More Stories from the Twilight Zone (43 page)

“I hope you like your present,” Toni Harding Hakim purred. “It's a gift from me to you for stealing my husband.” She was really aging well. She looked even better than she had in the posters that had plastered Livia's high-school boyfriend's walls ten years ago.
Has she gotten a face-lift?
Livia wondered as the lethal poison coursed through her veins. Toni touched her French-manicured fingers to preposterously plumped lips gleaming with gloss, then pressed them on Livia's rapidly paling cheek. She strode purposefully toward the door.

What was that outfit she had on? Even as Livia's vision faded, the ensemble looked familiar. A long white Grecian dress with gold embroidery, her only jewelry four wrist and ankle rings of simple elegant gold . . . just like the dress and rings Isis had given her.

Reaching the door, Toni Harding Hakim turned and said,
smiling toothily over her shoulder: “By the way, doll, welcome to Hollywood.”

Livia wanted to howl with rage, but a firestorm of toxicity was coursing through her throat, lungs, heart, and brain. Still, in her dying mind she mustered a last, mute roar of protest. As her mental screech reached a furious, pain-racked crescendo, Isis and her fellow deities watched the climax of the show in ecstatic suspense. The heavens echoed with cackles as Livia's spark of life dimmed, faded, and was gone.

 

 

Livia Mendelssohn: another warrior slain in the carnage of the savage, endless battle. Such is the price that fame exacts in that dark corner of the Twilight Zone called Hollywood.

 

It is often said that “nothing ventured is nothing gained.” Edie Holcomb, divorced and overworked, longs for a weekend away. But her venture takes her far beyond her expectations . . . perhaps, beyond her imagination . . . on a journey to the Twilight Zone.

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Edie started the rental and quickly turned the heater to three before pulling a New Mexico map from the glove box. At least she couldn't get lost. Ha! Her friends would laugh at that. She had been known to screw up going from point A to B in a straight line. But not this time. She shook out the map and traced the route with her index finger: Highway 64 from Taos, west across the Gorge, cross 285 at Tres Piedras, continue on 64, and follow the signs to Durango. Piece of cake. Yeah, right. What the map didn't say was beware of wildlife. Was she taking a chance starting out well after dark? Probably. But as usual she was running late. Just another stressor. One she'd promised her shrink to work on.

Still, a chance to get in a day's skiing, eat a few good meals, poke around antique shops . . .
and
some alone time—hadn't she packed a couple paperbacks? It sounded blissful. Besides, when would she get this chance again? Monday morning and it would be back to the grind—all work and no play. No wonder thirty-five was beginning to feel like eighty. So, the weekend was hers to do whatever she liked. She just needed to make the most of it.
She smiled—she was beginning to feel good already. She folded the map, switched on the high beams, and accelerated.

She owed this trip to her shrink—she would have never gotten away if Caryn hadn't insisted. The ol' doctor-knows-best ploy. But it worked and Edie promised to review the list of stressors that they'd worked on together: thou shall not be late, thou shall not spend recklessly, thou shall not overeat—well, maybe that one could wait. She was counting on enjoying the Snickers bar she'd stashed in the console. She'd cut out of the meeting before dinner, so the Snickers should be guilt-free.

She sighed. What wasn't guilt-free was the way she'd snapped at Caryn on the phone. She'd only called Edie to say thanks . . . again. She credited Edie with saving her thousands in construction costs on her dream house. All because Edie had looked at a photo of the lot and saw mounds in the shape of graves. Caryn had had the ground consecrated, the freak accidents had stopped, and building was progressing without a hitch. Blind luck. Happenstance. Anyone could have guessed there were graves. But Caryn insisted that no one could see them, only Edie.

What hocus-pocus BS. Contrary to what Caryn thought, she didn't have special powers. No gifts from the beyond or visions like her Great Aunt Edith, the one she was named after. Everyone knew her visions came out of a bottle.

The ring-tone suddenly sounded shrill and insistent . . . well, enough of that. What a great way to start the weekend—she'd turn off her BlackBerry. No texting, no pesky e-mails, the world could wait. She dug one-handed in her purse while keeping an eye on the road, only to have the BlackBerry squirt from her grasp and clatter to the floorboards. Damn. She was always dropping the thing—one more time and it probably wouldn't work. But she didn't want to answer it anyway. She'd hunt for it later; it wasn't going anywhere.

She was making pretty good time, but it was interesting how
perfectly black a moonless night could be—on a two-lane road without neon signage and homes tucked behind rolling hills. No sightseeing at this hour. But she was warm and had found one static-free radio station. Life could be worse. Or maybe not.

Coming to a stop at the intersection of 285 and 64, she watched a highway patrolman drag an electric signboard to the center of the two lanes in front of her. “Weather warning: Closed to through traffic until further notice.”

Ridiculous. She pressed the down button on the window and took a peek at the sky—not a cloud in sight. She crossed the intersection and pulled behind the patrol car, then braving the cold, hopped out. A blast of wind plastered her dress to her body. She turned her back into the gale, and felt the material cup her backside like a second skin. She sensed rather than saw eyes take in the spectacle and for the first time that day was pleased she was wearing the knit. Cold be damned.

“Hey, you're gonna freeze. No use talking out here when my heater's running.” He motioned toward the patrol car, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door. He was right, the car was toasty. She sank into the seat and didn't try to pull her dress below her knees. He was cute—not just a little cute, bona fide darling. And definitely her age.

He slid his seat back so that he could comfortably turn toward her. She tried not to stare at his ring finger as he slipped off his gloves. But no ring—not even an indentation.

“Kenny Walsh.” He held out his hand.

“Edie Holcomb.” His hand was warm and engulfed hers. She was reluctant to break the connection.

“Now, how can I help?”

“I need to get to Durango. I'm surprised by the weather sign.” Hadn't the TV weatherman given the storm off of California a 70 percent chance of going bust? This was the week before Thanksgiving and snow could be expected, but the year had been dry. Ski
resorts were panicking. Even man-made snow wasn't doing the trick.

“Don't expect much precip before midnight but that's a nine-thousand-foot pass. If there's moisture in the area, it'll be snow before you know it. And trust me, you don't want to get caught in a storm out there. Zero visibility, roads slicker ‘n snot . . .”

“But won't I be in Durango before there's any danger of that?”

“Well, yeah, guess you're right. I'd say you don't have to worry for a while—should have plenty of time. You're lucky, you know. I've been working this stretch of highway for ten years and this year's the latest we've ever closed. Things are usually shut down by mid-October. This is one mean mountain for weather.” He smiled, softening the weathered skin around his eyes. He could be a bit older than she'd first thought, late thirties, maybe. But hazel eyes, blondish-brown lashes, curly thick hair that he self-consciously finger-combed off his forehead . . . she found her breath coming just a bit quicker.

“Guess I am lucky. I can't imagine backtracking to Espanola and then up 84. If I read the map right, that's the only alternative.”

“Not a lot of roads out here. But you should be okay if you get going.” He turned on the car's headlights, then flipped them to bright to take in the roadblock. “Stay to the left; you'll get around the sign just fine.” She hated getting back out in the cold but took a deep breath and hurried to her car. A quick wave and she was off, around the sign, and headed west.

 

The snow totally ignored its schedule. In a scant hour, big, fluffy flakes slipped down the windshield and puddled under the wipers. Double damn. She slowed to sixty, then fifty, and finally forty-five. Kenny hadn't been kidding, the road was treacherous. She lost traction on every curve. She knew she was climbing but her headlights were useless—like throwing the light from tiny, twin
flashlights into a wall of cotton. She switched to low beams. No better. Absolutely no visibility. Her speed was now fifteen miles per hour and decreasing.

The elk came from the left up and over the edge of the drop. She probably would have been blindsided in broad daylight, never expecting an animal from that direction. But would she ever be able to forget that eight-point rack, the majestically crowned head that turned for one brief second to look directly at her? Because then she did everything wrong—hit the brakes, held them, didn't turn into the spin. She didn't see, only felt, the car violently fishtail, leaving the highway to spin a hundred and eighty degrees, bumping rear-end first up, then down a slight embankment, coming to rest with both front wheels off the ground, headlights aimed toward the treetops.

She tried to quiet her breathing by relaxing, leaning forward to rest her head against the steering wheel and taking inventory. Nothing broken, nothing bleeding, nothing really hurting . . . she ventured a couple deep breaths. No searing pain. Ribs intact. She seemed to be all right. Now if she could just stop shaking.

She turned the lights off and then the ignition. Quickly the windshield clouded with snow, and she realized just how dark and how quiet the world could be when wrapped in a cocoon. And how cold. Warmer clothes were in her luggage—in the trunk. Think. She'd been a Girl Scout. Surely she'd learned survival skills. But badges in folk dancing, culinary arts, and animal husbandry weren't going to help her now. Wait. The BlackBerry. Surely, there was a wrecker service out this way—even if it had to come from Taos. She stretched sideways across the passenger's seat and felt along the floor. There. She snatched it up and dialed 411, only to watch the smartphone futilely search for a network. She dropped it back in her purse. Useless. Now what?

She was pretty certain the high-centered car wasn't going anywhere. It would take a truck and a winch to get it back on the
road. Nothing less. So, what did that leave? Walking out? Stay on the road, continue west—but then what? No one would be coming along; the road was closed—she assumed from both directions. She was still three hours—driving sixty-five—from civilization. Unless someone lived out this far. But that was doubtful if the only road was closed much of the year. Weighing the options, instinct told her to stay put. Run the heater intermittently with a window cracked but first get all her clothes out of the trunk. Wrapping up in layers, extra socks, ski pants, mask and hood should keep her from frostbite. And she'd reassess in the morning. She popped the lever that opened the trunk.