Free Cold Fire by Dean Koontz

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 stopped chewing his gum for a beat, glanced at the shotgun on the Harley rack, then looked at Jim again. “You kill them?”
    “Yeah. Because they kidnapped this woman and her child.”
    Frank studied 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