Slipping on her headphones, she turned up the Walkman’s volume a notch and stepped outside, squinting at the bright sunlight. A glance forward showed her dad working quietly, his head hidden by the open engine compartment.
Might as well circumnavigate the world, she told herself glumly. Pivoting neatly, she danced toward the back of the motor home. Maybe one or two of the ugly rodent-things that had attacked them had been caught up in the back axles and bumper. It would be interesting to see one of them close up, to see if they’d really been carrying little axes and knives or if it had been all an invention of their overactive imaginations. Maybe they’d just been regular rats all along. It had been dark and hard to see during the attack, and everything had happened so fast.
There were damp stains all over the motor home’s undercarriage, and a few really gross chunks of unidentifiable flesh, but nothing resembling a complete corpse, rodentlike or otherwise. So intent was she on the chassis she didn’t see the tall figure that came up quietly behind her until she happened to notice the moving shadow on the ground nearby. With a start she whirled, only to relax as the figure smiled down at her.
He was a hunk. More than that, he was almost beautiful, with delicate features like Michael Jackson’s. His hair was blond and straight. Altogether a striking combination. If she’d studied harder in English she could have labeled him saturnine.
“Sorry,” the young highway patrolman said apologetically. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He peered past her as she straightened self-consciously. “You folks having a problem? Too bad. You almost made it to town. Travelers usually don’t break down this side of town anyway. Most everybody who makes it this far usually makes it all the way without any trouble, but I guess you can break down anywhere, isn’t that right?”
She nodded, furious at her muteness but terrified of saying the wrong thing. He was a lot older than she was and she didn’t want to start out with him thinking of her as some dumb kid.
He was clearly puzzled. “Fact is, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone break down right hereabouts.”
“An old man sold us some bad gas,” she explained, not knowing what else to say. At least it wasn’t dumb. “My dad’s trying to fix the fuel thingy right now.” Twenty-three, she thought. She stood as straight as possible, wishing she was wearing something more flattering to her figure than a T-shirt and jeans, though the jeans were tight enough.
Looking past him she finally noticed the patrol car parked on the shoulder. She hadn’t heard or seen it drive up, but then she’d been poking around beneath the motor home in search of rat bodies. She turned down the Walkman and the rhythm in her head eased. Now she could hear him without straining.
“Jack’s already up there.” He nodded toward the front of the motor home. “Helping your dad, I guess. He’ll fix whatever it is. Jack’s swift with mechanical things. Me, I’m still learning the route. Oh. My name’s Joe.”
“At least it isn’t Jill.” She put her hand to her mouth, giggling. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you.”
“Hey, that’s hot. Important thing is you’ve got a sense of humor. Most of the folks we meet out here are pretty uptight about the heat and their destination.” His smile was just this side of overpowering. “You’re a refreshing change.”
“Thank you.” She knew she was blushing but hoped he’d put it down to the effects of the sun. “I never saw a highway patrol car like that before.”
He looked back at the parked cruiser. “Like it? It’s the latest model.”
“Pretty sharp. What is it? A Camaro or Firebird?”
“Naw. Want to see? You’re going into town anyway.”
She frowned slightly. “I don’t think so. I think my dad’s going to want to go straight through to Las Vegas once he gets the engine fixed.”
The patrolman laughed uproariously, as though she’d just made the perfect joke. “That’s beautiful! You’re too much. Just meeting you has made my day.”
Instantly she forgot her initial and obviously unwarranted suspicions. “I’m glad I was able to make somebody’s day. Ours hasn’t been exactly perfect.”
“How could it be, headed the way you’re headed, on the road you’re on?” He put a gentle arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let me show you the car. We’ve got a communications system you won’t believe.”
Wendy allowed herself to be nudged along. “My mom said I should stay near the motor home.”
He stopped, took his arm away. “Hey, you’re not afraid of me or anything, are you?”
“Of course not. Why should I be?”
He nodded. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t be. I’m looking forward to meeting your folks. You’re really a special family.”
“We aren’t all that special.”
She had to admit the patrol car intrigued her. It was low and sleek and looked like it was doing a hundred standing still. It wore a full complement of roof lights, the yellow ones rotating brightly as they approached. The emblems on the doors were kind of funny, but if it was a local sheriff’s car, it wouldn’t wear the familiar California Highway Patrol symbol.
The paint job made up for the odd insignia. Yellow on crimson, she decided, was much cooler than white on black.
“Fuel filter.”
The resonant voice brought Frank’s head around fast. He breathed easily when he caught sight of the uniform, badge, and the smiling, clean-shaven face of someone his own age looking concernedly back into his own.
“Didn’t hear you drive up.”
The sergeant jerked a thumb backward. “Parked behind you. Don’t like backing up when I don’t have to.”
“Neither do I. Especially in this sucker.” Frank indicated the motor home.
The other man chuckled appreciatively, nodded at the filter Frank had removed. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
“It’s all right. I can handle it.”
“Please? As a favor. Playing with combustion’s a hobby of mine. Don’t get much of a chance to get my hands dirty, working patrol.”
Frank shrugged, stepped aside. “Suit yourself.” He handed the sergeant the plastic cylinder. “Get many breakdowns hereabouts?” he inquired conversationally.
“Not a lot.” Sunlight flashed from his mirrored sunglasses.
His smile was bright as the sunshine, which surprised Frank. You’d think a cop forced to work this featureless, miserable stretch of interstate would be in a bad mood most of the time, especially with summer coming on fast. But this one appeared downright ebullient.
“What trouble we do have is with folks who try turning around once they get this far. They pull out into the median and get themselves stuck. Then we have to call a tow to pull ’em out. You should hear the wails and screams when they get the bill.”
“You mean they get this far and then they try going back to Barstow?”
