Cox parked his four-year-old Mustang casually at the curb and climbed out. He went striding toward the apartment complex. He sprinted up the outside stairs and along the second floor ramp, stopping at a door marked 30C. He knocked. Shifted from foot to foot. Knocked again.515Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgXmDeFKsAD
The door opened a few inches and a young, dark-haired woman looked out at him. "Whaddya want?"
"Hi. Is Hikaru in? Tell him it's Cox."
"What?"
"Cox, Ronnie Cox."
The girl's brow wrinkled and her head ticked from side to side. "You got the wrong apartment, mister," she said. "There's no one here by that name."
Cox took a step back and studied the brass numbers on the door. "Actually, I've got the right place, ma'am. This is 30C."
"It is, yes. But these buildings all sorta look alike, y'know."
"Yeah, they do. This is 2395 Brazoria, isn't it?"
"Yes...."
"Okay, then Hikaru Sulu lives here, at 2395 Brazoria, Apartment 30C."
The girl frowned at him. "Is this a joke or what?"
"Hikaru's a friend of mine. I've been over here dozens of times. He lives in this apartment."
"He doesn't," insisted the girl. "I do." She began to shut the door.
Cox wedged his foot in, brush salesman style. "Hold it right there. I'm not a maniac and I'm not a mugger. I'm looking for my friend, and he lives here. Really."
"Get your foot outta my doorway," the angry girl ordered, "or I'll call the fuzz."
"Look, I haven't been able to get ahold of him for awhile. In fact, the phone company says his number's been disconnected," said Cox, keeping his foot in place. "Maybe he moved. How long have you been living here."
"Two years. Now will you...."
"That can't be," said Cox. "I know Hikaru was still living in this dump a few months ago. I can prove I've been in this apartment before. I'll describe it for you. It has two rooms, a living room with a dining area and a bedroom."
"So do a hundred other apartments in this complex."
"Right. But in Hikaru's there's modern furniture. There's a brown leather couch and a glass coffee table. And beige carpeting, maybe tan. Some light brownish color anyway."
The girl stepped back and let the door swing open. "All right, I'll let you take a look. Then I expect you to get the hell outta my face!"
Cox crossed the threshold. He stopped a few steps into the room. There was no carpeting, beige or otherwise. The floors were a dark parquet. The furniture was antique, the couch covered in a flowered print. On the pine coffee table was a sprawl of magazines. He walked over to them, picked one up. It had a subscription tag on it, with the name Alain Henriette and the apartment address. And the magazine was five weeks old.
He dropped the magazine to the table. "You honestly don't know Hikaru?"
"Never heard of the guy," she said. "And if he's anything like you, I'm damn glad of that."
"Very interesting," said Cox. He went to the door. "Nice to meet you----Alain." He stepped outside, and she slammed the door at his back.
Cox sat in his car for a moment, gazing at the apartment building. With a scowl on his face, he started the engine and pulled away.
It was a hot afternoon, and the highway into Houston shimmered. There wasn't much traffic.
I've known old reporters who pickled their brains with booze, Cox said to himself. But I don't think I'm quite there yet. Hikaru did live there and now he's vanished. Nobody, though, can vanish without a trace. Going to have to do some....
He realized that the Mustang was accelerating rapidly, even though his foot was only resting lightly on the gas pedal. It zoomed from 55 to 60 to 65 to 70 miles an hour.
Cox lifted his foot from the gas entirely.
The speed increased to 75 mph!
"Holy shit!" he remarked, pumping the brake frantically.
The brakes didn't work!
The speed was now up to 85 mph!
He was roaring along the highway now, zigzagging in and out of traffic, darting from lane to lane, to avoid smashing into another vehicle.
Sweat dotted his face and hands.
The speed increased to 90!
Wind seemed to be roaring in his ears. Behind him other drivers were honking their horns.
The Mustang was shivering. The tires were smoking, sending an acrid smell into the car.
Keeping one hand gripped on the wheel, Cox yanked the emergency brake.
The speed increased to 95!
Cox turned the ignition switch off and jerked out the key. It had no effect on the careening automobile.
"Shit, oh shit," he muttered.
Slam!
He sideswiped another car as he went whizzing by. The Mustang fishtailed, and slid into another lane.
Brakes squealed. Horns barked at him.
He got his car under control, but was shooting along at nearly 100 miles an hour now.
He tried shifting gears, throwing the switch into park, reverse, neutral. Nothing worked.
The speed increased to 110!
Cox felt as if he were the car, in some kind of pinball game, roaring at the cars head, passing them in a flash, nearly smashing into them. He began pounding on the horn, then decided to keep one hand pressed on it.
The horn sounded like a long, low scream. Or possibly that was him.
There was no way to stop what was happening. The car screamed along the gleaming highway.
The speed increased to 120!
The other cars barely had time to dodge him.
Cox noticed something. The highway started to parallel the bayou area. He sucked in a deep breath and gave the steering wheel a very careful, small turn.515Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEPs7JBJd3v
The Mustang nearly took flight. It shot across lanes and dug two smoking ruts across the grass of the safety island. For an instant he was rushing in front of the traffic coming from the opposite direction.
Then the car left the road. It chopped across a weedy patch of ground and sailed through the air before it nosed down and smacked into the muddy brown water.
Water poured into the open windows.
Cox wrestled with the seat belt and got it off. Keep calm, don't panic, his brain advised him. But he felt like opening his mouth and screaming.
He couldn't get the car door open!
He felt something enormous pressing at his chest, as if some great creature were hugging him, trying to force him to let out the pitifully small amount of air he had remaining in his lungs.
Keep calm, don't panic, he thought.515Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLKC16y2yN0
He twisted, shoved and got himself halfway out of the car, through the open window. He flapped his arms against the murky water and began to rise. Suddenly, though, he was yanked back.
His pants' leg was caught on something---the door handle, maybe.
An impulse was growing---an impulse to let out the air that was burning in his lungs, sending needles of pain through his body.
He tugged and spun in the water.
Then, he wasn't sure why, he was rising again, his leg free of the car.
It took forever, it seemed, forever and a little more to get to the surface. He climbed and climbed, his feet kicking, his arms churning at the water.
Finally there was sunlight, and then muddy brown. Finally there was air to breathe. He let out his breath and then gulped in air. It was like drinking one quart of gin all at once. He felt woozy, like doubling up.
He didn't. He forced himself to swim, and in a few moments he was back on the weedy shore. He got as far as the ruts his deceased Mustang had plowed into the earth. Dropping to his knees, he rested.515Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOWurVHGLkO
Cars had stopped on the highway above. People were making their way down to him.
Cox realized that it had probably only been one minute or so ago that he'd shot off the road. It didn't feel like that, though.
"You okay, dude?" asked the perspiring black man who reached him first. "What the hell happened.
"That," said Cox in a very dim voice, "is one damn good question."
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