No Footprints (21 page)

And there was the car. We needed the car. He was driving crazy, but he wasn't losing control. The best thing I could do was wait him out. I braced my feet and brought my arm in close, ready to shield my head or catch the dashboard.

Jed Elliot burst from behind the camera cart, waving his arms.

Mac surged by him. We were next to the grassy divider. Thirty yards ahead was the other roadblock, which marked the border of our set. Beyond that was Seawall Drive.

Beyond that, the bay.

Either he'd have to turn right, or loop around the divider and head back to the freeway. My guess was he'd take the right, down Seawall, unaware it was a dead end. With luck someone had called the cops and he'd be stopped before he could do a three point and raise hell all the way back to the freeway. I wasn't worried . . .

. . . much.

But I was checking him out. No seat belt. Of course! But also no way I could reach over, open his door, and shove him out. No, my best hope—

‟What are you doing?” I shouted.

He'd rammed through—not around but through—the marker horse and was shooting across Seawall. Onlookers leapt back. A few screamed. On the edge of the road, the car hung for an instant, its wheels caught on the curb, then headed down the steep incline. As if exhaling out of its balk, it whipped down the walkway toward the pier.

The pier! Not the pier! ‟Turn left! Now!”

A tall man was bending over a woman. Now they were screaming; we missed them by inches. To our left people were running behind the huge sundial, scrambling up on it. I needed to grab the wheel, regardless—

But I couldn't, not here.

‟Don't—”

But he did. He skirted the sundial, seeming like he was about to do the sensible thing and veer back up onto the road. At the last moment he hung a sharp right onto the pier.

He was headed straight toward the storage building.

‟Stop! It's a car killer!”

‟What?”

No need to explain, he'd already yanked the wheel and cut around the little cement structure.

‟You can't drive on here!” I yelled. ‟The pier's falling apart. The boards are rotten.”

‟Rotten, huh?”

The pier was two cars wide—two
old
cars. Mac flew down the middle. Pedestrians slammed their backs into the railing. A bald guy with a pail beside him dropped his fishing rod into the water. The pier looked like it went on forever, weathered and narrowing till it disappeared into the bay. Ahead wind snapped strands of a woman's long black hair in her open mouth—she was screaming, too.

There was a surreal feel to the whole thing. No point in demanding, threatening, cajoling. There was nothing for me to do, but wait till Mac spotted the reinforced railing at the end, slowed to a stop, and started making the seventeen-point turn it'd take to turn around.

Suddenly the end was in front: eight feet tall, thick cross beams, the kind of barrier meant to take on a speeding car.

‟Stop! You're going to get us killed! Stop, now!”

He did. He slammed down on the pedal. Brakes screeched, the car rattled, gave one bounce and stopped. Jed Elliot was fussy about the brakes on his stunt cars.

‟Get out!” he yelled.

We'd been outdriving my fury, but now it caught up with me full force. I was so angry I couldn't manage words. I snapped off the belt, jumped out, and slammed the door so hard it bounced back open and I had to slam it again. Then I started back toward shore at a trot. He'd nearly wrecked the car; he could handle turning it around without my help.

One thing was for sure—if he'd been worried about Jed exploding when he told him he didn't have the money, that wasn't going to happen. By the time Jed finished yelling about this caper with the car he'd be too deflated to explode. Then, the problem of finding new backing and renegotiating contracts and permits, and all the other hassles, would be worth it for the relief of never again setting eyes on Macomber Dale.

The pier was so long I had a half mile to cover as I headed in. The wind whipped my hair around me, fueling my outrage. And it was cold, a good ten degrees colder than I was dressed for. I had more clothes, but they were in my bag in the car. That made me angrier yet. I lengthened my stride and picked up my pace.

Behind me I heard the engine start.

I didn't turn around.

Gears ground.

No need for that. It was just going to make turning around harder. But I'd be damned if I'd point that out.

Wheels squealed.

He was backing up. Toward me.

I slammed into the railing and turned.

The car screeched to a stop five yards away.

What the hell was he up to?

He hit the gas; the car shot forward. For a moment I thought he'd slam into the barrier at the end of the pier.

I was wrong. He veered left and shot through the railing into the bay.

The car shot off the pier, pancaking on the water fifteen feet beyond. Waves of mud spewed up from the bottom like brown daisy petals around it as it sank. It seemed to hover there on the water way longer than the laws of physics should have allowed.

I ran to the broken railing, waiting, expecting, to see the driver's door open and Macomber Dale pop up. There was time for that. The car was still sitting on the water. But the door didn't budge. Okay, then the window would open. I waited and watched. The car was old; the windows were manual. They were big enough for him to slip through. He could push off the seat, shoot up, and . . .

But he didn't. The car shimmied as if it weren't in the water at all but merely on a wet patch. It was still upright, hadn't flipped from the trajectory and the force of impact.

Any second the water would curl around it, suck it in, swallow it.

But not yet.

Time didn't move; it spread wide like the bay water. Time with no time line. The car was suspended in the static
now
. Like
now
had frozen time and Mac and the car and me all in it.

A gag I'd done five years ago: a cannon roll. Suddenly, I was back there, in the stunt car with the explosive canister welded to the floor. I was
harnessed in behind the wheel, staring through the breakaway windshield, doing eighty, ninety, hitting the ramp, plunging the button that set off the fireworks. Metal shaking like a can full of pennies, rattling like I was one of the coins, the blast so loud it blew out my earplugs, the car shooting up, hanging forever in its own eternal now, flipping over, banging down, flipping again, eternal slo-mo. No way to control it, just hope—flip—terror—bang. Along for the ride.

I'd landed upright. The guy who tried it the next year hadn't. Hadn't walked away. I could still see his car crunched down—

I gave my head a hard shake. In the bay the junker was shimmering. ‟Get out!” I yelled.

Already it had floated too long. If he pushed the door open the motion would break the stasis. Enough to sink it?

What was the choice? He couldn't just sit there.

If this had been a gag we'd have had an all-crew safety meeting beforehand. There'd be a big crane squatting next to me. We'd have welded heavy metal loops on the car. The safety crew'd be in the water, hidden from camera view; the instant it went under and Jed Elliot yelled, ‟Cut!” they'd be grabbing for the lines, hooking them to the loops. The crane would be grinding, yanking up line, and before the driver could exhale, he'd be breaking the surface. He'd be grabbing a line to be hoisted up to the dock amid the cheers of the crew. Otherwise, the crew'd get him up pronto and into the waiting ambulance.

The car was quivering, as if it were cold. I couldn't see through the back window. Frantically, now, I turned around, stared down the pier. No one was running toward us. The pier was too long. On shore they hadn't even seen what happened.

‟Mac! There's no one here! No one to help! You've got to get out yourself! Mac! Push the door open! Now!”

The car shimmied. Was he getting loose, pushing to open the door? Or was it settling?

I reached for my phone. My phone that was in my bag. My bag was—shit!—in the car.

‟Mac! Say something!”

Nothing!

He should be yelling. There should be people running out the pier. Boats, windsurfers, someone! How could this be? Us alone here?

Then the car sank.

Just like that.

I stared, gauged how many strokes it'd be from the pier. I ripped off my sweater, yanked off my shoes, piled my jeans on them. I almost dived when I remembered how shallow the bay was, so shallow they had to dredge shipping channels. Shallow everywhere but under the Golden Gate. I jumped.

Shallow is relative.

I thought my feet would hit bottom and I'd push back up. They didn't. There was nothing to push against. I hung there under water for what seemed like forever—suddenly here I was under the Golden Gate, down two hundred forty feet, down farther than I could ever get back up from, bones broken, organs punctured, breathing in water, water, with no chance of, no hope, the current smacking me into—

I kicked like mad for the surface, coming up so hard I popped out to my waist, gasping, coughing, squinting to see light. I was so relieved I couldn't move, until I sank back and in panic kicked again.

‟Tessa!” I yelled before I realized what I was saying. ‟Mac!”

‟Mac! Dammit, answer me!” What was the matter with him? Hit his head? Blacked out? Floating in the coffin of the car?

Where was the junker? Water covered it. I kicked hard, pushed up, looked for bubbles. Repeating it, I looked the other way.

There! I swam toward it. The water was freezing. The air iced my wet skin. Water splashed in my eyes and I kept blinking it away. I started to yell to him again and water sloshed in my mouth.

I could see it! The front bumper was sticking up, maybe ten feet below. The car was balanced like it was sitting on its trunk. Mac was lucky, so very lucky. He'd be there in the air pocket.

As long as it lasted.

Not long in that old car, in that position. Any movement I made—or he made, especially him—could knock it off whatever it was balanced on and slam it down to the bottom. If that happened—

I took a deep breath and dove.

The water was thick, muddy still. I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough to find the door. Had to surface.

I shot up, gasped, breathed, then dove again. I forced my eyes open despite the mud and the stinging. I kept squinting. The car was to my left; I dove farther, felt for the handle on the driver's side, couldn't find it.

I could see him inside, knocked out. Floating like a corpse. His head was by the passenger door. I'd never—

I shot up, burst out gasping. My lungs burned; my eyes were blurry. They hurt. I inhaled again, headed down on the other side of the car. At least I knew the passenger door was unlocked; I'd slammed it myself.

Something hit me. Knocked me into the car. Knocked the wind out of me.

Was it him? No. Too high up. Debris, something big. A hunk of the pier?

No air! I had to surface—now!

I gasped, fighting the panic of no oxygen. I couldn't let myself—How much air did Mac have? I'd have to get him free this time. I was still gasping.
I had to get under control.
Focus!
I spent precious moments making myself focus on my breathing. When I felt my heart slow, I dove. Opening my eyes, I grabbed the bumper and pulled myself down, drew my feet down, braced them against the bumper and propelled myself toward the door handle.

The water had rushed inside since my last dive. It was up to the dashboard. Mac floated—out cold—head against the windshield.

I grabbed the handle and pulled.

The door didn't move.

I pulled again.

Nothing.

My breath was gone. I had to surface.

But I couldn't.

Pulled.

Nothing.

I shot up, gasping.

Noise. People shouting.

No time. I inhaled and went down again, going through the same maneuver again. The water was up to Mac's nose. He had only seconds! I braced my feet, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

The door sprang open.

Water rushed into the car. The car jerked, slipped fast down to the bottom. Mud shot up. The recoil flung me back.

I couldn't see the car. It'd be full of water. There'd be no air pocket at all.

Everything in my body screamed: Get air! Gasp! My lungs ached. My vision was blurring. The mud turned the world brown.

I had to—

No time!

I moved downward, frantically squinting. No chance of spotting the bumpers now. I was going by feel. I circled my hands, kicked again. My lungs compacted to stones.

Metal! The roof? I circled my arms wider.

The door! Still open! I grabbed it, pulled myself down, in between the door and the car.

My lungs screamed.

I grabbed Mac around the middle and pulled him out, pushed off the car, and sent us up to the surface.

A woman and a guy were there, treading water. ‟Here! We'll take him!”

Gasping, coughing, I let him go. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Was he dead? Were they working on him? I couldn't see.

Suddenly I was shivering all over, knees pressing into chest, eyes fogged. I couldn't . . . couldn't even think.

Someone lowered a rope—the same one they'd used for Mac's body?—and gratefully I slipped it under my armpits and let myself be dragged upward like a body found floating under the bridge.