|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trev slowed the car and looked back. Lisa was shaking her mother by the shoulders so roughly that the woman's head was flopping. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
'That isn't doing any good,' Trev said. He faced the front again. 'Just try holding her or something.' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
'It's probably a panic attack.' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The woman went on sucking air with high, whiny gasps. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Should've left them in the station, Trev thought. If he'd known the gal was going to lose it . . . |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Hell, she has every right. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trev himself felt as if he were hanging over a cliff by his fingertips and the slightest push might send him plunging down into a chasm of panic. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He kept seeing the four black figures coming toward his car. He kept seeing the severed head salm against the windshield. And the body speared by the axe handle, still bouncing and swaying in front of the hood, kept it all from receding into the past. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He wanted to lose the damn thing. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
But the guy was stuck fast. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He'd considered jumping out into the rain and just |
|
|
|
|
|