Page 84 of The Chain

“There must be some other—” Mike begins.

“There is. The three of us drive down to Providence and explain things to Mr. Hogg in person,” Rachel says.

“The three of us?” Pete inquires.

“The three of us,” Rachel insists. “Can’t trust these clowns.”

She turns to Helen. “You’ll stay and watch the kid. Your husband will come with us. We’ll take your car. It’s a BMW, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Mike says.

“Should be fast enough. Put some goddamn shoes on. Oh, and go find Mr. Boo. We need Mr. Boo,” Rachel says.

“Mr. Boo?” Mike wonders.

“Amelia’s bear. She wants it.”

Helen gets Mr. Boo.

“If you call the cops or warn the Hoggs or do anything stupid while we’re out, Amelia’s dead. They’ll kill her and then they’ll come for you and Toby. Do you understand?” Rachel says.

Helen nods.

They go outside to Mike’s BMW, a large, black top-of-the-line job. The kind they give to big earners at Standard. Plush. Comfortable. Fast.

Mike hands Rachel the keys. She gets in the driver’s seat.

Pete gets in the back with Mike.

She turns the key in the ignition and the car growls to life.

She looks in the rearview. Pete’s still a bit dazed. Mike’s shitting himself. She can handle both of them. She will handle both of them.

“Buckle up,” she says.

40

Sunday, 11:59 p.m.

She merges with the traffic.

The highway hums. The highway sings. The highway luminesces.

It is an adder moving south.

Diesel and gasoline.

Water and light.

Sodium filament and neon.

Interstate 95 at midnight. America’s spinal cord, splicing lifelines and destinies and unrelated narratives.

The highway drifts. The highway dreams. The highway examines itself.

All those threads of fate weaving together on this cold midnight.

Towns and exits gliding south, shutting down other possibilities, other paths. Peabody. Newton. Norwood.

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