Free Cold Fire by Dean Koontz Page A

him a moment, then glanced at Lisa. “That true?” he asked her.
    She nodded.
    “Jesus jumpin’ catfish,” Verna said.
    Jim glanced at Susie. She was in another world, and she would need some professional help to reenter this one. He was certain she couldn’t hear a thing they said.
    Curiously, he felt as detached as the child looked. He was still sinking into that internal darkness, and before long it would swallow him completely. He told Frank: “These guys I killed—they wasted the husband ... the father. His body’s in a station wagon a couple of miles west of here.”
    “Oh, shit,” Frank said, “that’s a rough one.”
    Verna drew against Frank’s side and shuddered.
    “I want you to take them to the nearest town, fast as you can. Get medical attention for them. Then contact the state police, get them out here.”
    “Sure,” Frank said.
    But Lisa said, “Wait... no ... I can’t...” Jim went to her, and she whispered to him: “They look like ... I can’t.... I’m just afraid... ”
    Jim put a hand on her shoulder, stared directly into her eyes. “Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Frank and Verna are okay. You trust me?”
    “Yes. Now. Of course.”
    “Then believe me. You can trust them.”
    “But how can you know?” she asked, her voice breaking.
    “I know, ”he said firmly.
    She continued to meet his eyes for a few seconds, then nodded and said, “All right.”
    The rest was easy. As docile as if she had been drugged, Susie allowed herself to be lifted into the back seat. Her mother joined her there, cuddled her. When Frank was behind the wheel again and Verna at his side, Jim gratefully accepted a can of root beer from their ice chest. Then he closed Verna’s door, leaned down to the open window, and thanked her and Frank.
    “You’re not waitin’ here for the cops, are you?” Frank asked.
    “No.”
    “You’re not in trouble, you know. You’re the hero here.”
    “I know. But I’m not waiting.”
    Frank nodded. “You got your reasons, I guess. You want us to say you was a bald guy with dark eyes, hitched a ride with a trucker going east?”
    “No, Don’t lie. Don’t lie for me.” “Whatever you want,” Frank said.
    Verna said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of them.”
    “I know you will,” Jim said.
    He drank the root beer and watched the Trans Am until it had driven out of sight.
    He climbed on the Harley, thumbed the starter button, used the long heavy shift to slide the gearwheel into place, rolled in a little throttle, released the clutch, and rode across the highway. He went off the shoulder, down the slight incline, onto the floor of the desert, and headed directly south into the immense and inhospitable Mojave.
    For a while he rode at over seventy miles an hour, though he had no protection from the wind because the SP had no fairing. He was badly buffeted, and his eyes filled repeatedly with tears that he tried to blame entirely on the raw, hot air that assaulted him.
    Strangely, he did not mind the heat. In fact he didn’t even feel it. He was sweating, yet he felt cool.
    He lost track of time. Perhaps an hour had passed when he realized that he had left the plains and was moving across barren hills the color of rust. He reduced his speed. His route was now filled with twists and turns between rocky outcroppings, but the SP was the machine for it. It had two inches more suspension travel fore and aft than did the regular FXRS, with compatible spring and shock rates, plus twin disc brakes on the front—which meant he could corner like a stunt rider when the terrain threw surprises at him.
    After a while he was no longer cool. He was cold.
    The sun seemed to be fading, though he knew it was still early afternoon. Darkness was closing on him from within.
    Eventually he stopped in the shadow of a rock monolith about a quarter of a mile long and three hundred feet high. Weathered into eerie shapes by ages of wind and sun and by the rare but