White Lies (2 page)

Far off in the distance lightning flashed, backlighting the bowels of the storm clouds. It was an awesome sight, awesome power. It put you in your place, a tiny thing of flesh and blood and bone. Rightly humbled, Katrina's thoughts returned to the hitchhiker, and she realized she'd never asked where he was heading to. His decidedly unimpressive first impression had blanked the question from her mind. She glanced at him, to ask him where to, and was both startled and embarrassed to find his eyes now open, staring at her legs.
Creepy Christ
. She self-consciously tugged down the hem of her skirt, which had risen a few inches up her thighs during the long trip. Certainly not high enough to scream skank, but enough to garner disapproving glances during Sunday Mass in church— and approving glances from hitchhikers who slammed doors and burped Scotch.

“What's your name?” he asked her.

Katrina hesitated.

“I'm just making conversation.”

“Katrina,” she said.

“I'm Zach.”

“I never asked you, Zach. How far are you going?”

“Depends. How far are
you
going?”

It was a logical question, but suddenly Katrina wasn't sure she wanted to tell him.

Oh, come on, Kat
, she thought chidingly.
So what if he's in his twenties
.
And so what if he's had a few drinks. You've been through the argument. It doesn't mean he's looking for a blonde trophy to hang above the fireplace
.

No, maybe not
, a different voice shot back.
But if he's been drinking, he shouldn't have been driving, should he have? And think back a bit. Do you remember seeing any cars broken down along the side of the road? Because you would have noticed one, wouldn't you have? You're not exactly driving down I-5 in L.A
.

She did not remember seeing any broken-down cars. A chill whisked through her. Maybe she
had
been a bit too premature in picking up a stranger. But what was she supposed to do about that now? It was too late to tell him, “Sorry, pal, I made a mistake, you're rather weird so please get out. Thanks very much. No hard feelings, right?”

“How far you going?” Zach repeated. She could feel his eyes on her.

“Just up to the next turnoff,” she told him, surprising herself with the lie.

“Lake Wenatchee?”

Sure, she thought. Why not? “Yes,” she said.

He nodded. It was the most effort he'd put into the conversation thus far. “Nice area. You live there?”

“Renting.”

“By yourself?”

She hesitated again. She didn't like the direction this was heading.

“Just a question,” he said.

“I have Bandit with me.”

At the sound of his name, Bandit let out a happy bark. The man jumped. He cranked his head around on his neck and flinched when he saw Bandit on all fours, grinning at him. The boxer barked a second time, louder than the first.
Good boy
.

“Will you tell that goddamn thing to shut up?”

“Quiet, boy,” she said, telling herself she would fix his kibbles on time for the rest of the week. For the rest of the
month
.

“Big dog,” the man muttered, facing forward again.

Under more regular circumstances, Katrina would have said, “He's harmless.” But now she said, “He's very protective.”

“So what do you and bowwow do out there on the lake, Kat? Must get kinda boring, huh?”

Her jaw tightened. There was something about the way he said “Kat” that gave her the creeps. It seemed almost—lecherous. What she imagined a man in a rusty, beat-up Oldsmobile might sound like as he offered candy to a guileless child. A golf ball-size nugget of dread formed in the center of her chest.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that,” she said.

“Kat? Why not?”

“I'd just prefer it.”

“Whatever.” Anger? She didn't know. Snide, definitely. “So,” he went on, “it must get pretty lonely out there by yourself? You get much company?”

“Listen, Zach,” she said, mustering forth her teacher's voice. “I don't think these questions are appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know you.”

Silence. Tense and long. Katrina wondered how the boy-turned-man-turned-creep was going to react to that candid statement. Like one of her students, who would swallow his or her pride to avoid detention? Or like a bad drunk who'd lash out at whomever, whenever, just because he couldn't help himself? She didn't know. She was having a hard time getting a read on the guy. He was rude and obnoxious, even somewhat intimidating. But there was something else about him, just a feeling she was getting, that it was all an act. A bit of tough guy bravado. Puffing out the chest, sucking in the gut kind of thing.

In the end, the hitchhiker did not bite or snap back. He dropped the matter, for which she was very grateful. She focused on the road once more, keeping her eyes peeled for the sign that would announce the turnoff to this Lake Wenatchee, where she was apparently renting a cabin or something along those lines. All the while she was acutely aware of the man beside her. She knew she wasn't out of this yet. She wouldn't be until he was out of the
car and disappearing in the rearview mirror. Suddenly she thought of Shawn, and she wished he was there with her. Shawn had been the founder and CEO of a Pacific Coast regional transport company. He'd also been her fiancé. He'd been average height and slight of build, certainly not physically intimidating, but he'd carried himself with the confidence that came with knowing when you spoke, you were listened to. The confidence was one of the things she'd liked best about him. It made her feel safe in his company. She never had men whistling or honking at her, like she did when she walked down a busy street alone. Shawn, however, had passed away over a year ago, at the age of thirty-seven. His death still hit her hard every time she thought about it, especially in the dead of night, when she was alone in the dark in bed, either having been awakened from one of her reoccurring nightmares, or simply unable to sleep.

The Honda rattled, as if it had just been peppered with machine-gun fire. Startled, Katrina yanked the wheel to the left, steering the car clear of the shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” The man sat bolt upright.

“Sorry. I must have drifted.”

“How do you guys get your licenses?”

“Excuse me?”

“Women drivers.”

Katrina said nothing but added sexist to her passenger's less than stellar résumé. The guy was turning out to be one in a million. From the corner of her eye, she saw him checking her out again. This time he was much less discreet. His eyes crawled over her body like a cluster of little spiders, eating away her clothes until there was nothing left to cover her and everything left to see. She tried to ignore him. Gripped the steering wheel more tightly. Too tightly. She forced herself to relax, though her heartbeat continued to race the rapid swoosh-swoosh of the windshield wipers.

Where was the damn turnoff
?

The golf ball inside her had swelled to the size of a tennis ball. Katrina considered stopping and demanding the unpleasant young man get out. She didn't, and the reason she didn't frightened
her. What if he wouldn't get out? She certainly couldn't overpower him. She would have to either remain on the shoulder of the highway in stubborn defiance, stranded in the middle of nowhere, or keep driving, a hostage in her own car. It was crazy. How the hell had things gone this far? No—how had she let them? She wanted to rewind time so she could drive by the hitchhiker without stopping. Maybe toot the horn in passing. But she couldn't turn back time, of course, so she followed the only option afforded to her: stared straight ahead and pretended everything was all peaches and cream. Pretended the man beside her had a prim British accent, a Windsor knot around his neck, and a wife named Grace and a puppy named Crumpet.

The headlights cut two circular swaths of light out of the blackness, barely illuminating the ghostly trunks of the trees that crowded both sides of the road, creating the effect of traveling down a long, dark tunnel.

“You know, Kat,” the man said, still eyeing her. “You remind me of someone I know. Kandy. That's her name. Kandy with a K, like yours.”

Just then, off to the right, a green road sign appeared, announcing the turnoff to State Route 207 and Lake Wenatchee State Park. Katrina felt almost weak with relief.

Thank God
!

She cleared her throat. “Sorry for such a short ride,” she said, trying not to sound too pleased about the abrupt end to her personal slice of
The Twilight Zone
, “but this is as far as I can take you.” She pulled over to the shoulder a third of a mile farther ahead and flipped on the emergency lights. She could leave him here without feeling guilty. She'd dabbled in a good deed, and though it didn't work out, it was the thought that counts, right? Besides, the rain had dwindled to a light sprinkle. At the very least, she'd given him shelter from the storm for the past ten minutes.

He didn't get out. She looked at him, waiting. He just sat there. What did he want? A kiss?
More
than a kiss? She shoved those chilling thoughts aside.

“Listen, Zach—”

“Just give me a minute to dry off.”

Oh no you don't, buster. Don't even try it
. “I really have to get going.”

“You like hockey? I like the Red Wings.”

“No, I don't watch it—”

“What's your place like?”

“Sorry?”

“Your place. On the lake.”

“Listen, Zach. It's late and I've been driving all night. Now please get out.”

“Is it actually on the lake? Or back in the trees?”

Katrina began to panic. Why was he stalling like this? Was he lonely? Wanting company, someone to talk to?
Wanting more than a kiss?
God, could that be true? Could he possibly be so daft to think they were going to tear off each other's clothes and steam up the windows? No, she didn't believe that. Then again, maybe she was on the wrong track completely. Maybe he wasn't thinking about tearing off each other's clothes, just tearing off
her
clothes.

Headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, two small pinpricks, which quickly grew larger, brighter, chasing the shadows to their nests in the foot wells and beneath the seats. In the rare light Katrina risked a glance at the hitchhiker and found him not only staring at her, but staring at her with glazed eyes. Glazed, drunken, lusty eyes. She swallowed. The dread that had started off as a golf ball now filled her entire chest, making it difficult to breathe.

The car zipped past, sinking them into darkness once more. Katrina felt like a castaway who'd just watched a rescue plane fly by overhead.
Goodbye, good luck, you're on your own
.

“There'll be another along soon,” she said, though she didn't believe that. “You can get another ride.”

“You want to get a drink? Something will probably be open in Coles Corner.”

So he's from around here
, she thought inconsequentially.

“No, thank you,” she said.

The hitchhiker named Zach turned in his seat so his body became square to hers. In that moment he seemed to grow larger.
Either that, or the car had suddenly become much smaller. Katrina had the mad urge to shy away from him, but the seat belt held her firmly in place. Trapped. Sweet Jesus, she was trapped. In her own car.
And she had brought this all upon herself
. That thought burned itself upon her brain like a brand into a cattle's flank. All she'd had to do was keep driving. Why did she stop? Why did she have to be the hero? A fleeting thought, her epitaph:
Katrina Burton. She asked for it
. It was then she realized she had never felt true terror before, because for the first time in her life she experienced the wild, frenzied buzz that accompanied imminent mortal danger. This is what you read about in the news, she thought. Unsuspecting woman picks up hitchhiker who overpowers her, drags her into the woods, rapes and murders her. Was that what happened to Kandy with a K?

“Get out now
,” Katrina said in the strongest voice she could spit out.

The man flinched. “Hey. What's your problem?”

“Get out!”

“Calm down,” he said, and reached for her.

She smacked his hand away. “Don't you dare touch me!”

Bandit leapt to his feet and began growling.

“Listen,” the man protested, his head swiveling from Katrina to Bandit and back to Katrina. “I wasn't going to do anything. Christ.”

“Get out, right now,” she told him in a low, threatening tone she scarcely recognized. “Or I swear to God, I'll get that dog to take a good mouthful out of you.”

“I wasn't going to touch you.”

His words had a ring of truth to them, but by then Katrina couldn't have cared if they'd been carved in stone and found in a burning bush.

“Get out!”

He winced. Hesitated. Shoved open the door and got out. Katrina stamped the gas pedal and tore away. The door remained open until acceleration swung it shut.

“My God,” she whispered to herself.

The heat continued to blast full power from the vents. She
clicked it off. Bandit stuck his black nose between the seats and whined softly.

“It's okay, buddy,” she told him, as much to calm herself as to calm him. She patted the passenger seat for him to join her. “It's okay. Come on.”

He hopped into the front seat where he remained standing at attention, his jaw set in a resolute under bite, his chest stuck out, his muscular front legs stiff and straight. The ultimate guard dog. What would she have done without him?

As Katrina left the hitchhiker farther and farther behind, and her cocktail of adrenaline and fear began to subside, she questioned whether she had, indeed, overreacted. But that was a moot point, she told herself. The only thing that mattered was that it was all over.