Rosemary and Rue

I’m sure it’s written somewhere, possibly in Fate’s day planner: “October Daye is never to be given enough time to actually think about what she’s going to do next.” I was exactly halfway over the bridge, surrounded by water, when a deep, rumbling chuckle rolled out of the backseat, and a figure loomed up in the rearview mirror.

There was someone else in the car.





FOURTEEN



MY FINGERS CLENCHED ON THE WHEEL as I stiffened, forcing myself to keep looking straight ahead. This was just great. Positively peachy. Finding an intruder in my car when I was on a bridge, driving over more water than I cared to think about? Exactly what my day didn’t need. I searched frantically for options and couldn’t find any. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving.

After a moment I cleared my throat, and said, “You realize that if I go off the bridge here, we’re both going to die.”

I don’t know what kind of reply I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I got: a deep, rolling chuckle, one that was almost closer to a growl. Laughter over the idea of a watery grave is never precisely a sign that you’re dealing with a sane individual.

Swallowing, I tried again. “I’ve got to admit, you’ve got the advantage. I’m pretty sure you know who I am, or else you wouldn’t be here. You mind telling me why you’re in my car?”

The only answer was another chuckle. I fought the urge to turn around for a better look. Even if he was unarmed, which I doubted, you should never give up any degree of control over your car when you’re on the Bay Bridge. It’s a form of Darwinism: if you’re dumb enough to take your eyes off the road while crossing part of one of the largest bodies of water in the world, you’re too dumb to be allowed to live. Then again, if the guy in the backseat killed me, that would also be a form of Darwinism. This situation seemed less escapable by the moment.

“My patience isn’t eternal, you know,” I said, calm fading from my voice. I was scared and I was angry, and there was no sense in trying to hide it. “If you’re going to threaten me, can you hurry and do it before we crash? I just got this rust bucket paid off, and I really don’t feel like looking for another car.”

This time, he didn’t laugh; he just loomed even larger in my rearview mirror, edges blurred by a block-me illusion and his silence telegraphing the fact that one way or another, he didn’t expect me to be shopping for a new car anytime soon.

He was in the car. That was a fact. It was something I couldn’t change, and that meant I needed to stay calm. It’s hard to be rational when you’re mad, and it’s even harder when you’re scared, so I refused to go with either one. Once the bastard was out of the car, I could pull over and have a nice nervous breakdown. Assuming I survived.

The first off-ramp was just ahead. Good. The San Francisco streets aren’t necessarily safer than the Bay Bridge, but it’s harder to fall to your death if you make a wrong turn. Harder, not impossible; if the world actually has an edge, it’s probably hidden down a one-way street somewhere in San Francisco.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, sending a silent “sorry” to my car. I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go shopping for a new one. Sure, it was a 1974 VW Bug with enough miles on it that I thought someone might have driven it to Hawaii, but it was still my car. I chose it because I liked it, and I was honestly sorry we weren’t going to get more time together. At least it was going to die in the line of duty.

The exit loomed, and I hit the gas, accelerating off the bridge and onto Harrison Street. Most of the traffic stayed behind us, heading toward more acceptably tour isty locations. That was dandy. I watched the shadowy man in the mirror as he moved closer to my side of the car, obviously still under the assumption that we were playing by some sensible set of rules. He was wrong.