Objects in Mirror are Deader Than They Appear

Another victory. Michael Horne was greeted by an enthusiastic party of staff and colleagues as he returned to the office. His back was slapped, and he nailed at least two high fives; the last from a senior partner.

"Great job, Mike! Senator Hathaway found not guilty. You amaze even me."

"Thanks Linda. My centennial win. One-hundred and two cases, and one-hundred wins."

"That's why we're adding your name to our letter head. You'll only be a junior partner, but you've earned it. Congratulations."

Mike's tongue was held in check, but only for a moment. "I don't know what to say."

His office assistant shook his hand--a blond kid who took all the right pre-law classes, but couldn't seem to land a gig in law school. "Are you going to the Senator's celebration party?"

"Of course, Don, of course. You can come along too. We have a lot to celebrate. Winning the biggest case for this firm to date, my promotion. Hell, your promotion. When I move up you move up. Ta da."

Don smiled his white enamel smile. "I wouldn't miss it, sir."

"Great, see you there. Where the hell is there anyway?"

"Ah yes, I have maps. He's holding the party at his getaway on the beach in Pacific City. A two-hour haul from here, sir, but he has plenty of guest rooms and we're all welcome to stay the night."

"Yeah, that's a beautiful drive. Is it supposed to rain tonight?"

"Of course. This is Portland, sir."

"Great." He remembered his umbrella.

He left the law office and was beset by the press. Flashing cameras and microphones shoved into his face were annoying enough, but the rapid-fire questions were impossible to answer. He gave a brief monologue to the cameras about how he was happy justice was served and all that ends well. In the middle of the blitz of reporters, there was a man without a camera who pushed his way to the front.

"I hope you sleep at night," the man said as he tossed a clear liquid at Horne. It splashed his suit; the astringent smell of vodka stung his nose and eyes. The press didn't miss a moment of it.

Two police officers assigned to crowd control immediately put the man on the ground and in handcuffs. The police presence was bought and paid for by Black & Cutter, and worth every penny.

Horne had a reputation in Portland as the lawyer you called if you were arrested for driving while sauced. Forty-seven drinking and driving cases and only one loss. In that case, the accused had showed for court drunk and the chances for acquittal were as soused as the defendant himself.

He slept just fine after winning forty-five others, and there had been some rough ones. In one case, his client had t-boned a truck driven by a teenage girl. Stark was the client's name. The truck had been crushed on the driver's side, and the hood of Stark's car had severed the girl's neck. Her head rolled through the shattered windshield, and Stark spent 20 minutes pinned in the smoke, forced to stare into the eyes of his victim.

Another lawyer from the firm, Hank Everest, hurried him through the crowd to the parking garage. He was being pulled through the phalanx of television and newspaper story-chasers when he caught sight of a young woman. He knew she wasn't a reporter because she was standing on the sidewalk with the other gawkers. A young woman, still in her teens, not smiling, not jeering, not yelling, not holding a protest sign from Parents Hating Inebriated Motorists. She simply stood watching him. And she looked so familiar…

"There's your car, Mike," Hank said. "See you tonight."

"Thanks pal, I'll be there."

* * *

After he parked his silver McLaren in the garage, he hung the suit on a hanger and draped it over his closet door. A seven thousand dollar article of clothing was not the sort of thing you tossed away, no matter how lucrative your work.

He brushed on casual clothes and retreated to his desk. There he kept a journal-slash-scrapbook that highlighted the press reports related to his cases. He thumbed through to the Stark case, and found the picture of the young girl. "Local Teen Slain in Fatal Car Collision" read the headline. Her dark eyes and sultry smile full of promise made the black pixilation look alive. She had been seventeen years old when his client had rolled the girl's head onto his dashboard.

"Damn," he muttered. The girl in the crowd didn't look a lot like the dead girl. She looked identical to her.

* * *

He set his house alarm and revved the Mercedes. The garage door fell and secured itself behind him as he sped away.

Raindrops scattered from a sky not serious about rainmaking. The clouds cast a pallid glow that intensified the hue of the verdant wonderland of Route 6 as it wound about the Coastal Range.

The engine growled and the tires devoured the hills, undaunted by the inclines. Horne was in reasonably good spirits, although the elation of winning the Senator's case and being offered a partnership comingled with the unsettling events outside the offices. He made a commitment to himself that he would not let the memory of a dead girl ruin his night.

The traffic was relatively light, and he made it to Jordan Creek in decent time. The Mercedes treated the blacktop like a lover, and tenderly kissed the road as if accelerating toward a climax. Just past Jordan Creek, his vehicular lovemaking suffered coitus interruptus. The view of fog-hung trees in his mirror was replaced with flashing blue lights.

Horne pulled over and powered down his window. He held out his documentation, feeling the spray of rain on his arm.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" asked the trooper.

"Not really."

"Speeding. You were doing sixty-two in a forty-five. We don't post the limits to annoy you, but to keep your car from careening into the Wilson River. I'll be right back."

The trooper retreated to the dry safety of his patrol car, no doubt to look him up on the onboard computer. After a bleak eight minutes, the trooper returned, ticket book in hand. Horne powered down the window again.

"So, Mister Horne, outside of our notable senator, have you put any other drunks back behind the wheel lately?"

"Well sir," he replied, respectfully as such situations warrant, "I provide a valuable service to the community, offering legal counsel to the accused. Without defense attorneys, there can be no justice."

"Save it for the bar. You aren't the one who has to pull the mangled bodies out of the wrecks. I'm writing you a ticket, to help remind you that our traffic laws are there for your safety. You can mail in your fine, or if you wish to try your silver tongue in traffic court, the court date is written on the back. You have a nice day, counselor. Keep safe, and mind the speed limits."

"Thank you officer," Horne replied, snatching the ticket

Horne studied the trooper as the giant returned to his vehicle. He loathed leaving a traffic stop first because it put the cop directly behind him. He acted like he was adjusting his radio while keeping an eye on the patrol car glistening in his rearview mirror. Then he spotted her.

He gasped and jerked back into the leather. She was sitting in the backseat of the cruiser, as if she had been arrested for walking while dead. Had the trooper arrested the woman from the crowd back at the office? No, that was preposterous.

The trooper finished his paperwork and pulled the cruiser onto the road. Horne waited for the car to pass to get a good look at the woman in the back seat. What he saw was more horrific than seeing the girl from the crowd. The back seat was empty.

* * *

Horne arrived at the Senator's house, a Craftsman-style three-story with red cedar shake décor. He felt the cool kiss of the rain in a darkness that blocked the view of the ocean. But he could smell it, and hear the waves colliding with the coast.

The senator greeted him at the door, dressed in a red striped shirt, blue jeans, and a cowboy hat. The politician slapped Horne on the back, and then shook his hand vigorously. "Hey everybody, the star of the hour has arrived. You pulled my britches out of the fire."

"That's what I'm here for."

"I got a man grilling burgers, fresh buffalo flown in from Montana. Make sure you stop by the bar and get yourself a drink. No better way to celebrate a DUI acquittal than with a cocktail."

Horne, of course, obeyed. The bartender mixed him a sea breeze. Stoli Elit vodka blended with grapefruit and cranberries squeezed fresh made for a smooth cocktail, and Horne enjoyed several during the course of the evening.

The vodka turned the boring stories of political and legal exploits into exciting sagas of valor as the night unfolded. Horne excreted the import with the same rapidity he consumed it. He noticed his urine had developed a fruity scent.

Midnight ensued, and as the hands of the oversized clock behind the bar touched on twelve, the celebration started to break up. Handshaking commenced, and an exchange of "take care" and "drive safely" erupted by unspoken cue. The senator offered his spare rooms to several of the inebriated guests, Horne among them.

"Now buddy, I can't have my star lawyer getting arrested for driving while snookered on the day of my acquittal."

"Don't worry, Bart." They had quit the pretense of formal titles at an undetermined point in the party, largely at the senator's insistence. "I slowed down hours ago, and I'm fine." He wasn't lying; he had swallowed but two drinks since ten o'clock, although they were sloshing around his guts with the seven drinks he'd enjoyed during the previous hours.

"All right buddy, but you do be careful, okay?"

"You got it. I won't even speed. The roads are probably slick and I wouldn't want the guardrail getting mixed up with my paint job."

* * *

He settled into the cold leather and fired up the Mercedes. The two hour drive would bring sobriety.

He pulled past the guard post at the gate and immediately thought about the spooky dead woman. He hoped her not crashing the party was a trend that would continue for the rest of his life. All the same, he thought he might mention it to his therapist. The visions were probably a reaction to stress. Nothing to be concerned about. That's what she'd say.

The drive to Tillamook was blissfully dead-girl free, and police-officer free too. He turned from Route 101 to Route 6 and began the long haul over the Coast Range. The fog had given up the low-flying stunts and moved on to more impressive trapeze acts, wafting around his car like a river splashing a jutting log.

He made it six miles south of Jordan Creek when he first caught sight of the Dodge Ram. It was dark in color, perhaps blue or black, and it was closing the distance between his rear bumper and its front bumper.

"Pass or back off, asshole."

Instead, it loomed on the Mercedes, headlights flooding Horne's car with glare.

"Shit, asshole, you trying to give me a proctology exam? How's my colon look? Like your face I bet." Horne applied pressure to the gas pedal and the engine roared alive.

The truck matched speed, and Horne held an eye on his predator in the mirrors. He thought about pulling over and calling Highway Patrol, but the last thing he wanted was to be close to another cop tonight. Not with his reputation resting on his breath. Maybe he would find a kind place to pull over and let the prick roll on. If the truck stopped too, he was sure he could take it in a race.

The guard rail disappeared, the shoulder widened, and he tapped his brakes, signaled, and pulled over. The truck backed off just enough to let the silver car pull to the right.

The truck never passed. Horne whipped his head around. It was gone.

"What a cocksucker!" The cold rain spat through the open window and refreshed his face. "I don't have time for this..." He resumed driving toward Jordan Creek.

A moment later, the truck reappeared in his rear view mirror. Horne stepped on the accelerator, and the Mercedes fired off, leaving the truck behind. The vantage point of a hairpin turn allowed him a smart view of the road behind. The truck was missing.

"Ha, take that, shithead. You can't keep up. Don't fuck with the big dog if you got a short chain." As he said it, he spotted the truck in his rearview, keeping pace. "Son of a..."

He stepped harder, and the needle flicked past seventy-five. These speeds were dangerous on a dry night and this road was notorious for eating cars and their passengers. His heart drummed and thoughts flicked through his blurry mind. Hadn't the Petrosian girl been driving a blue Dodge Ram when she was killed by the professor?

He pulled hard around a curt bend in the road, but the truck stayed with him. Hard as he tried, he couldn't see through the truck's windshield in the dark and rain. He wanted to see what sort of asshole pulled a stunt like this. No, you want to see if the driver is dead. A dead teenage girl, right? Maybe one without a head.

The road untangled a bit, and Horne reached down to turn off the radio. He didn't see the puddle until he glanced back. The tires sprayed a flume of water and the Mercedes spun. It happened in less than three seconds, but it felt like a slow-motion whirlwind of darkness and flashing headlights.

The Mercedes took a piece of fence along as it flew over the side. Horne thought of a joke: he might need a new paint job after all.

The car rolled along the embankment and the seatbelt cinched his body into the seat. His groan was cut short when the airbags deployed.

The wreck settled at the bottom of the ravine in a shallow section of the Wilson River. The undercarriage took a lazy washing from the rain. Horne was wracked with throbbing pain that played no favorites when it came to his various pieces and parts. Falling from the saddle at a dude ranch a few years ago didn't compare to the agony he now experienced, suspended upside down in what remained of his silver flying phallus.

The airbags deflated, and the river rushed in, washing his face and arm. He tried to unbuckle his seatbelt, but a sharp pain jolted from elbow to neck. He foraged pockets within reach for his cell phone, but the search was unsuccessful. He craned his neck and saw that the door was crimped and twisted, leaving no room for escape. The passenger door was off limits thanks to a buckled roof. Then he looked out to the river, scanning for any help, and he saw her.

She was standing across the river on the far bank. The keys to the Ram dangled from her right hand and she smiled at him. She leaned forward.

He realized that it was only her head tilting toward him; her torso remained as it had. She was kissing her own breasts when the head rolled down her body and splashed into the water. It bobbed from the dark surge and floated directly toward him, unaffected by the river's current.

He screamed.

He thrashed, trying to get the seatbelt loosened, but his broken arm harrowed him. Finally, his blind fumbling released the belt with a click. His body slid deep into the algid stream, and spears of agony pierced his thigh and back. He howled, but the muted clamor only blubbered to the surface in a flurry of angry froth. The severed head grinned into the window and everything paused for him--the rushing water, the need to breathe, the ability to think. He stared at that head floating so near his own, all blue-lipped and wan. The eyes jerked open. He gasped and kicked his feet to push himself away.

He succeeded, but only to wedge himself into a position that forced his head below the water. He couldn't move back or forward and his chest ached from holding breath. The head sank, slipping into the flooded interior, and he struggled and writhed, but couldn't escape it. It pressed itself against his face, and he thought of how his client had spent a third of an hour looking into these same dead eyes. His lips pouted and his lungs tried to expel their used cargo. Her black lips kissed him.

He gave into the pain, breathed deeply, and let the water rush into his body. All cold and wet and stinging.

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