More Twisted

gotten to York’s Mercedes, you think?”
    “Not likely but possible. I think we have to assume he did.”
    “I’ll get back to you.” Eberhart hung up and immediately called York.
    A distracted voice answered. “Hi.”
    “Mr. York, it’s—”
    “I’m not available at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
    Eberhart hit disconnect and tried again. Each of the five times he called, the only response was the preoccupied voice on the voicemail.

    York was nudging the Mercedes up to a hundred.
    “Doesn’t this rock?” he called, laughing. “Whoa!”
    “Like, what?” Carole shouted back. The roar of the slipstream and Robert Plant’s soaring voice had drowned out his voice.
    “It’s great!”
    But she didn’t answer. She was frowning, looking ahead. “There’s, like, a turn up there.” She added something else he couldn’t hear.
    “What?”
    “Uhm, maybe you better slow down.”
    “This baby curves on a dime. I’m fine.”
    “Honey, please! Slow down!”
    “I know how to drive.”
    They were on a straightaway, which was about to drop down a steep hill. At the bottom the road curved sharply and fed onto a bridge above a deep arroyo.
    “Slow down! Honey, please! Look at the turn!”
    Christ, sometimes it just wasn’t worth the battle. “Okay.”
    He lifted his foot off the gas.
    And then it happened.
    He had no clue exactly what was going on. A huge swirl of sand, spinning around and around, as if the car were caught in the middle of a tornado. They lost sight of the sky. Carole, screaming, grabbed the dash. York, gripping the wheel with cramping hands, tried desperately to find the road. All he could see was sand, whipping into his face, stinging.
    “We’re going to die, we’re going to die,” Carole was wailing.
    Then from somewhere above them, a tinny voice crackled, “York, stop your car immediately. Stop your car!”
    He looked up to see the police helicopter thirty feet over his head, its rotors’ downdraft the source of the sandstorm.
    “Who’s that?” Carole screamed. “Who’s that?”
    The voice continued, “Your brakes are going to fail! Don’t start down that hill!”
    “Son of a bitch,” he cried. “He tampered with the brakes.”
    “Who, Stephen? What’s going on?”
    The helicopter sped forward toward the bridge and landed—presumably so the rescue workers could try to save them if the car crashed or plummeted over the cliff.
    Save them, or collect the bodies.
    He was doing ninety as they started over the crest of the hill. The nose of the Mercedes dropped and they began to accelerate.
    He pressed the brake pedal. The calipers seemed to grip.
    But if he got any farther and the brakes failed he’d have nowhere to go but into rock or over the cliff; there was no way they could make the turn doing more than thirty-five. At least here there was sand just past the shoulder.
    Stephen York gripped the wheel firmly and took a deep breath.
    “Hold on!”
    “Whatta you mean—?”
    He swerved off the road.
    Suitcases and soda and beer flew from the backseat, Carole screamed and York fought with all his strength to keep the car on course, but it was useless. The tires skewed, out of control, through the sand. He just missed a large boulder and plowed into the desert.
    Rocks and gravel spattered the body, spidering the windshield and peppering the fender and hood like gunshots. Tumbleweeds and sagebrush pelted their faces. The car bounced and shook and pitched. Twice it nearly flipped over.
    They were slowing but they were still speeding at forty miles an hour straight for a large boulder . . . . Now,though, the sand was so deep that he couldn’t steer at all.
    “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . . . . “ Carole was sobbing, lowering her head to her hands.
    York jammed his foot onto the brake pedal with his left foot, shoved the shifter into reverse and then floored the accelerator with his right. The engine screamed, sand cascaded into the air above them.
    The car came to a stop five feet from the face of the rock.
    York sat forward, head against the wheel, his heart pounding, drenched in sweat. He was furious. Why hadn’t they called him? What was with the Black Hawk Down routine?
    Then he noticed his phone. The screen read, 7 missed calls 5 messages marked urgent.
    He hadn’t heard the ring. The wind and the engine . . . and the goddamn music.
    Sobbing and pawing at the sand that covered her white pant suit,