It was a dark automatic. The biker pointed it at him through the half-open window, not shouting now. The gun was steady.
Kirwan stood on the brake. The Volvo’s tires screamed, and its rear end slid to the left, the wagon going into a skid. He panicked, fought the wheel, and pumped the brake, trying to remember what he’d learned—turn in the direction of the skid. Don’t lock the brakes. The front end of the wagon swung from right to left and back again, headlights illuminating the guardrail, the trees beyond, the roadway, then the guardrail again. The sample boxes thudded into the back of the rear seat.
He steered onto the shoulder, gravel rattling against the undercarriage. He braked steadily, avoiding the guardrail, and the wagon came to a stop, bucked forward slightly, settled back and was still.
A cloud of dust rose in his headlights. He jammed the console gearshift into park, gripped the wheel, tried to slow his breathing. His knuckles were white.
When the dust cleared, he saw the motorcycle. It had pulled onto the shoulder three car lengths ahead. The rider was looking back at him.
Kirwan felt the sharp stab of fear. He waited for the rider to get off, come back toward him, the gun out. For a moment, crazily, he considered shifting back into drive, hitting the gas, plowing into the bike. Decided that’s what he would do if the rider came at him with the gun. Could he do that? Run a man over, maybe kill him?
But the biker stayed where he was, boots on the gravel, balancing the bike under him. No sign of the gun. Kirwan wondered if he’d imagined it, if his fear and the night had colluded to make him see something that wasn’t there. Or had the gun just gone back into wherever he’d pulled it from? Maybe the biker had brought it out only to scare him, make him overreact and oversteer, wreck the Volvo on his own.
The biker watched him as if waiting to see what he would do. Kirwan didn’t move, kept his hands tight on the wheel. The biker grinned, faced forward again. He steered back onto the roadway, gave the Harley gas. His taillights climbed the rise and vanished.
Breathe, Kirwan told himself, breathe. His neck and shoulders were rigid. He could feel a vessel throb in his left temple. What now? Get off at the next exit, find a town, a police station, report what happened? Even if he did, he had no proof except the chip in the windshield, which could have come from a small rock, a piece of gravel. And the Harley had been moving fast. They’d never catch up with the biker, and what if they did? Down here, like as not, the gun would be legal—if there even was a gun. It would be Kirwan’s word against his. No witnesses.
His cell phone was in the console cup holder. He could call 911, give a description of the biker, have the dispatcher alert the highway patrol. But he’d already forgotten the plate number. A G, maybe an X after that, but that was all he had. And calling it in might mean more questions, a report, hours spent in a station house or trooper barracks. And if they caught the biker, Kirwan would have to face him again, the man who’d pointed a gun at him, nearly run him off the road.
Cars passed. When his breathing was back to normal, he powered the window shut, put on his blinker. He shifted into drive, waited until the road was clear, then steered into the lane, gave the Volvo gas.
He would have to get the alignment checked, the tires as well. The Volvo had lost its grip on the road for a moment, and that had frightened him almost as much as the gun—the sense of powerlessness, of being out of control. He’d find a garage in New Smyrna tomorrow, right after the meeting; he wouldn’t put it off. Get the windshield fixed too, before the chip turned into a crack.
Back up to sixty, keeping it steady there. Any cars that came up behind would pass him, give him space. And with every minute, the biker would be farther ahead, farther away from him. Kirwan breathed in deep, then exhaled. He turned the radio back on, the same country station.
After a while, he realized he had to urinate. He tried to ignore it at first, but the pressure in his bladder grew. He didn’t want to stop, wanted to keep going, make up the time he’d lost. But now there was a twinge of pain, and he knew he couldn’t wait until he found a motel.