Free Ding Dong Dead by Deb Baker Page B

and the new owner would then find a suitable body. She wonders about the body this one might have had. Metal, wooden, kid leather, cloth? She works her way through the rest of the container’s contents without finding an unattached body.
    The paint she needs to restore the doll face is at home in her repair workshop. She’ll take the head with her when she leaves, find time when it becomes available. There is no rush. One doll head won’t be missed. The collection is enormous, and this isn’t even one of the most rare or valuable types of metal heads.
    Caroline rewraps it in the original packing paper, puts it into a white plastic bag, and places it in a shopping bag with several other dolls needing work. Then she locks the museum’s door and drives toward home, thinking of the customer she’s about to meet.
    The call came from a man who has never used her service before, but is excessively demanding, wanting a rapid repair in spite of his tenuous position as a first-time client. She should have refused, but he pressed hard and the financial reward offered for quick service was too high to turn down.
    She weaves through the gridlock traffic. It’s always rush hour in Phoenix, too many people, too few lanes, the new highway systems becoming jammed as soon as they are built. Camelback Mountain is in sight and beckons to her as always, a calming natural force in the mass of humanity.
    The traffic frees, and she quickens her pace.
    A white van pulls up alongside her at a red light, blocking her view on the right side. Again. She notices it because it seems to pace her; whether she speeds up or slows down, the van is right there at her side. It’s beat-up, junky, most of the side panel damaged, dented and rusty. The vehicle’s windows are heavily tinted, privacy windows.
    She has room ahead to speed up and rid herself of the van. She does, but the van does the same.
    Jerk! She hates driving in the city, the rudeness and unpredictability. The games of chicken. Look at me, I’m king of the road. Everybody driving massive SUVs, one-upping each other in size and power.
    The white van is almost in her lane, veering over the line, forcing her closer to the center where cars rush at her from the opposite direction. A horn blares. An oncoming car swerves. She weaves, then returns to her lane.
    What a close call!
    “Take it easy. Get in your own lane!” she shouts out loud even though the van driver can’t possibly hear her. Her heart is thumping.
    The van still paces her. Either the van driver is drunk or distracted by a phone call or something equally inattentive and dangerous. She glances over to see the side of the van within inches of striking her car. Now it is her turn to lay on the horn, a shrill plea to the other driver to pay attention, the flat of her hand hitting the horn hard.
    Instead of moving off, the van lurches at her, sharply, a wrenching at her as though they are playing roller derby and are adversaries. A solid hit.
    She feels the impact and grips the wheel with both hands, struggling to control the car, intuitively knowing that her efforts are wasted. She uses every muscle in her body, focuses with all the power in her being, but still the car swerves beneath her, heading the wrong way.
    Then another impact that should have been head-on, but her car has a life of its own and is turned sideways when the collision occurs. She sees the woman’s face up close, too close, horrified, mouth open in alarm as she plows into the passenger side of Caroline’s car.
    Oncoming cars are running into the other woman’s car from behind, sending them both spinning. Glass breaks. The sound is loud, louder than she could ever have imagined. Her neck is wrenched. She feels a sharp pain, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters at the moment, because time is suspended. It has ceased to exist.
    Caroline closes her eyes. There’s nothing more she can do to save herself. She feels her world turn upside down.

14
    Gretchen