The Night Killer

wheel hard, her muscles tensed, and struggled to keep her SUV on the road.
    She looked in her rearview mirror. All she could see were bright lights. It was something big. A truck.
    Where the hell did that come from?
    And instantly she realized that someone had been following her with their lights off.
    The unknown assailant hit her again, ramming her against the seat. He locked onto her bumper, jerked his vehicle left, then right, trying to push her off the road or make her run into the ditch. Diane steered in the direction she was pushed for a second, then sped up and freed herself. She wasn’t far from home. She pressed the accelerator until she was going faster than she felt safe. If he hit her again, she was worried she would flip. She forced herself to release the pressure on the accelerator.
    The driver came up again, hitting her, pushing her. Abruptly her attacker backed off, then sped past her, scraping the side of her vehicle, and flew down the road, out of sight.
    “Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, sick with relief. Acid rose and stung her throat. She was tempted to pull off onto the shoulder and compose herself. She was also tempted to chase him down. She increased her speed again, hoping Frank was at home. She didn’t want to arrive to an empty house. She needed company. His company.
    Diane was getting close to her turnoff when she saw headlights up ahead . . . on her side of the road. They were coming fast. She moved toward the other lane. The headlights did the same. She moved back to her own lane. The headlights followed her movements.
    They were coming faster. She had only microseconds to think, to work out a plan. There was little time to act. If she swerved at the last minute, the driver might swerve in the same direction—they would still hit head-on. She slowed to decrease the force of the impact. He stayed in her lane, coming fast. The headlights grew larger and brighter. She held the steering wheel so tight her hands were growing numb. Relax , she told herself. She tried, but the lump in her chest and the fear in her stomach were too great. He stayed in her lane. He was going to hit her. She hoped her air bag worked. She hoped he wasn’t suicidal. She hoped he didn’t have an air bag.
    Diane was almost stopped. She mentally braced herself for the crash and tried to relax. The headlights seemed close enough to touch. The driver swerved at the last moment and flashed past her.
    Diane stepped on the accelerator and sped for home, hoping she would make it before he caught up with her again.
    There it was—Frank’s driveway just ahead. She made the turn a little too fast and drove the eighth of a mile to the house. His car was in the garage. Another car was parked in the driveway behind his. She pulled in beside Frank’s car and closed the garage door with the remote.
    She usually parked outside the garage and entered by the front door, but she needed to secure her vehicle. She wanted to collect paint transfer. But right now, she wanted more than anything to get inside the house.
    From the garage she walked into the mudroom, pulling the door closed behind her a little too hard, and locked it. From there she walked through to the kitchen, then into the living room, where Frank was entertaining Ben Florian. They rose when she entered.
    “Diane?” Frank’s voice was like cool water, or music, or chocolate—comfort. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    She must look a fright. That was what she was—affright—sick with it.
    “You’re pale,” he said. “Are you ill?”
    “I’m fine,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out as a squeak, hoping they couldn’t see how she trembled.
    “Hello, Ben. It’s good to see you.” She held out a hand and shook his. She saw the concern in both their eyes. She smiled weakly and told them she’d be right back as soon as she changed.
    She hurried to the bedroom and into the bathroom and threw up. When she finished heaving, she rinsed her mouth out, brushed her teeth, and changed into comfortable jeans and a tee. She ran a brush through her hair and stared into the mirror at herself. She looked pale and frightened. Where had her bravery gone? She had hung precariously on rock faces literally by her fingernails with less fear than she had been having lately.
    She went back out to explain herself to Frank and Ben. Frank met her with a glass of wine.
    “Did something happen?” he asked.
    Diane held the glass of wine and took a sip