Driver's Dead Read online

  Driver’s Dead

  Peter Lerangis

  For Nick and Joe, always

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  A Biography of Peter Lerangis

  Prologue

  Nguyen

  HOT.

  She is hot.

  He cannot stop thinking about her.

  He lifts his fingers from his computer, but the rain keeps on tapping outside his window.

  Time to go.

  He looks up at the photo again. It’s on his wall, just below the Lamborghini poster and to the right of the Ferrari shot.

  She’s in profile. Close up. Her smile is amazing. He wants that smile. All for himself. Now. Before he leaves.

  He closes his eyes and concentrates. The rumbling sound begins.

  Move.

  It hasn’t happened. He knows it. Sweat tickles his forehead. His teeth grind together.

  Move NOW!

  He is vibrating. He is going to pass out.

  Dumb idea. Rob is waiting for him in the rain. He has to go.

  He opens his eyes. For a moment he sees nothing. The room is red and black.

  Then everything clears.

  Nguyen looks at the photo again.

  He grins. It has worked.

  Gwen is still smiling. But she looks different.

  She has turned.

  She is now facing him.

  Virgil

  “He’s not coming.” Virgil Garth looks up the road. A block away, a street lamp is steaming against the cold April drizzle.

  No one is going to meet him and Rob on a night like this. No one in his right mind.

  Least of all a guy who’s been invited for a “talk” with Rob Maxson. A talk about going out with the wrong girl.

  A shakedown. That’s what they called this in crime novels.

  This whole idea is crazy.

  But Virgil isn’t about to say that. Not to Rob. No way.

  “He’ll come.” Rob leans against the car. As he hunches his shoulders, his face sinks into his black leather jacket collar. He lifts a cigarette, his hand cupped over the top, and takes a drag. His fingernails are black with axle grease.

  In the street lamp’s dim ash-gray light, Rob’s bony face looks like a skull. Virgil wonders why girls fall all over him. Why Gwen Mitchell, of all people? She’s hot. Red hair, killer smile. But Rob? Okay, the green eyes. Girls think those are cool. But that face looks as if someone had chiseled it out of slate in a hurry with a rough blade.

  Maybe if Gwen could see Rob now, she’d have second thoughts.…

  But Gwen isn’t the one due to show up. Her new quote-unquote boyfriend is. The Vietnamese guy. Nguyen.

  Nguyen the Meek and Invisible. Nguyen of the plaid shirts and pocket protectors, who has been drooling after Gwen since sophomore year. Who tried to win her with … magic tricks. That’s right, folks. Making newspapers catch fire on the other side of the room, levitating ashtrays, making objects disappear from photos.

  What a way to get a girl. Very cool. Cutting-edge sexy. Zzzzzzz.

  Virgil remembers Gwen talking about the tricks. She was laughing. Rolling her eyes. Hysterical.

  The worst thing is, Nguyen thinks it worked. Gwen’s been glomming all over him. Why? She thinks Rob will be jealous.

  Dumb move. Rob couldn’t care less about her.

  Virgil, on the other hand, could. If Gwen had to glom, why couldn’t she have picked him?

  Rob blows the smoke away from Virgil, but the wind pushes it back.

  Virgil coughs. He walks around the rusted Toyota and enters the passenger side. The car smells of Old Spice and wet dog.

  But it’s dry. It beats rain and cigarette smoke. Well, just barely.

  Virgil rolls down his window an inch. “Where’d you get this junker?”

  “Borrowed it.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Someone’s.”

  Virgil rubs his forehead. “Someone you know?”

  He hears Rob exhale, sees him shift weight from one hip to the other. No answer.

  Oh, great. Accessory to a grand larceny. Aiding and abetting an unlicensed driver. Juvenile court … or are sixteen-year-olds tried as adults in New York State?

  “Don’t you think this whole thing is a little … you know, extreme?” Virgil says.

  The keys hurtle through the window and land in his lap with a loud jangle. Virgil glances in the rearview mirror. Rob is booking.

  “Hey!” Virgil scrambles out of the car. “Where are you going? I don’t know how to drive!”

  “Walk,” Rob says without turning.

  “It’s, like, two miles. In the rain. Don’t leave me here. This was your idea!”

  Rob spins around. He flicks his cigarette and it hisses as it lands in a puddle. “You think I’m doing this for me?”

  It’s a good question, but Virgil doesn’t answer.

  “You wanted me to do you a favor, right?” Rob barges on. “So here I am, standing in the rain like a jackass. Why? Because you can’t get a girl by yourself “

  “I just wanted you to, you know, talk to her—”

  “If I talk to her, she thinks I’m in love. I’ll never get rid of her.” Rob comes face to face with Virgil. “I am doing this for you. Listen, you want Gwen or not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want Viet Nerd out of her life?”

  Virgil winces. Terrific. Rob’s a racist, too. “Look, let’s just go home, okay? I mean, I don’t hate Nguyen like you do, so why don’t you and he—”

  “Don’t hate him? Look at your history, dude. We lose a war to these people—and then they come in and take our jobs. My dad’s job.”

  “I don’t want to get into this, Rob. Just tell me what you’re going to do to him.”

  “It’s like I told you—a talk. Nothing too crazy—a little drive, a little conversation—and boom, he gets the message. He stays away from Gwen … and you can move in. Cool?”

  Before Virgil can answer, he hears the clicking of a ten-speed bike behind Rob.

  Nguyen Trang rides into the pool of light under the street lamp. He stops and gets off his bike.

  Go. Go now! Virgil has the urge to scream it out.

  But that would really get Rob angry. Virgil isn’t stupid enough to do that.

  Rob sees the look in his eyes and turns around. “Heyyy, Trang, how’s every little thang?”

  He meets Nguyen outside the light, where it fades into darkness, and throws his arm around his shoulder. “Come for a ride with Virgil and me.”

  Nguyen smiles uncertainly as he looks at the Toyota. “This is the car you found in the woods? You said it was a Ferrari or something.”

  What an alibi. Rob knows Nguyen is a car fanatic.

  “I meant a Toyota.” Rob leads Nguyen to the passenger side and opens the door. “Anyway, I got it running.”

  Nguyen looks at him suspiciously. “Yeah? So why didn’t you pick me up at my house?”

  “Sorry,” Rob says with a laugh. “Come on,
get in.”

  “Where am I supposed to leave my bike?”

  “Anywhere. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Nguyen drops his bike. Rob pushes him into the car and gestures toward Virgil to get in, too. Then he runs around to the driver’s side.

  In seconds Rob is peeling down the winding road, deeper into the wooded area between Port Lincoln and Fenimore Village. The car’s old windshield wipers flatten the raindrops into thick, wide curves.

  “Where are you going?” Nguyen asks.

  Rob grins. He yanks the steering wheel to the left. Nguyen’s shoulder jams against Virgil’s.

  Now Virgil feels the heat of Nguyen’s gaze. He turns away from the questioning eyes and puts on his seat belt.

  “Turn on my headlights,” Rob says.

  “What?” Nguyen asks.

  “You know, just by thinking about it. I hear you can do that.”

  Nguyen stares at him. “Who told you—”

  “Tell us how you feel about Gwen,” Rob interrupts.

  “Is that what this is about?” Nguyen snaps. “What do you care how I feel?”

  “You love her, huh?” Rob says in a mocking tone.

  “‘What’s it to you?”

  “What’s it to her? Not much, I think.” Rob laughs. “Right, Virgil?”

  Virgil freezes. But he hasn’t heard the question.

  A horn is blaring.

  Two headlights are bearing down on them. Swerving from side to side.

  Rob’s eyes widen. He leans on the horn. “YO! YOU’RE IN THE WRONG LANE!”

  Rob slams on the brake. The car starts to skid. He pulls the steering wheel to the left. The headlights follow them.

  Virgil’s knuckles whiten as he grips the dashboard. The car spins out on the wet road. When Rob gains control, a metal guardrail looms in front of them.

  Beyond that, the road drops off into a steep ravine.

  “STRAIGHTEN OUT!” Virgil yells.

  But the blast of the other car’s horn drowns him out. Along with the sound of the brakes. And the shrieking of Nguyen Trang.

  With a jarring smash, the car hits the guardrail. Virgil sees a flash of red in the windshield.

  Then he blacks out.

  Chapter 1

  KIRSTEN WILKES

  PRIVATE JOURNAL!!

  PENALTY FOR READING: DEATH

  SEPTEMBER 22

  Three thousand dollars. That’s how much the accident is going to cost. Because I hit a tree with Dad’s car at, like, two miles an hour. Can you believe it? The tree had more damage than the car!

  Dad was mad. He almost had a heart attack because I hit it on the passenger side, where he was sitting. But he says the insurance company will pay for it, so I shouldn’t worry about the money part.

  It doesn’t matter. I feel like an idiot!

  AUUUUUUGGGGHHH!

  I will never never NEVER learn to drive well. You know what happened in driver’s ed Monday? Mr. Busk announced a driving contest and handed out some flyers about it. When I took one, my classmates burst out laughing. Laughing!

  None of this would be happening if we still lived in the city. I wouldn’t even have to learn how to drive—ever! I’d just take buses and subways.

  Whose idea was it to move to Port Lincoln, anyway?

  NOT MINE!

  Dad asked me again if I would mow the lawn today. HA! I said no way, José. We’ve only been here three weeks and he’s already forgotten the agreement. I move to Long Island without complaining if I never have to mow a lawn or walk a dog.

  That’ll last, oh, a month or two. (No such word as “never” in this family!)

  Might as well live it up while I can, huh?

  Rachel did not write today. I could die waiting for a letter from her. I had no mail at all. No one from New York misses me. Just tons of catalogs for the Lorillards. One of them actually said, FREE GIFT FOR YOUR NEW HOME.

  Well, they only lived here for two months. It was a new home for them.

  I wonder why they moved.

  Also, we got something else for the Trang family (the ones who lived here before the Lorillards).

  I still get the creeps when I think of them. I told Mom today I thought it was bad luck to move into a house where somebody died. She just smiled and said he didn’t die in the house. Duh. Nat thinks it’s cool. He keeps saying he hears a beating heart under the floorboards, like in “The Tell-Tale Heart.” He says that was why the Lorillards moved.

  Was I such a jerk at twelve?

  I don’t think so.

  Okay, here’s my big confession of the day. I, Kirsten Wilkes, actually decided I liked the suburbs for a few minutes. I think it’s because I’m getting to know this girl, Maria Sirocco, at school. She’s practically the first person who said a word to me this whole three weeks! She has this thick, gorgeous, jet-black hair, and she wears the coolest clothes. She’s kind of a loudmouth, but she’s funny and nice. I think we’re going to be friends. Yeah! She has a boyfriend named Virgil. He has short brown hair, braces, and glasses. Smart, I think. And quiet (unlike Maria). But he seems like a nice guy.

  So there is hope, after all.

  Now if only I didn’t have to take driver’s ed.

  Chapter 2

  KIRSTEN WILKES SAT SILENTLY IN the backseat of the driver’s ed car. Next to her, Sara Gartman exhaled with boredom. Gwen Mitchell was reading a magazine and chewing fruity-smelling gum on the other side of Sara.

  Up front, Maria Sirocco began pulling the steering wheel to the right.

  “Signal,” Mr. Busk rasped from the passenger seat.

  Some voice. Like he cleaned his vocal cords with a bottle brush.

  Mr. Busk thought he was still in the Marines. At least it seemed that way. And despite his potbelly and receding hairline, he looked fit enough to storm a beachhead, or whatever Marines did. Rumor had it he lost his voice in the Vietnam War, along with some of his sanity. When he returned, he kind of snapped—left his wife and disappeared for a few years. Then he came back and the school happily hired him to be a driver’s ed and auto shop teacher.

  Anyway, that was Maria’s version of the story. Of course, Maria also said Mr. Busk used napalm for an aftershave.

  The back of Mr. Busk’s neck reminded Kirsten of rare roast beef. Pinkish-red, juicy, marbled with white lines. His short brown hair was stiff and sparse, like cut grass in a drought. You could scour pans by turning them upside down and rubbing them on his head.

  Bottle brush, napalm, roast beef, dry grass, scouring pad. Mm, what a guy.

  Kirsten must have been grinning, because when Mr. Busk turned around, he said, “I’m glad you find this amusing, Kirsten. Now come up front and entertain the rest of us.”

  Oops. Maria had parked already. Sara and Gwen had taken their turns before Maria. Kirsten was the last driver today.

  She opened the door and got out. Maria was standing there, waiting. “You’ll be great,” she said with a smile.

  From inside the car a voice chirped, “Pray for your life.”

  “Cram it, Gwen,” Maria called out. Then she whispered to Kirsten, “Don’t worry. I’ve got my gym bag. If she starts gasping like the last time, I’ll stuff a sweat sock down her throat.”

  “Right.” Kirsten forced a nervous laugh. She sank into the driver’s seat as Maria got in back.

  With a sigh, Kirsten fastened her seat belt. Oh, well, at least it was last period. If she got into an accident, they could all go to the hospital without missing any classes.

  “Okay, Kristen,” Mr. Busk said, “ease onto the street. Then take us back to the school.”

  “Kirsten.”

  “Kirsten. That’s what I meant. Go.”

  Three weeks, and he was still having trouble with the name. Was “Kirsten” that unusual?

  Turn key. Depress gas pedal.

  How would he feel if she called him Mr. Bust? Mr. Dust? Tusk?

  Foot on brake. Shift to Drive.

  Alcohol. She could smell it. Just faintl
y.

  Mr. Soused. That would be more like it.

  Foot on gas pedal. Gently turn steering wheel to the left …

  Screeeeeeeek!

  The car tore away from the curb. Kirsten felt her body lurch backward against the seat.

  “Owwww,” moaned Sara.

  “Easy!” Mr. Busk barked. “You got lead weights in your shoe?”

  Kirsten lifted her foot and everyone jerked forward.

  Gwen was giggling. Sara was sucking her teeth in disgust. Mr. Busk stared stonily ahead.

  Kirsten felt about two inches tall. She wanted to drive the car over a cliff and forget about the whole thing.

  Instead she pressed her foot lightly on the pedal and gripped the steering wheel so hard, her arms hurt. As she eased into the right lane, a pickup whooshed by. Someone inside it let out a wolf whistle. Kirsten’s concentration faltered.

  Intersection ahead. Just over the railroad tracks. Gate is up, light is green. Yeah! One left turn, and she’d be on the road to school.

  The light turned to yellow.

  Slow down.

  Kirsten put her foot on the brake.

  Honnnnnnnk!

  A huge, angry-looking front grille snarled at Kirsten through the rearview mirror.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She stepped on the gas. The car shot over the train tracks and toward the intersection as the light flicked to red.

  “It’s red it’s red it’s red it’s red” Gwen gasped in the backseat.

  The car skidded to a stop, its engine groaning. Mr. Busk’s back was arched. His foot was pressing down his brake, which was connected by a long metal bar to Kirsten’s.

  Mr. Busk unclenched his teeth. “Would you get your foot off the gas, please?”

  Kirsten did, and the engine groan stopped.

  “Oh my lord …” Sara muttered.

  Mr. Busk was massaging his forehead. “Kirsten, when the light turns green, take us back alive, will you?”

  Sweat formed an itchy ring beneath Kirsten’s hairline. She approached Port Lincoln High School at seventeen miles per hour.

  “Way to go,” encouraged Maria softly from behind.

  “Uh, can we get there today, thank you very much?” Gwen remarked.

  Thud.

  “Ow! Maria hit me!”

  Mr. Busk ignored them. Kirsten smiled as she signaled to turn into the school driveway.