Free Cold Fire by Dean Koontz

over. “Three of us can’t ride out of here on that.”
    “No,” he said. “Just me.”
    “Please don’t leave us alone.”
    “Someone’ll stop for you before I go.”
    A car approached. The three occupants gawked at them. The driver put on more speed.
    “None of them stop,” she said miserably.
    “Someone will. I’ll wait until they do.”
    She was silent a moment. Then: “I don’t want to get into a car with strangers.”
    “We’ll see who stops.”
    She shook her head violently.
    He said, “I’ll know if they’re trustworthy.”
    “I don’t...” Her voice broke. She hesitated, regained control. “I don’t trust anyone.”
    “There are good people in the world. In fact, most of them are good. Anyway, when they stop, I’ll know if they’re okay.”
    “How? How in God’s name can you know?”
    “I’ll know.” But he could not explain the how of it any more than he could explain how he had known that she and her daughter needed him out here in this sere and blistered wasteland.
    He straddled the Harley and pressed the starter button. The engine kicked in at once. He revved it a little, then shut it off.
    The woman said, “Who are you?”
    “I can’t tell you that.”
    “But why not?”
    “This one’s too sensational. It’ll make nationwide headlines.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “They’d splash my picture everywhere. I like my privacy.”
    A small utility rack was bolted to the back of the Harley. Jim used his belt to strap the shotgun to it.
    With a tremor of vulnerability in her voice that broke his heart, Lisa said, “We owe you so much.”
    He looked at her, then at Susie. The girl had one slender arm around her mother, clinging tightly. She was not listening to their conversation. Her eyes were out of focus, blank—and her mind seemed far away. Her free hand was at her mouth, and she was chewing on her knuckle; she had actually broken the skin and drawn her own blood.
    He averted his eyes and stared down at the cycle again.
    “You don’t owe me anything,” he said.
    “But you saved—”
    “Not everyone,” he said quickly. “Not everyone I should have.”
    The distant growl of an approaching car drew their attention to the east. They watched a souped-up black Trans Am swim out of the water mirages. With a screech of brakes, it stopped in front of them. Red flames were painted on the fender back of the front wheel, and the rims of both the wheel wells were protected with fancy chrome trim. Fat twin chrome tailpipes glistered like liquid mercury in the fierce desert sun.
    The driver got out. He was about thirty. His thick black hair was combed away from his face, full on the sides, a ducktail in back. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos on both biceps.
    “Somethin’ wrong here?” he asked across the car.
    Jim stared at him for a beat, then said, “These people need a ride to the nearest town.”
    As the man came around the Trans Am, the passenger door opened, and a woman got out. She was a couple of years younger than her companion, dressed in baggy tan shorts, a white halter top, and a white bandana. Unruly dyed-blond hair sprayed out around that piece of headgear, framing a face so heavily made up that it looked like a testing ground for Max Factor. She wore too much clunky costume jewelry, as well: big dangling silver earrings; three strands of glass beads in different shades of red; two bracelets on each wrist, a watch, and four rings. On the upper slope of her left breast was a blue and pink butterfly tattoo.
    “You break down?” she asked.
    Jim said, “The motor home has a flat.”
    “I’m Frank,” the guy said. “This is Verna.” He was chewing gum. “I’ll help you fix the tire.”
    Jim shook his head. “We can’t use the motor home anyway. There’s a dead man in it.”
    “Dead man?”
    “And another one over there,” Jim said, gesturing beyond the Roadking.
    Verna was wide-eyed.
    Frank