They stood up when they saw the flashing lights, and for one terrible second Jimmy thought the little boy was going to step in front of his cruiser. God bless the little girl, who grabbed him by the arm and reeled him in.
Jimmy decelerated hard enough to activate the ABS system. His citation book, logbook, and iPad went cascading off the seat onto the floor. The Vic’s front end drifted a little, but he brought it back and parked blocking the ramp, where several other cars were already parked. What was going on here?
The sun came out then, and a word completely unrelated to the current situation flashed through Trooper Jimmy Golding’s mind: AFFIXES. I can make AFFIXES, and go out clean.
The little girl was running toward the driver’s side of the cruiser, dragging her weeping, stumbling kid brother with her. Her face, white and terrified, looked years older than it should have, and there was a big wet patch on the little boy’s shorts.
Jimmy got out, being careful not to hit them with his door. He dropped on one knee to get on their level and they rushed into his arms, almost knocking him over. “Whoa, whoa, take it easy, you’re all ri—”
“The bad car ate Mommy and Daddy,” the little boy said, and pointed. “The bad car right there. It ate them all up like the big bad woof ate Riddle Red Riding Hoop. You have to get them back!”
It was impossible to tell which vehicle the chubby finger was pointing at. Jimmy saw four: a station wagon that looked like it had been rode hard along nine miles of woods road, a spandy-clean Prius, a Dodge Ram hauling a horse-trailer, and a Ford Expedition.
“Little girl, what’s your name? I’m Trooper Jimmy.”
“Rachel Lussier,” she said. “This is Blakie. He’s my little brother. We live at Nineteen Fresh Winds Way, Falmouth, Maine, 04105. Don’t go near it, Trooper Jimmy. It looks like a car, but it’s not. It eats people.”
“Which car are we talking about, Rachel?”
“That one in front, next to my daddy’s. The muddy one.”
“The muddy car ate Daddy and Mommy!” the little boy — Blakie — proclaimed. “You get them back, you’re a policeman, you got a gun!”
Still on one knee, Jimmy held the children in his arms and eyeballed the muddy station wagon. The sun went back in; their shadows disappeared. On the turnpike, traffic swished past, but slower now, mindful of those flashing blue lights.
No one in the Expedition, the Prius, or the truck. He was guessing there was no one in the horse-trailer, either, unless they were hunkered down, and in that case the horse would probably seem a lot more nervous than it did. The only vehicle he couldn’t see into was the one these kids claimed had eaten their parents. Jimmy didn’t like the way the mud was smeared on all its windows. It looked like deliberate mud, somehow. He didn’t like the cracked cell phone lying by the driver’s door, either. Or the ring beside it. The ring was downright creepy.
Like the rest of this isn’t.
The driver’s door suddenly creaked partway open, upping the Creepy Quotient a bit more. Jimmy tensed and put his hand the butt of his Glock, but no one came out. The door just hung there, six inches ajar.
“That’s how it tries to get you to come in,” the little girl said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “It’s a monster car.”
Jimmy Golding hadn’t believed in monster cars since he saw that movie Christine as a kid, but he believed that sometimes monsters could lurk in cars. And someone was in this one. How else had the door opened? It could be one of the kids’ parents, hurt and unable to cry out. It could also be a man lying down on the seat, so he wouldn’t make a shape visible through the mud-smeared rear window. Maybe a man with a gun.
“Who’s in the station wagon?” Jimmy called. “I’m a state trooper, and I need you to announce yourself.”
No one announced himself.
“Come out. Hands first, and I want to see them empty.”