She did.
“Can I call your -people for you?” the driver asked once we were inside, his cell phone at the ready. With a large but well--kept beard, pink cheeks, and glittering blue eyes, he’d be a dead ringer for Santa Claus in another ten years or so.
“No, that’s all right,” I said. “If you could drive us down to I--70, that would be great.”
The driver gave me a strange look. “I--70?”
“Yes sir,” I said. I couldn’t think of any believable reason why we’d want to be let out at the interstate, so I didn’t try to give one.
“I’ll take you right up to your door if you tell me where it is,” the driver said.
“That’s not necessary,” I said, and stared through the windshield, feeling the driver’s eyes on me. The silence stretched, and I had to suppress my babbling reflex.
“So what happened to you all?” he asked, putting the truck in gear and accelerating forward.
I exchanged a glance with Petty.
“We were out walking when the storm hit,” I said, “and truthfully, I don’t have any idea what happened after that.”
“I’ll tell you this—-you’re lucky to be alive. Apparently the tornado was on the ground for about a tenth of a mile.”
“Any houses hit?” I said.
“Nope, but a barn was taken out. Haven’t heard of any fatalities.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“I’m a storm chaser, you know,” the driver said.
“Is that right,” I said.
“Whereabouts did you say you two are from?”
“I didn’t say,” I said, then clamped my lips together.
“You doing okay?” the driver said over my head to Petty.
Petty seemed not to have heard anything, just kept glancing out the window at the side mirror.
“She’s kind of traumatized, you can imagine,” I said.
“Sure, sure,” the driver said.
I prayed the bearded man wouldn’t say anything to Petty to make her draw her gun, if she still had it on her.
We got to I--70 and two cars were parked under the overpass.
“Thank God, Jenny, look, they’re already here,” I said, pointing in the direction of the cars.
Petty glanced over her shoulder, probably looking for “Jenny.” Then her mouth dropped open with realization.
“Those your -people?” the driver said skeptically. I knew he’d seen the uncomprehending expression on her face.
“Yup,” I said. “Thanks a bunch for the ride. We really appreciate it.”
He pulled over and put the truck in park. Petty opened the door and hopped out. The driver grabbed my arm. I stared at the hand and then at his face.
“You should go get her checked out,” he said. “I think she’s in shock. She might have a concussion.”
“I will, sir. Thanks again.”
The driver didn’t let go.
I bit my lip. “Thanks again, sir.” I slowly pulled my arm away without looking into the man’s face, got out of the truck and closed the door. The truck stayed put.
I took Petty’s arm and we ran across the road, my ankle feeling loose and sore.
“Don’t look back,” I said.
The truck remained, idling at the side of the road.
I walked up to a silver Nissan and tapped on the driver’s side window. I turned my head and waved at the truck. Still, it didn’t move.
The window rolled down. “Did you see that?” the woman in the driver’s seat asked. She was obviously still shaken by the tornado, her eyes immense. “You musta got hit! Look at you!”
“Any chance we can get a ride?”
“Well, I, uh—-”
I lowered my voice. “Listen. That guy who dropped us off is harassing us. I’d appreciate it if you’d let us get in the car for a minute.”
“Well—-”
“Please. I’ll give you fifty dollars.”
The locks popped. I opened the back door, pushed Petty in and got in myself.
“Is he still there?”
The driver looked. “Yes.”
“Give the lady fifty dollars,” I said to Petty.
She pulled a wet wad of bills from her pocket and counted out two twenties and a ten.
“How about now? He still there?”
Petty handed the money wordlessly over the front seat. The lady took it. “He’s leaving.”
“Is there any chance you can give us a ride on westbound I--70?”
“I’m headed east,” the lady said, but I could tell she was lying. I didn’t blame her. Here were these two mud monsters, one of them a mute, who were trying to get away from Santa Claus Junior by sitting in her car and ruining the upholstery.
“Okay. We’re going to wait another five minutes or so, and then we’ll get out.”
The driver never spoke, but kept shooting worried glances at us in the rearview. We sat in silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Thanks,” I said.
We got out of the car and walked to the westbound on ramp.
DEKKER AND I stood under that overpass by the on ramp and stuck our thumbs out. My ears were filled with a high, metallic--cricket chirping backed by a low buzz. I kept moving my jaw and putting my hands over my ears.
“Your ears ringing too?” Dekker said.
“Yes,” I said. “Were we actually in the tornado?”