Overdrive (5 page)

Mat shifts in the front seat. “Where we headin', Rog?”

No response.

The gravel road bends and curves. In the limited range of the headlights, I can tell the side ditches are nothing more than desert sand and sagebrush, silvery under the glow of moonlight. Behind us, the pulsing Vegas Strip fades to a dull throb.

The rhythm of my heartbeat clashes with Roger's music. It's classical. Ominous. I almost expect some dude in a hockey mask to jump in front of the car and go all
chee-chee-ha-ha
on us. Which is kind of ridiculous.

“Let's play twenty questions,” Chelsea says. She presses her face up against the glass. “I'll go first. Are we—”

Roger puts a finger to his lips, then turns up the music. The orchestra hits a crescendo. He waves his right hand through the air like a conductor, vibrating it on the last note for ten startling seconds. Clearly the guy's a sociopath.

Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I quickly look away. Focus on the passing desert landscape. I count the sagebrush. Five, six, se—

Roger's headlights skim over white bone. A skull. I can see the empty eye socket, the sharp teeth.

My tongue grows paralyzed.

“Coyote,” Nick says. “There's a few of them around.”

Sweat rolls between my shoulder blades. I stretch across Chelsea to crack open the window and a cloud of hot dust blows up in my face. My chest constricts. I can't get enough air.

Ahead, a giant building emerges from behind a rolling hill like some kind of sand creature. I lean forward for a closer look.

Wind and heat have stripped the paint, giving the exterior an eerie sandblasted appearance. Wooden planks crisscross each window and a chain-link fence at least ten feet tall surrounds the perimeter, barbed spikes glinting like razor blades.

Cautionary signs pepper the entrance:
KEEP OUT! PRIVATE PROPERTY! VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!

My skin prickles. “What is this place?”

“Stay here,” Roger says. He gets out of the car to unlock the first gate. Behind it, another, even more complex lock protects the ramshackle building in the background.

“Holy crap, this place is tighter than Fort Knox.” Chelsea tucks her feet under her butt and peers over the driver's-side seat. “Looks like an UltraSafe electric strike from here.”

“Doesn't make sense. Should be a keyless entry,” Mat says. “Unless there's some kind of wind interference that would mess with the connection.”

My eyebrows raise. “Electric strike? Wind interference? Is that code for
we're fucked  
?”

For some reason, this makes Nick laugh. “Nah, they're just showing off.”

Roger climbs back into the car, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. He drives through the first gate and stops at a keypad just inside the perimeter. Four obscured digits later and we're through.

My insides twist like a Rubik's Cube.

What is this place? Maybe I've seen too many B-grade horror flicks, but my imagination has started working up a few bloodcurdling explanations.

Torture chamber.

Prison for delinquent teens.

Morgue.

Fuck, I hope not. A few years back, Emma and I found half an animal carcass in the field behind one of our foster homes. Bloated. Covered in maggots. The smell of rotting flesh stuck with me for weeks, clinging to my skin like burned motor oil.

I tamp back a shudder.

Roger parks the car, tucks the cigar behind his ear, and peers in the rearview mirror, his glasses resting slightly askew on the edge of his nose. A roar fills my ears as every muscle tenses.

“Well then, shall we go inside?” he says, like we're not body rocking into a scene from
Hostel
. At our collective hesitation, he grins, and I'm sure my pulse has never spiked so fast. “I assure you, you're all safe.”

That's exactly what I would expect a serial killer to say.

Irritation leaks into Nick's voice. “What kind of game are you playing here, Roger?”

Roger's response is the sound of the car door closing as he gets out. At the front of the building, he pauses, turns around. Moonlight shimmers on his face and I actually recoil—I could swear his eyes burn red. The image stays with me even as he slides inside the building.

“This is fucked up,” I say.

Nick arches an eyebrow. “It's your fault we're here.”

He's not wrong. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but even with the heebie-jeebie vibes Roger was giving off, I never expected him to pack us into his Lincoln for a creepy-ass drive deep into the Mojave Desert.

I pull my cell out from the front pocket of my hoodie and check the screen. My heart sinks—no reception.

Nick laughs without humor. “Now you want to call the cops? A little late for that, princess.”

“Ease off, Nick,” Mat says. He twists in his seat. “Seriously. What can one old gringo do against the four of us? Aren't you curious what's in there?”

“A dead cat,” I say.

Nick groans. “Mature.”

I curl my fingers with thoughts of strangling him, but follow him out of the car and to the front of the building. My knees knock together like a busted driveshaft.

Chelsea slings her designer purse over her shoulder and points a finger at me. “If I die, it's on you.”

Nick rolls his eyes and grunts out something indecipherable and probably insulting.

I hate how he gets under my skin. Screw giving him the benefit of the doubt. Now I'm just pissed. “Maybe you already know what's inside.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake. Grow up.” Nick shoves past me, stalks to the door, and yanks on the handle. “What? Scared to see the dead bodies?”

“Not funny,” Chelsea snaps.

Mat grins. “Haven't you seen
Saw
?”

“At least I'll leave a pretty corpse,” Nick jokes.

The blood drains from my face. “I hate you all.”

On the other side of the door, a dim lightbulb casts flickering shadows throughout the room. I take quick inventory—coatrack, small table, three chairs.

Roger.

I flinch. “Jesus. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I'm afraid the lighting isn't the best,” he says. “Follow me.”

He enters numbers onto a keypad fixed to the wall—too fast for me to memorize the sequence—and an invisible door hisses open. I peer over Chelsea's shoulder into the faint light.

“We can turn around,” I whisper.

She reaches back and squeezes my hand as the door behind us slams closed. “Actually, I'm not sure that's an option anymore.”

Shattered fluorescent lighting tubes litter the hallways. An earthy scent masks the faint smell of bleach and gasoline. I'm sure this is the scariest place I've ever been, but I can't shake a sense of familiarity, a weird nostalgia that doesn't make sense.

My foot catches on a piece of uplifted flooring and I pitch forward.

Nick reaches for me. “Easy,” he says. His thumb brushes against the side of my hip, and an electric shock pulses through my veins.

He pulls away so fast my skin turns to ice. His hand slides over the tribal ink on his right bicep, as though to make sure he won't make the mistake of touching me again. Not like I wanted him to anyway.

I shift focus back to Roger.

There's a certain giddiness to him when he walks. I guess it's too much to hope we're walking into Wonka's chocolate factory. He pauses at a door and waits for us to surround him. We're like moths to a flame.

A glowing
EXIT
sign hovers over a metal staircase to the right that leaps up and down into darkness. An overhead bulb pulses and buzzes. I squint to read the faded signage on the wall, but the white letters are either scraped clear or coated with dust. Tiny spiders dance across my back.

Chelsea's finger brushes against my elbow. “So mysterious.”

“Brilliant observation, Veronica Mars,” I whisper.

Roger's eyes shimmer. If he's the kind of guy who gets off on murder, we're in such deep shit.

He punches in a six-digit code and the door swings open. A series of
tick-tick-ticks
echoes as fluorescent lights switch on in sequence. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and then—

Nick stops dead. “Holy. Shit.”

My eyes widen with disbelief.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of vehicles line row after row in this makeshift parking lot. Even covered with a thin layer of dust, I can make out the models. Fuck me. I was wrong. This isn't a morgue—it's the place where muscle cars go to die.

A cluster of Camaros pull my attention. Behind them, an older Trans Am.

My saliva tastes like it's mixed with diesel fuel at the sight.

Five years, six months, fifteen days. That's the last time I saw my piece of shit father. He peeled out of the driveway in a rusted old TA, tires spinning black smoke, like he couldn't wait to get away from us, from me. Rumor has it I was conceived in that “Silver Bullet”—which is probably some twisted rationale for why I started boosting muscle cars in the first place.

But if there's one thing Dad did teach me, it's that you can't outrun the past.

“This,” Roger says, sweeping his arm outward, “is the Trophy Case.” A hint of something flashes across his face—sadness? Fear? He adjusts his fedora. “Once one of the most popular attractions in Vegas.” He nudges his head. “Go ahead, look around.”

Adrenaline surges up my spine.

Nick leans close, his breath feathering across my cheek. “That's a classic.” I zero in on a black Trans Am, swallowing another memory of my father. A fiery red bird splashes across the hood. “Back in the day, the Pontiac's T-roof was about as close as you could get to a convertible. Looked good, but they leaked.”

Jesus. It's like I've met my twin. Too bad his knowledge of cars doesn't quite excuse him from being a dick.

I brush my bangs out of my face. “But what's it doing in here?”

Nick shrugs. “Guess Roger's a . . . collector.”

Sure, but we're in an abandoned warehouse deep in the desert—which doesn't make sense. Roger's art fills the mansion. He donates to public charities. For a guy who likes to show off, this goes against his character. “Something doesn't feel right.”

Across from us, Chelsea and Mat weave through the row of Camaros. As Mat reaches toward the hood scoop on a '67, Roger stops him with a loud
tsk
. “You must not touch.”

Nick points to another car, his eyes wide as hubcaps. “Whoa! That's a Pontiac GTO Judge.” He actually grins when I check to make sure he isn't drooling, and much as I hate to admit it, it's cute. “Considered the first muscle car. Rare as shit.”

“There's something familiar about it,” I say.

Mat spins around and mimics playing air guitar. “Come on, you don't know?” I blink and he keeps going. “The original commercial for the Judge featured Paul Revere and the Raiders.” His cheeks turn pink. “What? I like the classics. That sixty-second spot was considered one of the first ever rock music videos.”

“I'm a little shocked you know that,” Nick says. “But do you know who the car's named after?”

“What do you take me for?” Mat scoffs. “You think I never watched
Laugh-In
reruns?”

I tune out their banter and try to come to grips with what I'm seeing. Feeling. Whatever my reservations, Roger's Trophy Case is fierce.

“I'm sure you have questions,” Roger says.

“Why'd you shut this place down?”

Chelsea lets out an obnoxious
whoop
! “Holy crap, you guys! Look at this.” She fans herself. “It's a Lamborghini. A red freaking Lamborghini.”

Mat bounds up the curved asphalt after her.

“I'd rather not go into the reasons right now,” Roger says. Something over my shoulder catches his attention and he tenses. I look back to see Nick weaving his way through a row of Mustangs.

His mouth gapes. “Is this what I—?”

“A Shelby,” Roger confirms.

There are actually four of them—one a dead ringer for the car in the movie
Gone in Sixty Seconds
. I'm not much of a pony girl, but I can appreciate that particular model. Clearly I'm not alone.

“Must be your favorite car.”

“It's a Mustang, so obviously,” Nick says, his eyes brightening.

I think back to our heated game of GTA. “Something you and Roger have in common.”

His face falls. “I had one once.”

“Crashed her?”

A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Stolen.”

Tough break, but car thefts are a dime a dozen in this town. “Maybe you'll find another someday.”

Nick runs his tongue over the top of his teeth. “Vicki was special.”

The bitter edge to his voice is clear, so I drop the subject and lead the way up to the second tier of the warehouse. It's filled with older model Chargers, Challengers, a few muscle cars I don't recognize. My eyes land on a couple of Ferraris and a Lamborghini. Not as pretty as the older models—most cars aren't—but also, out of place.

Nick settles back into his comfort zone and spits out statistics with shotgun speed. He's like the Wikipedia of muscle cars, and it's kind of impressive. A kid in a candy store—like Roger, but way less creepy.

We pass a black and gray Charger. “They were known for their famous flip-out headlights,” Nick says. “Dodge discontinued them in 1973 when the car went through rebranding.”

He stops at a car I don't recognize. “The mighty Road Runner. This thing struck fear into the hearts of the Saturday night drag racing crowd. She was fast.”

“Kind of a stupid name for a car,” I tease.

“No shit, right?” He peers in through the driver's-side window. “The horn even
beep-beeps
like the cartoon bird.”