CHIP TOSSED THE circuit board out the window. He watched in the side mirror as the green electronic square shattered into a thousand pieces behind the speeding truck.
“We’ll need to find a Radio Shack if you want that tracker working again.”
Billie laughed. It was a loud, abrupt sound, one that reminded Chip of an angry police dog who wanted everyone to know he was only three days from retirement.
“You need to learn how to hold a beer, if you want people to think you’ve got more in your shorts than loose change,” said Billie.
“There’s more to life than drinking! It’s not my fault––you swerved.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to get through this traffic and catch up with my son. But you’re right, I should probably slow to the walking pace of an arthritic chimp.”
Chip shook his head. “Whatever. Are there any electronic stores between here and Reno?”
“No, just mountains, log cabins, and filthy rich bastards barreling down mountains on skis. Unless you can make another tracker out of those, we’ll have to wait. Dean’s taking the Donner Pass, so I know about where he is.”
Chip was quiet for a moment. He watched the white peaks of the Sierra Nevadas approach over the crests of yellow hills.
“This is a grand adventure, isn’t it? The kind that people tell their children about years later, or make into movies.”
“The only adventures I’ve had end up in the newspaper under the police blotter,” said Billie. “Adventures are always more fun when other people are having them. And don’t worry about telling any children. I have a strong feeling you’re the last of your kind.”
Chip sighed and turned back to the speeding hills outside the window.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Cook, but you and Dean are nothing alike.”
“Well, sometimes the apple falls close to the tree, and sometimes it falls off the tree and rolls down the hill into an open septic system. I blame his father.”
“Does he live around here? Maybe he could––”
Billie jerked the wheel and threaded the gap between a pair of eighteen-wheelers.
“His father? That man’s a duck with four legs, a national disaster complete with sandbags and FEMA trailer,” she said. “Asking him for help is the same as using a hurricane to clean your sidewalk.”
She slammed on the gas pedal, causing the truck to buck like a herd of demonic goats pulling Satan’s stagecoach. As they zoomed to the left of a large Postal Service truck, Chip saw a flash of pink.
“There it is! Straight ahead!”
Billie jammed her foot on the accelerator even harder. Air whistled through gaps in the rubber seals around the windows and rattled weak bolts on the fenders. Chip imagined this was what it was like to dive-bomb in a Stuka with Heinrich Himmler as your co-pilot. He grabbed the panic bar above his head.
“Slow down! We’ll catch up anyway!”
“What?” shouted Billie over the roar.
A massive force slammed into the right side of the truck and everything began to spin like an overloaded washing machine full of snuff cans, half-eaten Whoppers, empty boxes of roofing nails, and missing sockets from Craftsman ratchet sets. Chip watched the mixture of trash and dry California grass whirl as the truck rolled a number of times, tilted precariously to Chip’s side, and fell back to the tires with a creak of suspension.
Chip let go of the panic bar and brushed fragments of safety glass from his arms.
“Maybe we should call Dean’s father now.”
Billie shook her head, a bloody scratch across one cheek and a Tootsie Roll wrapper in her blonde hair.
“You’re just a kid,” she said. “If your parents were worth half a spit, they kept you away from the scum of society like drug dealers, whores, and merchant bankers. You probably think like most hippies there’s no such thing as an evil person, just evil actions. No bad people, just bad mistakes.” Billie leaned closer. “You’re about to find out how wrong you are. If you’ve got any brains left in that tiny skull you’ll open the door and start running now.”
“I think it’s stuck,” said Chip.
Billie punched the middle of the steering wheel and the truck let out a pitiful, dying bleat.