Shattered

the counter.
        “You aren't leaving, are you"' she asked. Her voice was faraway and so icy that it made Leland shiver.
        He did not answer her. He walked quickly to the door and went outside. The day seemed fiercely bright as he hurried to the van.
        Sitting behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, he heard his heart pounding relentlessly against the walls of his chest. He drew breath in great racking sobs and shuddered like a cold, wet dog.
        Though she was not in sight now, and though he held his eyes tightly shut, Leland could see the young waitress: her supple body, long bare legs, widely spaced breasts… He could see himself leaning into her with the blade, her fair skin parting, could see himself clambering over the counter and taking her right there on the floor. No one would have stopped him, because he would have kept the knife. Everyone would have been afraid. Even the cop. He could have pressed the waitress down on the dirty tiles behind the counter, could have ravaged her as often as he wanted…
        He thought about the knife and the blood that would have been and about the girl's breasts and the feel of her body moving against him, and he saw the stunned looks the others in the diner would have given him if he had actually done it. And, gradually, the mood left him. His heart grew quiet. His breath came less raggedly than it had.
        He raised his head and unexpectedly caught sight of himself in the wide rear-view mirror fixed beside the driver's window. He looked into his own eyes, and for a moment he knew where he was and what he was doing. Suddenly lucid, he realized why he was following the Thunderbird, what he intended to do to the people inside of it. And he knew it was all wrong. He was sick, confused, disoriented.
        Looking away from his own eyes, sickened by what he saw in them, he discovered that the cop had come out of the diner and was walking toward the van. Irrationally, he was certain the trooper knew everything. The trooper somehow knew all that Leland would have liked to do to the girl and all that he would do to the pair in the Thunderbird. The trooper knew.
        Leland started the van.
        The trooper called to him.
        Unable to hear what the man said, certain that he did not want to hear it, Leland put the van in gear and tramped the accelerator.
        The cop shouted again.
        The truck jerked, stewed sideways, kicking up loose gravel. Leland eased up on the gas and settled the machine. He drove out of the lot and picked up speed going through the clutter of motels and service stations.
        He was breathing hard again. He was whimpering.
        At the east end of the complex, he took the entrance ramp to Interstate 70 much faster than he should have. He did not check the traffic, but drove unheedingly onto the throughway. Fortunately, both westbound lanes were deserted.
        Though in the back of his mind Leland knew that these roads were well patrolled and even monitored by radar, he let the needle on the speedometer climb and climb. When it hit close to a hundred, the van trembled slightly and fell into its maximum pace like a thoroughbred into the proper trot.
        In the cargo space, the furniture rattled and banged against the walls. A table lamp fell with a crash of broken glass.
        Leland looked in the mirror. The cop either had not started after him or had not started quickly enough. The road back there was empty.
        Nevertheless, he held the van at a hundred miles an hour. The road roared beneath him. The flat land spun past like rapidly changed stage settings. And little by little the panic died in him. He gradually lost the feeling that everyone was watching him, that everyone's hand was against him, that he was transparent, and that he was being relentlessly pursued by forces connected with but not really identified by that state policeman. As he barreled westward, he quickly became a part of his machine once more. He guided it with a safe and measured touch. When he had gone seven or eight miles, he let the speed fall back to the legal limit; and even though only minutes had passed since he left the diner, he could not recall what had made him panic in the first place…
        However, he suddenly did remember Doyle and Colin. The Thunderbird was somewhere behind him, to the east. Perhaps it was still parked in the shadow of that enormous sign at Harry's Fine Food. Even if it were