Blood Trail

rubber shrieking, until the back of the BMW slammed into a light pole and the truck bounced free.

    Vicki straightened. Covering her face to protect it had kept her glasses where they belonged.
    Thankfully,she pushed them up her nose, then reached over and turned off the ignition. For the first sudden instant of silence, her heart was the only sound she could hear, booming in her ears like an entire percussion section, then, from a distance, as though the volume were slowing being turned up, came voices, horns, and, farther away still, sirens. She ignored it all.
    Peter had his head down on the steering wheel, pillowed on his folded arms. Vicki unsnapped her seat belt and gripped his shoulder lightly.

    "Peter?"

    The lower half of his face dripped blood but, as far as she could tell, it came from his nose.

    "The brakes," he panted. "They - they didn't work."

    "I know." She tightened her grip slightly. He was beginning to tremble and although he deserved it, although they all deserved it, this was not the time for hysterics. "Are you all right?"

    He blinked, glanced down the length of his body, then back at her. "I think so."

    "Good. Take off your seat belt and see if your door will open." Her tone was an echo of the one Nadine had used that morning and Peter responded to it without questions. Giving thanks for learned behaviors, Vicki pulled herself up on her knees and leaned over into the back to check on Rose.

    The rear passenger side door had buckled, but essentially held. The inner covering and twisted pieces of the actual mechanisms it contained spread across three quarters of the seat which now tilted crazily up toward the roof. The rear window had blown out. The side window had blown in. Most of the glass had crumbled into a million tiny pieces, but here and there sizable shards had been driven into the upholstery.

    A triangular blade about eight inches long trembled just above Rose's fetal curl, its point buried deep in the door lining. Glass glittered in her pale hair like ice in a snow field and her arms and legs were covered with a number of superficial cuts.

    Vicki reached over and yanked the glass dagger free. A 1976 BMW didn't have plastic-coated safety glass.

    "Rose?"

    She slowly uncurled. "Is it over?"

    "It's over."

    "Am I alive?"

    "You're alive." Although she wouldn't have been had she been sitting on the other side of the car.

    "Peter. ..."

    "Is fine."

    "I want to howl."

    "Later," Vicki promised. "Right now, unlock your door so Peter can get it open."

    While Peter helped his sister from the back, Vicki clambered over the gearshift and out the driver's door, dragging her bag behind her, and throwing it up on her shoulder the moment she was clear, its familiar weight a reassurance in the chaos. A small crowd had gathered and more cars were stopping. One of them, she was pleased to note, belonged to the London Police and other sirens could be heard coming closer.

    With the twins comforting each other and essentially unharmed, Vicki made her way around the car to check on the driver of the truck. Blood ran down one side of his face from a cut over his left eye and the right side of his neck was marked by a angry red friction burn from the shoulder strap of his seat belt.

    "Jesus Christ, lady," he moaned as she stopped beside him. "Just look at my truck." Although the massive bumper had absorbed most of the impact, the grille had been driven back into the radiator. "Man, I didn't even have fifty klicks on this things yet. My wife is going to have my ass." He reached down and lightly touched the one whole headlight. "Quartz-halogen.
    Seventy-nine bucks a pop."

    "Is everyone all right here?"

    Vicki knew what she'd see before she turned; she'd used that exact tone too many times herself. The London police constable was an older man, gray hair, regulation mustache, regulation neutral expression. His younger partner was with the twins, and the two uniforms from the second car were taking charge of traffic and crowd control. She could hear Peter beginning to babble about the brake failure and decided to let him be for the moment. A little bit of hysteria would only help convince the police they were telling the truth. People who were too calm were often perceived as having something to hide.

    "As far as I can tell," she said, "we're all fine."

    His brows rose. "And you are?"

    "Oh. Sorry. Vicki Nelson. I was a detective with the Metro Toronto Police until my eyes went." It didn't even