. Bile burned up the back of his throat. His face was flush with heat now, no longer numb.
    Arms rigid, he pressed himself back into his seat and ratcheted the steering wheel to the right.
    The streetlight above him winked out in that moment, casting the corner into darkness.
    There was no one else on the road.
    His tires shrieked on the blacktop.
    A burst of elation like nothing he had ever felt surged up within him as he realized that he was going to do it, that he had righted the car. Then he came around the last of the curve, too far onto the shoulder, and saw the little girl on the side of the road.
    She was blond. A tiny thing, caught in the glare of his headlights, golden hair fringed with that brightness as though she were an angel. Blue jeans. A ruffled peasant blouse. Yet the one thing that stood out most was her eyes. She stared at Michael through the windshield, gazing into the headlights with no sign of fear at all. She looked for all the world as though she had just woken from a nap.
    “Jesus Christ!” Michael screamed.
    His hands nudged the wheel to the left.
    The Volvo passed by her so close that, looking out the passenger window, Michael could see her shake with the change in air pressure. He cursed in the dashboard glow, over and over as he slammed on the brakes. The tires skidded slightly on the pavement, but then the antilock kicked in and the car rolled just a bit before it stopped.
    “Oh, my God,” he whispered, trying desperately to get his heart to slow, to get his breathing back to normal. He pursed his lips and blew out a breath.
    Missed her,
he thought.
I missed her.
    The night air rushed in, caressing his face, and that helped him catch his breath. His heart still thundered in his chest, but it was slowing. The radio ground out another rap song and