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for hours and never find what he sought. What if he'd misunderstood D.J.'s ramblings and taken the wrong road? He could be driving them into the middle of nowhere. If D.J. didn't die from her wound, they'd both die once the members of the black van club caught up with them. |
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Chris smacked his fist against the dashboard in frustration. "Where the hell is Isadora?" he shouted. Then, more quietly, almost a prayer, he whispered, "Where is Isadora? Please, get us there." |
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The Explorer rounded a curve; a sign flashed by the car. |
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His racing brain took a moment to register the meaning of the sign. Then Chris sagged in relief. Isadora was a towna town just five miles up the road. In Isadora lived a doctor. |
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He wouldn't lose her. Not yet, anyway. |
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The knowledge calmed Chris enough to allow the near mind-numbing panic to abate. He saw D.J.'s point now: Emotions could get in the way of performance. He'd been so scared for a moment there, he hadn't been able to see straight, let alone think clearly. |
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Their car crested a hill and sped down the other side into the midst of small-town America. Post office, general store, café, bank. |
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"Where's the doctor's office?" he muttered, easing off the gas and applying the brakes. |
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The locals on the street stopped to stare at the shot-up condition of the car. Chris ignored them, his gaze searching for a doctor's shingle. |
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