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The Cuda

Stacey Cochran

      Robert Chalmers had heard a lot of crazy stories in his thirty years as Cactus, Arizona’s leading used-car salesman, but none quite as crazy as the one he heard on Wednesday March 14^th.

     “She’s not much to look at,” Chalmers said.

     “That’s because you’re looking at it with your eyes,” the old man said.

     Chalmers, who had reported a case of vandalism on his lot just the day before, was in no mood to deal with a crackpot.

     “What else am I supposed to look at it with?” he said.

     “You mean, you don’t know?” the old man said.

     Chalmers looked at him. The old guy was probably in his late seventies. He had blue eyes, and his thinning gray hair was neatly combed from left to right. He wore faded overalls and a white T-shirt.

     Chalmers said, “I’ll give you three hundred dollars for it.”

     The old man walked out in front of the car. The desert sun was climbing up into the sky, and a cool dry breeze rustled the colorful pennants encircling the “Robert’s Used Cars” sign. Steam from Chalmers’ Styrofoam coffee cup spilled over the rim as though from a simmering volcano.

     “Your sign says ‘Push it, Pull it, or Tow it. We buy anything.’ The ‘anything’ is underlined, Mr. Chalmers.”

     “Yes, but we don’t generally specialize in, uh, classic automobiles, Mr. . .?”

     “Courtney,” the old guy said.

     “Mr. Courtney,” Chalmers said.

     “Alexander Courtney.”

     “Unlike a lot of used-car dealers, Mr. Courtney, I am a man of my word. And I will buy just about anything. But there has to be some appreciable profit-margin ratio, and this old thing is liable to sit up here on my lot, baking under the Arizona sun for the next three years. If I can’t sell it, I don’t want to buy it, Mr. Courtney. I’m offering you 300 dollars.”

     “The 1970 Plymouth Hemi Cuda used to be the fastest street-legal automobile in the world,” Alexander Courtney said.

     “The operative word is ‘used’,” Chalmers said. He looked at the rusty, sun-faded clunker. “I reckon the darn thing runs alright, don’t it? Where’d you say you’re from, Mr. Courtney?”

     “That way,” Courtney said, pointing to the mountains on the southern horizon.

     “You do have the paperwork for this thing?” Chalmers said.

     The old man leaned forward and touched the rusty hood as though petting a dog he was giving over to the pound.

     “Mr. Chalmers,” Courtney said, “you have no idea what this car can do.”

     “Well, that’s a big engine,” he said. “I’ll give you that. What is it, a 440? But the body looks like it’s being held together by shoestrings and rust. It’s missing the back left fender. Both headlights are smashed out. The taillights don’t look like they’ve worked in ten years. There is actual duct tape holding the muffler in place. You got”--Chalmers looked incredulously at the trunk--“a blue bungee cord holding the trunk down. The back window is smashed. It looks like somebody took a knife to the upholstery--thirty years ago. Why should I take a chance on this car?”

     Courtney stood up straight. He looked Chalmers up and down, and then those aged blue eyes came to rest directly on Robert Chalmers’ walnut brown eyes. The two men stared at one another.

     And Courtney said, “Because this car can work miracles.”

     Robert thought he had misheard him. He said, “Miracles?”

     “If you put a broken VCR in the trunk at night,” Courtney said, “and you come out the next morning; it’ll be fixed as good as new.”

     Robert Chalmers realized the old man was serious. His mouth dropped open a little, and he tried to picture where he’d last put his .357. In my desk, he thought. Top right drawer.

     “I’ll give you 325,” he said. “You can take it or leave it. But I ain’t gonna have no crazy man up here on my lot. If you want to sell your car, that’s fine. But don’t indulge me with your mental delusions, old man. I’ll have the cops up here so fast it’ll make your head spin. 325. That’s my final offer.”

     Alexander Courtney looked into his eyes. He made a thoughtful frown and nodded lightly.

     “Alright, Mr. Chalmers,” he said. “325. You’ll see soon enough.”

• •

     Three weeks later, Robert Chalmers put the broken “For Sale $3,999” sign in the trunk of the Hemi Cuda. The Cuda stood in a back corner of his used-car lot next to an aluminum fence. The big plastic sign was designed to fit over the front window of a car, but it had broken in two between the “e” and “l” in “sale,” and a large corner on the bottom right-hand side was chipped off and nowhere to be found.

     One of his mechanics had just leaned the two pieces next to the aluminum fence--maybe they thought it would be a waste to throw the whole damn thing away--and it had stayed there for three months. But in a business where presentation was everything, Robert Chalmers knew that no broken sign would ever go on a car that he was selling.

     Vandals had apparently bashed in the front window of the Cuda at some point during the past three weeks. It was always a problem in car sales: what to do with the cars when you closed up shop at night and went home. And kids out in the middle of nowhere Arizona seemed to have a proclivity for vandalism.

     Chalmers complained to Harvey Denton, Chief of Police in Cactus, but there were only two all-night patrol officers in town, and they couldn’t just hang out at Chalmers’ used-car lot all night.

     It was late afternoon, and the mountains on the southern horizon were red with sunlight. The air was hot and dry, and Robert Chalmers stood there about four feet in front of the smashed-out front right headlight of the Cuda.

     “You’re a sad looking sight,” he said.

     And, as if in response, the trunk suddenly sprang open. Robert frowned and walked around back to pull the blue bungee cord tight. He glanced down inside the trunk and saw the broken sign he’d placed in there just a moment before, and he did a double take.

     The sign was still broken in two, but the bottom right-hand corner that had been chipped off was no longer chipped off. Robert grunted in surprise.

     “What in the world,” he whispered.

     And he leaned forward and touched his finger to the corner where it had been broken. It was seamless. Chalmers stood bolt upright and looked around him, suspicious that someone was playing a prank on him. But there was only the sound of a breeze flapping the pennants out front of his used-car lot.

     He shook his head and rubbed his mouth with the palm of his left hand.

     “I must be losing my mind,” he said with a curious smile, and he closed the trunk and fastened the blue bungee cord securely.

• •

     The next morning, he carried a cup of coffee to the Cuda. He was afraid that someone would ask him what he was doing, and though he was doing nothing more than opening a trunk on a car that he owned, he knew that the motivation to open the trunk was the possibility that a sign was miraculously fixed.

     He stood in front of the Cuda. Sunlight glinted off of a broken piece of glass in the right headlight. He glanced over his left shoulder back toward the showroom. Robert cleared his throat and approached the trunk.

     “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said.

     And he was suddenly afraid to open the trunk. He looked at the blue bungee cord that held the trunk in place. There was a large patch of rust on it like a giant stain. He peered through the rear window at the chewed-up vinyl seats. He started to reach his right hand forward to unfasten the bungee cord, and he saw that his hand was shaking.

     “Jesus,” he muttered. He pulled his hand back.

     He looked up over the Cuda at all the other cars in the lot. He watched a red Ford F-150 pass slowly on the street in front of the dealership. He recognized the driver as Harvey Denton, Chief of Police.

     Harvey waved, and Robert hesitated. Chief Denton’s brow furrowed, and he pulled the Ford up onto the lot. He started to drive it up toward him, and Robert suddenly felt afraid, as though caught in the act of something illegal.

     Harvey stepped out of the truck and said, “Morning, Robert. How you doing?”

     Robert Chalmers stood behind the Hemi Cuda.

     “How am I doing?” he said.

     Chief Denton looked at him strangely. “Is everything alright?” he said.

     He looked at Robert Chalmers and saw sweat beading on his forehead. Chalmers’ face blanched over pale, and there were bright red strawberry patches of blood filling his cheeks.

     “Is this the car?” Denton said.

     “The car?”

     “That you called in as vandalized,” he said. “Sure looks like somebody beat the tar out of it.”

     “Oh, no, no,” Chalmers said. “I bought this car a couple of weeks ago. I bought it like this. This is the way it looked when I bought it.”

     He stepped around from the trunk. He wanted to direct Chief Denton away from the Cuda. Denton realized something was the matter with Robert Chalmers.

     “Your cup of coffee,” Denton said.

     He looked at the cup on top of the trunk. Robert looked up and realized he’d forgotten it, and he started to panic. Denton walked around back of the Hemi Cuda.

     “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Robert said. “I meant to leave that there.”

     Denton looked at him, chuckled, and picked up the cup. He started back toward the front of the Cuda, when suddenly, the trunk opened. It creaked with rust. Harvey Denton turned and saw the open trunk. Both men stood there at the front of the car. Neither could see inside the trunk from that angle.

     “I’ll get that,” Robert said, and he pushed past Chief Denton. He knocked the cup of coffee up against Denton’s shirt.

     “Son of a gun,” Denton said.

     But Robert didn’t stop. He wanted to get the trunk closed.

     “What in the world’s the matter with you, Robert?” Chief Denton said, wiping at the coffee on his shirt.

     Robert Chalmers looked down inside the trunk and saw the sign. It was fixed as good as new.

For Sale $3,999

     He remembered the split was between the “e” and the “l” in sale, but there was no sign of it ever having been split, now.

     Oh, my God, he thought. And though Chief Denton wouldn’t know the broken sign from the new sign, Robert only wanted to close the trunk.

     Denton’s suspicion was up, though, and he came around and looked at Chalmers. Robert’s hand was shaking, and he tried nervously to fasten the bungee cord.

     “Okay, what’s in the trunk, Robert?” he said. “You got a body in there or something?”

     He pushed Robert back. The trunk popped open, and both men stood there looking inside. Denton saw the sign, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He looked up into the recesses but saw nothing.

     He reached down and picked up the sign.

     “Is this what you’re nervous about?” Denton said.

     He handed the coffee to Robert, and he held the sign out in front of him with two hands. Chief Denton looked from the sign to Robert and realized why he was nervous.

     He said, “I wouldn’t put this sign on the car either. Not until you get some repair work done.” He handed it to Chalmers and said, “It’d be highway robbery.”

• •

     That afternoon, he drove the Cuda home.

     He tried a Sony PlayStation next; it was one Angie had bought at a yard sale a week before the car accident. She’d thought it would make a nice gift for a nephew or niece. But when she got it home, she found -- like most electronic equipment bought at yard sales -- the PlayStation didn’t work. When activated, it just brought up a blue screen with a static-filled red line across the middle.

     He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it (or any of her things) since the funeral. He’d buried Angie at Cactus Memorial Cemetery and left everything in the house pretty much as she had left it, even the broken Sony PlayStation.

     And so, with a resolve he had not felt in eighteen months, he carried it out to the driveway, popped the trunk on the Cuda, and tossed the whole thing inside with a clatter.

     The next morning, he woke groggy and bleary eyed.

     He put on a brown terrycloth bathrobe, walked out to the driveway and removed the PlayStation from the trunk. When he connected it, he stood there stunned as the Sony title credits came up. The intro to Road Rage started with its edgy graphics.

     He shook his head in disbelief. He brought up the game paddle, went through the opening commands, and started a brand new game.

     “Welcome, Robert,” the game said.

     And he sort of whooshed back onto his sofa and stared at the screen. The game worked just fine.

     He didn’t move from the sofa until the telephone rang two hours later. He picked up the receiver, recognized his secretary’s voice, and slammed it down onto a glass-top end table adjacent to the sofa.

     He could hear his secretary’s voice still squawking through the receiver, and so he slammed it down even harder. The glass on the table top cracked, and the earpiece to the receiver broke and fell to the floor. He threw the whole thing down onto the ceramic-tile floor, and it split in two. He picked it up and twisted it back and forth until the voice end broke from the earpiece end, and tiny wires spilled out like vesicles.

     He picked up the end table and threw it down onto the floor. The glass shattered and spilled all over. He stomped at its leg, breaking it off, and then he picked up as much of the mess as he could and carried it out to the driveway.

     Across the street three houses down, one of his neighbors stood watering her lawn with a green garden hose. She watched him throw the mess in the Cuda’s trunk.

     Robert went back inside and returned with the rest of the broken end table and threw it into Cuda, too. Next, he went into the kitchen and brought back six dinner plates. One at a time, he threw them down on the driveway. The first plate exploded on the concrete, and Robert threw down the next, and the next, and the next.

     His neighbor’s eyes widened, but she kept on with her garden hose.

     Robert picked up the broken pieces from the plates and threw them into the trunk. Then, he looked up and saw his lawn mower inside the garage. He pushed it out to the Cuda and began pulling and wrenching at its handle. He overturned the mower; gas and fluids trickled out of its side. He turned it upside down and kicked at it until the handle started to bend.

     He turned it over and twisted back and forth, but it was a sturdy John Deere. And so Robert retrieved a sledgehammer from inside the garage, returned to the mower in the driveway, and proceeded to beat the thing.

     “Come on!” he muttered.

     He hefted the sledgehammer up in the air. It whickered down ferociously and slammed into the lawn mower’s engine. Pieces of hard plastic exploded up into the air and out onto the lawn. Robert hefted the sledgehammer up again and brought it down with a thunderous force. Fluids from the mower splattered up over him, and the engine cracked in two. He took a sideswipe at it, now, like a heavy-duty golf swing. Parts from the mower flew out across the lawn.

     His neighbor just stared, water spraying from her hose.

     He hefted the battered mower up into the air and threw it down inside. He staggered out into the yard and retrieved the broken parts and threw them into the trunk, too. He wiped at the motor oil that had splattered on his face, and he eyed the mess he had made. The mower’s handle was bent but still stuck out of the trunk; so he hefted up the sledgehammer and slammed it down, again and again, until he was able to force the trunk shut.

     He latched the blue bungee cord to keep it closed, and then he turned and waved at his neighbor. He pointed at the trunk.

     “You wouldn’t believe what this thing can do!” he said.

     His neighbor took a couple steps backward, nodding her head. She had a frightened smile on her face.

• •

     On the night of April 7^th, Robert stayed late at the used-car showroom. Everyone else had gone home, and the lights were off inside his office. He sat at a desk, his computer screen bright in front of him. Hours had passed since he’d eaten or had something to drink.

     Suddenly, he saw something move outside in the lot. He ducked back behind the window and peered out into the darkness. In the dim light, he saw three teenagers near the junkyard.

     One of the boys jumped up on the hood of a Chrysler LeBaron, opened up his fly, and urinated.

     “Son of a bitch,” Robert said.

     The other boys cackled, and one spat on the hood. The third boy kicked at the LeBaron’s headlight, and Robert heard the tinkle of glass rain down on the pavement. His face turned red with fury, but he was torn between yelling out the window and calling the police. He wanted to walk out there and rub their puny little faces in what they were doing to his Chrysler.

     The first boy leapt down from the hood, and the three walked over to a shiny black Ford Explorer. One of the boys removed something from his leather jacket and threw it at the Explorer’s side. There was a metallic clang! And Robert saw the Chinese throwing star impaled in the side. The two other boys had throwing stars, too, and they each took turns throwing them at the side of the Ford.

     “Why the little shits,” he said. He retrieved his .357 from his desk.

     He held it there in the darkness of his office and looked at it in the light coming from the computer screen. The handgun gleamed, its barrel black, and Robert saw the bullets in the chamber. He almost took the bullets out; he just wanted to scare the boys, not kill them. But he thought better of it. They looked to be about seventeen, and Lord knows, they might be carrying guns of their own. Robert moistened his lips nervously and stormed over to the door.

     “Hey you!” he shouted, bursting out from the showroom.

     The boys looked up, and their giggling stopped. One of the teenagers took off running, and the first one shouted at him.

     “Just what’s the idea,” Robert said. “These are my cars!” He held the gun at his side. Then, he recognized the kid. “Hey, I know you. You’re Ronnie Milton’s kid. Your name’s Dale.”

     Dale Milton had greasy black hair and a cocky gleam in his blue eyes. Everything about him breathed arrogance and swagger.

     “Yeah, and what’s it to you?” Dale said.

     Chalmers looked from Dale to the second boy.

     “Yeah,” the second said. “What’s it to you?”

     “You just did about a thousand dollars worth of damage to two of my cars,” Robert said. “That’s what it is to me.”

     The second boy saw Robert’s handgun. It was dark, and he took two steps back.

     “He’s got a gun, Dale,” the boy said.

     Dale smirked and said, “I’ll bet you fifty bucks this peckerwood doesn’t know how to use it.”

     “Listen,” Chalmers said. “You’re gonna have to pay for the damage you did to my cars. You don’t want any more trouble than you’re already in--”

     Dale said, “It ain’t the two of us who are in trouble.”

     He reached inside his leather jacket and removed a giant butcher’s knife. Its steel blade shined silver in the darkness, and Dale held it up like he was ready to fight.

     Dale began circling Robert. The second boy just goaded him on, pumping his fist, shouting for him to “learn this dude some respect.” Robert stepped out away from the Ford and looked into Dale’s eyes. He realized the boy wasn’t afraid; the kid would kill him on sheer bravado and swagger.

     There was an awkward moment where Robert realized what he had gotten himself into; he didn’t want to have to fight this kid, and he certainly didn’t want to shoot him.

     He shook the handgun at Dale. “Look, this gun is loaded,” he said.

     “I don’t give a damn,” Dale said.

     And the second boy said, “He’s gonna cut you up, man!”

     Dale lunged at him with the knife, and Robert jumped back out of the way. He glanced out at the street, hoping to see a car pass by, but none did.

     Robert held the gun up with a shaky hand, and he took a few steps backward toward the showroom. Dale held the knife up and watched him; he took two steps closer to Robert, and the second boy continued to shout.

     Robert glanced over his right shoulder; he was fixing to run. He saw the Cuda parked at the side of the showroom just a few feet away. He looked back at Dale.

     Dale swiped at him again with the knife, and the blade cut through the air. Robert jumped back just missing it.

     “Listen, man,” Robert said. “I’ll let you go, now. Just get out of here.”

     The second boy laughed, but Dale looked from Robert’s handgun to Robert’s eyes, and he didn’t laugh.

     “I tell you what,” Dale said. “You get on your knees and beg me for forgiveness, and I’ll let you live, Mr. Used-Car Salesman.”

     Robert moistened his lips. It was humiliating, but he couldn’t shoot the boy. It just went against every principle he had, and he knew that if he ran, the two boys would chase him. It would heat them up, and Dale might sink that knife into his back without even thinking about it.

     He looked into Dale’s eyes. He started to raise his hands up in surrender. He said, “Okay, if that’s the way--”

     The Cuda’s engine rumbled to life.

     “What is that?” the second boy said.

     Dale glanced over Robert’s shoulder at the Cuda thirty meters behind him. The headlights came on. Robert saw that no one was behind the Cuda’s wheel. All three stood there and watched the front tires pivot like someone was turning the steering wheel to the left. And all three clearly saw that there was no one in the driver’s seat.

     “What in the world?” Robert gasped.

     “Don’t screw with me, man,” Dale said.

     He held up his knife.

     “He’s got a remote or something,” the second boy said.

     The Cuda rolled forward slowly, turning to face Robert and the two teenagers. Its headlights were bright and blinding, and the two boys shielded their eyes. The car rolled slowly toward them. Dale looked from the headlights to Robert.

     “You guys better go,” Robert said.

     Their faces were brightly lighted, and Robert could see fear in their eyes. Dale held his knife and slashed back and forth at the air as the Cuda continued rolling forward slowly, its powerful engine rumbling. Robert walked in front of it, holding his handgun up.

     The engine revved powerfully and loudly.

     “You guys better run,” Robert said.

     “Screw you, man,” the second boy said.

     He turned and ran, leaving Dale standing there alone. The panic in Dale’s chest rose; he screamed at Robert to “back down” and to “turn that car off, man.” But Robert wasn’t controlling the car.

     And then, all at once, Dale rushed him. He held the knife up and yelled. Robert’s hands came up defensively. The Cuda’s wheels squealed, and the car lurched forward. It struck Robert in the back of the legs.

     The gun went off with a loud bang!

     Dale dropped his knife and staggered backward away from Robert and the Cuda. He looked down at his chest. His hand came up and felt the dampness. He took two more spectacular steps backward, his hand clutching at his chest, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. He fell forward onto his knees, his face brightly lighted in the headlights’ shine.

     Robert’s .357 fell from his hand onto the blacktop. The kid was on his knees, and blood was now all over his chin and shirt.

     “Oh, my God,” Robert said.

     He came toward the kid, knelt down, and looked into his eyes. Dale’s face blanched over pale, and he fell forward into Robert’s arms. Robert caught him, and Dale coughed up one final mouthful of blood onto Robert’s shoulder. Robert grabbed his shoulders and held him, but he realized that Dale was dead.

     Behind him, the Cuda idled smoothly, its engine purring like a well-fed cat.

• •

     Robert dragged Dale’s body toward the back of the Cuda. He could smell exhaust fumes, and his adrenaline was high. He kept looking up toward the street in front of the dealership. The streetlights glowed, and Robert was so nervous he could taste fear at the back of his teeth.

     He ripped the blue bungee cord away, and the trunk creaked open slowly. The kid’s body was still warm, and Robert saw a trail of blood from where he’d just dragged him. He lifted Dale up and got the upper half of his body up over the trunk. He picked up his feet and hefted his legs up over the side.

     One leg stuck out from the trunk.

     Robert glanced nervously out at the street and saw no one. He grabbed Dale’s lifeless hands and pulled him up toward the right side, and Dale’s leg dropped down inside with a clunk. Again, Robert glanced nervously out at the street.

     He retrieved the bungee cord, closed the trunk, and fastened it shut. He stepped around the side of the Cuda and inspected the blood on the blacktop pavement. Robert knew there was a hose in the mechanics’ garage, but he was so scared he was going to get caught that he was tempted to just get in the car and drive. The Cuda rumbled.

     He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. He looked at the dashboard lights, the old AM radio in the center console, the gearshift. And he found himself putting the car in gear, gassing the accelerator lightly. He drove toward the garage.

     Robert hit the door handle, but the door didn’t open. He jiggled it and pushed at the door, but it wouldn’t open.

     He said, “I gotta clean up that blood.”

     And the door popped open.

     Robert stepped out from behind the wheel. He stared at the Cuda a moment, then headed into the garage.

     A moment later, he returned with a hose, and he carried it over to the side of the showroom. He attached it to a spigot and hosed the pavement, spraying the blood toward a sewer grate.

     It took him ten minutes to clean up the mess.

     He retrieved the handgun and the kid’s knife. He pulled the hose over to the LeBaron and sprayed the hood. He inspected the side of the Ford Explorer and saw the holes from the throwing stars. He looked around the lot, out toward the street, and saw no one.

     He carried the gun and knife to the Cuda, popped open the door, and threw them onto the floor behind the driver’s seat.

     He coiled up the hose and replaced it inside the garage. He returned to the Cuda, climbed in behind the wheel, and glanced nervously around the lot. He saw no one, and so he proceeded cautiously out toward the street, a dead body in his trunk.

• •

     He drove forty-five miles out into the desert along State Highway 186, until he reached the foothills of the Chiricahua Mountains.

     The dirt road was dusty and dark, and he started climbing up into the mountains. At every turn, he thought about stopping to unload the body, but he was too nervous, and he was afraid that someone would see him. He climbed higher into the mountains until pine trees rose on either side of the road.

     He peered over the steering wheel and saw the headlights shining up into the woods in front of him. At one sharp turn, he heard the body rolling around in the trunk, and he saw patches of snow on the ground.

     He continued slowly up into the woods, climbing higher and higher. The patches of snow grew more and more frequent, until the road was covered with snow, and the Cuda’s tires floated over packed powder.

     He continued up the mountain until he reached a Forest Service sign that read Onion Saddle Elevation 7,700. The snow was a foot deep on either side of the road.

     He rolled down his window. The air was cold; his breath steamed. He was surrounded by dense pine forest, and everything was deeply silent, except for the sound of the Cuda’s engine. The road continued forward down the east side of the mountains, he knew, but there was a turn to the right up toward Buena Vista Peak. He could tell by the untouched powder that no one had tried to make it up that way in several weeks, and so he turned the Cuda’s wheels slowly and started to creep forward up the snow-covered trail.

     Everything was dark, except for the shine of the headlights on the snow through the woods, and Robert crept along at five miles per hour. The powder grew deeper, and he began to panic that he might get stuck. He drove on another mile until the trail was only fifteen feet wide and was covered in deep fresh powder.

     Finally, he stopped the car. He opened the door and stepped out. He inspected the wheels on the Cuda and saw that they were almost completely buried. In the sky overhead, he saw thick snow clouds. The air was thin, and there was no sound except for the rumbling engine.

     He glanced around the back of the car and saw the red glow of taillights. The exhaust breathed out a steady little cloud, and Robert shivered. It was twenty degrees, cold.

     He looked up into the woods on the driver’s side of the Cuda and formed a plan. He would leave the body here, drag it up the hillside, up into the woods. And no one would happen along this path for at least another month, maybe two or three months.

     Robert started back toward the car and back toward the trunk. He could smell the exhaust fumes, and he stared down at the blue bungee cord latched from bumper to trunk. He did a long slow pivot, searching the forest around him for any sign of movement, but he saw none.

     This is it, he thought. This is where you leave him.

     He nodded his head and started to reach forward to unlatch the bungee cord. It was stuck a moment, and he had to kneel down and inspect it closely. He pried the knot with his fingertips, loosened it, and the bungee cord unclasped from the bumper. He pulled it back and started to open the trunk. It creaked with rust, and all was darkness inside.

     Robert squinted and looked from side to side, but he couldn’t see the body. He leaned forward over the trunk and reached his right hand down inside the trunk.

     Oh, my God, he thought. He’s vanished.

     Robert leaned in closer. He felt the bottom of the trunk with his hand. There was nothing there.

     “What in the world,” he said aloud.

     And he leaned forward with both hands and started inspecting the trunk.

     Suddenly, a hand shot forward out of the recesses deep inside the trunk and grabbed his shirt.

     Robert cried out.

     A second hand shot up out of the darkness and gripped his throat. Robert slapped at the hands, and then he saw the kid’s face, his icy blue eyes and the evil grimace of his teeth.

     Robert beat at the hands, broke free, and then staggered backward. He fell down onto the snow, and he saw the kid climbing up out of the trunk.

     “You sorry son of a bitch,” Dale muttered.

     Robert felt the snow on his hands, and he saw the kid who had been dead two hours earlier stepping down out of the Cuda’s trunk.

     “I’m gonna bash your skull in,” Dale said.

     He stood there in the snow. Robert was on the ground. He scrambled backwards over the snow, but Dale came swiftly to him and brought down a powerful right foot onto the middle of Robert’s back.

     Robert tried to roll over, and Dale stomped at him with his other foot. But he missed and Robert was able to get to his feet. He started towards the back of the Cuda. He slipped and hit the trunk, struggled around the side, and clawed at the driver-side door handle. Something struck him in the back. The door creaked open, but Robert fell to the left of the Cuda, and Dale was on him again.

     Dale straddled him and swung furiously at Robert’s face. Everything faded to white, blurry pain. He was out for a moment.

     He felt Dale climbing up off of him. He shook his head and saw the kid staggering through the snow toward the driver-side door.

     He could taste blood in his mouth, and his nose was broken. His head throbbed, and he tried to lean forward up from the snow. Dale reached inside the car. Robert could see that he was looking for something. He shook his head, dazed, and then the kid swung around from the driver-side door. He had a crazy look in his eyes, and he held the butcher’s knife victoriously in his hand.

     Robert rolled over on his hands and knees and started crawling up into the woods. He could hear the kid behind him, coming towards him through the snow. He struggled to his feet and staggered forward in the knee-high powder.

     “I’m gonna get you!” Dale shouted.

     Robert could hear the knife slicing through the air. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that they’d climbed a couple hundred feet up the hillside. The Cuda was still down there on the snow-covered road, its driver-side door and trunk open, its headlights on. Dale was only ten feet behind him, but the snow was so thick it was hard to move.

     Robert hit a tree. He was out of breath. He spat and started out around the ridge and back down the hill through the snow and through the trees. Dale cut him off and lunged at his leg with the knife.

     Both went down.

     Robert felt something bright hot on his back left thigh, and he fell forward over the snow. Blood poured from his jeans onto the snow, and he saw Dale climbing to his feet. Dale realized he’d gotten the knife into him, and he grinned wildly.

     “Strike!” he roared.

     And he was up, slashing the knife back and forth again. Robert clambered to his feet and stumbled down the hill. He came down onto the trail and saw the Cuda 100 feet up to his left. Dale leapt down onto the road, and Robert felt something hot sink into his left arm. He screamed out, and Dale tumbled forward onto the road.

     Robert saw the knife sticking out of his left arm just below his shoulder.

     He wrenched at it and pulled it from his arm. He cried out in pain and, without thinking, tossed the knife down the hill away from the road.

     Dale shouted, “Strike two!” as he climbed to his feet.

     Robert ran toward the Cuda. He slipped and slid and nearly slammed his head into the door, but he got inside behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but the trunk was up, and he couldn’t see out. He glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Dale approaching the back of the car.

     Robert threw the Cuda into reverse and put the accelerator on the floor. He heard a loud noise and then something thudded underneath the car like he was dragging it over the snow. Robert tried to see through the side-view mirror, but he couldn’t see Dale. He hit the brakes, and the trunk slammed shut.

     Robert’s hands were on the wheel, and he looked around the car panicked. He could only see well in front of him where the headlights shined, but he could see a few feet behind him in the taillights’ red glow. And he could see about twenty feet at either side of the car into the woods on both sides.

     But he didn’t see the kid.

     He put the Cuda in reverse and started back down the trail toward Onion Saddle. There was no way for him to turn around, so he just drove in reverse. It sounded like something was dragging underneath the car. It was right underneath the center console.

     It made a sound like whump, whump, whump! Then, there was a pause, and then it started up again: whump, whump, whump!

     It kept on like that all the way back down the trail to Onion Saddle, where he finally turned the car around. He looked out the window to the left, up the trail from which he’d just come. He didn’t see the kid.

     He looked at the Forest Service sign with Onion Saddle and Elevation 7,700 on it. And he opened the door. He stepped out from the driver’s seat onto the snow. The snow was crunchy with ice and frozen slush, and Robert reached down behind the seat, searching for the handgun. He didn’t see it on the floor, and so he bent over and felt underneath the seat. His fingertips found it, and he dragged it out, gripped it in his hand, and started to stand up straight at the side of the car.

     The snow began falling in earnest.

     He leaned down and saw Dale mangled underneath the bottom of the car. He stared at him. Dale didn’t move, couldn’t possibly move. He was dead.

     The Cuda giveth, Robert thought. And the Cuda taketh away.

     Dale was heavy, but Robert managed to drag his dead body well up into the trees, where he left him.

     By the time he climbed inside the car, there was a light dusting of snow on the windshield. He surveyed the pass and saw that the snow was covering his tracks. In ten minutes, there was no sign of blood on the ground, and ten minutes after that, the Cuda’s tracks were filled. Robert put the car in gear, peered once through the rearview mirror, and started down the mountain.

     The AM radio crackled to life. Robert eyed the lighted dashboard console and heard the song come over the speakers: “Oh the weather outside is frightful. But the fire is so delightful. And since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

• •

     It took him two hours to retrieve the shovel and to drive out to Cactus Memorial Cemetery. He parked the Cuda on a side street adjacent to the graveyard. He knew the gravesite like his own hand and could find it in the dark. He checked his watch and saw that he had three hours to dig before sunrise.

     There was a gate around the cemetery, and Robert threw his shovel over the fence and climbed. He landed with surprising agility and began walking up the hill towards her grave. He missed her; he missed her deeply. He missed Angie with all his heart. And he smiled at the thought of their happy reunion.