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“Listen to me, you cocksucker. If you’re fuckin’-”
The lights in the entire garage went out.
All the bays were plunged into darkness.
Holy shit!
Mitch’s ticker about exploded.
He started to roll out from under the car, but the Pontiac groaned above him.
He reached an arm out, scrabbling for purchase, desperate to get out from under the car. Before he could shift free, he heard the snap of the release on the jack. “Shit,” he whispered, his mouth turning to an “O” of horror just before three thousand pounds of General Motors metal pinned him to the creeper, which somehow didn’t fold in on itself. Something punched into his chest. The weight of the car crushed him, cracking his bones. Pain like he’d never felt before screamed through his body. His lungs burned. He gasped for breath. Heard the hiss of his lungs. His heart was pumping furiously and he sensed blood leaking from his broken, aching body.
His eyes rolled back in his head, but he clung to consciousness. And then he saw her…as she was twenty years earlier-beautiful, sexy, and teasing.
“What are little boys made of?” she said.
“Jessie,” Mitch cried, his voice strangled. “Jessie…”
Chapter Nineteen
Hudson’s truck rattled down Highway 217 before turning off at Canyon and heading east toward the city. Mike’s Garage, Mitch’s workplace, was about another mile in.
He looked across at Becca. She’d been awfully quiet since their lovemaking and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. “What is it?” he asked her again, feeling like one of those idiots who keeps asking, “What’s wrong?” when the person clearly doesn’t want to say.
“Just tired,” she said.
They passed auto dealership after auto dealership pressed shoulder to shoulder along the road that cut through this ravine in the west hills surrounding Portland. She glanced at her watch. “It’s kinda late. Shouldn’t he be off work by now?”
“He said he was working late, and that was a little over an hour ago. If he’s not there, we’ll check his apartment, and if he’s not there, we’ll go home.” Hudson ran through a yellow light and drove the remaining quarter mile to a cross street where Mike’s Garage was located.
The low, flat stucco building that once had been a gas station looked empty. The lights in the building were out, the Closed sign visible, not a soul in sight. But Mitch’s black Tahoe was parked in a spot at the side of the building.
“He must’ve gone with someone, gotten a ride,” Becca said as Hudson pulled up next to the big rig and parked, cutting the engine.
“Maybe.”
“The place is closed.”
“I know.” Hudson opened the glove compartment, retrieved a small flashlight, then stepped out of the pickup, leaving the driver’s door open. He punched out a number on his cell phone and walked toward the garage, listening. “It’s ringing.” He nodded toward the garage. “Inside.” Becca heard the faint sound of some downloaded tune.
“Maybe Mitch left it by mistake.”
“Left his truck and his cell phone?” Hudson was already walking around to the back of the garage as Becca shoved open the passenger door and hopped to the ground, catching up with Hudson. By the time they reached a slightly ajar back door, the cell phone was still playing a song from the eighties. “Mitch?” he called into the darkened interior, his voice echoing slightly. “Mitch?”
“He’s not here,” Becca said again, but even as she stepped over the threshold of the garage she felt that something was wrong. No security lights were lit and country music was playing softly from speakers. But there was a strange, eerie quietude to the place that caused the hairs on the back of her arms to lift. Her stomach knotted as she kept up with Hudson. They picked their way through the parked cars in various states of disassembly, the scents of rubber and grease mingling with the odor of dust. The beam of Hudson’s flashlight slid over the open hoods and raised carriages.
“Mitch, you here?” Hudson said again and Becca shivered.
This time Becca heard a low, nearly inaudible moan.
Her heart glitched. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Mitch!” Hudson shone his light in the direction of the sound. The beam tracked over a stained cement floor to a man’s legs poking from beneath the weight of a sporty red car crushing his chest, pinning him beneath. “Shit!”
They ran to the mechanic’s-Mitch’s-side. “He has to be alive. Has to,” Becca whispered, trying to convince herself. As she peered beneath the car and caught a glimpse of Mitch’s face, a mask of death, his eyes closed, only the raspy sound of his breath indicating there was a bit of life in his body.
Hudson was kneeling by Mitch’s side. “Hit the lights!” he ordered Becca, shining the beam of his flashlight onto the far wall where a switch was visible. “And call for help.”
