he day that will end for Sarah with a blackout and a shattered jaw, begins with a storm coming in from the ocean. By late afternoon the sky is leaden, the light strange and metallic. On Interstate 5, she spots the motel sign at the last moment and crosses three lanes of traffic to hit the off-ramp at over fifty. Tires squeal behind her, a horn blares.

"Sorry," she murmurs. A car is right on her tail. The driver is a shadow through tinted windows. The sleek black Lincoln is not a car you'd want to ding.

An hour later, full of soft trembling and damp with the sweat she had no time to shower away, she is back on the freeway, humming to the stereo. Her body aches pleasantly: a deep fullness as if he is still inside her, her breasts bruised like fingered fruit, a trickle of semen on her thigh.

The rain has started up again and a truck slows, spewing an arc of water in its wake. Sarah slams on the brakes, glancing in her mirror. It is then she sees the black Lincoln again, right behind her. She frowns, changes lanes, her hands tight on the wheel. He is still behind her ten minutes later. She is about fifteen miles from home.

For the next few miles she watches him. He follows exactly one car length behind, holding her speed, changing lanes as she does.

Sarah fumbles for her cellular. As the phone at her house clicks onto the answering machine she hears her husband's recorded voice request a message.

"Car behind me," Sarah shouts over the rain. "Can't see license number, black, looks like.." A truck flashes signal lights and for a second the number plate is illuminated. "Looks like DH, " cries Sarah. "Shit, missed the rest. DH, might have been a five. Can't see driver. Just in case. Bit spooky. Doesn't look like a mugger, but you never know. If he follows me off the exit I'll call 911. See you soon."

As if the sight of the cellular phone has acted as a warning, the car drops back, changes lanes and disappears from her mirror.

When she pulls into the driveway Jake is standing in the doorway silhouetted against the light.

"What the fuck was that about? I was going to call the police."

"Sorry, sorry. Probably nothing. This damn car was on my tail all the way home."

"He still behind you?" he moves onto the path, looks up and down the street

"No, he dropped back just after I called."

"Shit, I was worried out of my skin."

"Sorry," she says. "Probably overreacted."

"Well, that makes a change," he says. She turns away.

"I'm going to shower," Sarah says. "I'm cold."

Jake comes into the bedroom a little while later, hands her a glass of wine.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"You sure he was following you?"

"Not really. It just seemed, well, weird. You read about these follow home robberies. Just me being stupid, probably. You know."

"Yes. I know." She looks up at this, but his expression is calm, bland.

"I put the lasagna in the oven," he says.

"Thanks."

"You didn't see the number plate then?" he asks.

"The number plate?"

"On the Lincoln?"

"Not really. Just DH. Why?" She realizes he might be nervous too. "You think we should report it?"

"No. No."

She towels her hair as he returns to the kitchen. There is the clanging of plates, and one parallels a sudden clanging of her heartbeat. She sits rigid on the bed, replaying their conversation, then edges slowly into the den. Jake in the kitchen, sips a scotch, his back to her. Sarah lifts the phone, presses the message button.

Her own voice, over the sound of rain and traffic: " Car behind me…. Can't see license number, black, looks like a…Looks like DH. Shit, missed the rest. DH might have been a five…"

She looks up. Jake leans against the door, watching her.

His eyes, meeting hers, are bleak.

"I didn't say Lincoln," she says.

"No."

"You had somebody follow me?"

His face is shadowed, but his hands clench as he moves forward. The fear rises from some dark space inside her, her head feels full of rushing sounds, of hot roiling rivers. She reaches behind, searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon. But the empty glass is no match for the clenched fist that rises and moves towards her. That will, in just moments, shatter her jaw.

[END]

© Mary McCluskey 2002