Road Rage

by Lynne Conrad

Cold fear seized Lucy as she mashed the Mustang’s gas pedal further down; her speed now hovered at eighty-eight. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she was terrified by the man in the black Ford truck that was speeding toward her. She had peeled away from the curb in front of the nail salon when this truck had pulled up beside her, the driver blowing the horn, waving his fist at her and shouting hoarse curses at her out of the open window.

“Shut up and move on! I didn’t do anything to you!” Lucy screamed out her window, but his response was to rev up the truck’s engine as he drove alongside her up the two-way street.

People walking along the sidewalks stopped and stared, pointing at them. Finally, the driver slowed and fell back, and she drove on.

Believing the incident was over, she dismissed it from her mind, until she turned to go home on Highway 85, when he zoomed up on her bumper again. Now she wished she had stayed on Highway I-11 where traffic was heavier, but that highway was the long way home for her. Highway 85 was a two-lane road that wound through countryside scattered with cornfields and pastures dotted with cows. Houses were few and far between, and most were set back off the road, hidden by thick, dense pines.

Wind from her open window whipped her long red hair around her head, but despite the cooler afternoon air, sweat glistened on her forehead and rolled from her armpits down her sides under her sleeveless blouse. Glancing up in the rearview mirror again, she realized that most of his face was hidden by a baseball cap and sunglasses. A wave of fear swelled in her chest, and she decided to call for help.

“Jerk!” she yelled out of the window.

Dumping her purse upside down, she shook everything out. Lipsticks, mascara, pens and other items fell onto the seat beside her. A tissue was sucked out the window as her hand rummaged around in the clutter until her fingers closed around her cell phone. She tried to dial 911, while keeping the car on the road.

He must have realized what she was doing, because he slammed the truck into the Mustang’s bumper as a warning. She jerked forward, the phone flying from her hand, landing between the passenger seat and the door.

“You stupid jackhole, leave me alone!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, tears welling up in her eyes. Why was he doing this? She was just a fifth-grade school teacher with a husband and her Cocker Spaniel, Max. She hadn’t done anything to this freak.

Anderson Lane, and home, was ahead on the right. Please, please, let Chris be home, she silently prayed.

She wished there was some way she could lose him before turning off. She certainly didn’t want him to know where she lived. Suddenly, Mable’s house, with the tree-lined circle drive, popped to her mind, and she whizzed past Anderson Lane until she saw Mable’s mailbox about 500 feet ahead. She slowed just a little when she wheeled into the graveled driveway, skidding on loose gravel, then speeding around the drive, dodging various elongated concrete flowerpots. Hearing a sharp crack, she peered in the rearview mirror.

The huge truck had navigated the turn as easily as the Mustang but had slid sideways, taking out the mailbox and giving her a small window, hopefully time to get away.

With a flash of hope, she sped toward Anderson Lane. A couple more miles, across the stone bridge and then home. Her plan was to run inside and call the cops. If Chris was home, it would be over for the man in the truck.

The bridge was just in sight, when to her left, she saw the truck bouncing across the cornfield, leaving splayed stalks of corn in its wake. Oh God! Her throat constricted, her heart pounded in her chest. Now her hands were sweating as she gripped the steering wheel. He’s going to cut me off! Briefly she thought about turning around, but that meant slowing down too much and he was already headed toward her.

The truck leaped from the field onto the lane, racing to intercept her at the bridge. Lucy sped up, but it was too late. He arrived first and, as she approached, she realized what he was about to do. She hit her brakes, sliding to a stop and braced herself for the impact. Thankfully, the impact wasn’t at full speed, just enough to smash in her door. She jerked sideways, her head bouncing off the door frame and hitting the steering wheel.

Then everything was still as the smoking car came to rest against the guard rail. Blood flowed from a cut on her forehead, and her head throbbed with pain. She heard the truck door open and slam shut, heavy footsteps coming toward her. Through blurred vision, she saw a black-clad figure hurrying toward her. She grabbed at the door handle, pushing fruitlessly against the door.

A strong hand grabbed her face, fingernails digging into her cheek, and wrenched it sideways toward the window. With her left hand, Lucy grabbed the surprisingly thin wrist. Gasping, Lucy stared back at the face that had leaned into the window, up close and personal.

It wasn’t a man at all that had run her down, it was a woman wearing a black t-shirt and army pants complete with army boots. Her cap had hid the fact that she had long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face and body were perfectly trim.

“Why me?” she whispered, seeing her reflection in the other driver’s sunglasses. The woman removed them. Lucy felt a sickening roll in the pit of her stomach.

“Yes, I see you know who I am.”

“Rhonda, you... underhanded piece of trash!” Lucy blurted out, anger rising in her chest.

Rhonda tensed and squeezed Lucy’s face, her sharp fingernails digging deeper into Lucy’s cheek, causing intense pain to rupture across it. Rhonda’s voice rose a pitch higher.

“Trash?! How dare you!”

“I dare, because now I know the rumors are true that you were chasing my husband.”

“No, he was chasing after me. I just let him catch me,” Rhonda hissed in Lucy’s face.

“I’m sure you didn’t run too fast. So what now? And just what was all the road rage about?”

Rhonda laughed, a low throaty laugh, still gripping Lucy’s face. “When you are dead, Chris and I will live, uh to use an old adage, happily ever after. The road rage was a ruse to avert the police from sniffing around us, when witnesses remember the driver of a black truck yelling obscenities at you. Everyone will shake their heads and confess how sad that your life was ended by a man with road rage.” Rhonda shook her head, mocking sadness, her lips compressed under a frown.

In the seat next to her, Lucy felt around the pile of objects for a weapon. Her fingers wrapped around a piece of thin metal and with a sudden, downward slash, she ripped the nail file across Rhonda’s face, blood spewing from the gash.

Screaming curses, Rhonda grabbed her cut face with both hands. Blood gushed from between her fingers. Turning, she stomped toward the truck, swung up in the cab and slammed the truck into gear. Lucy heard the engine roar to life, knowing what Rhonda was about to do.

Rhonda rammed the Ford into the Mustang, pushing it toward the bridge railing.

“No!” Lucy screamed at her. “Stop!” She stomped the brake pedal to the floor to no avail. She could hear the groaning of the metal as the truck pressed against it. White smoke rolled from the truck’s back tires.

Lucy continued screaming as her door began to cave in and press against her thigh. Then the railing snapped apart and her car was pushed to the edge and teetered there. Backing the truck up, Rhonda pulled away from the Mustang and drove across the bridge and then stopped again. Weeping, Lucy rolled her head to the side to watch as Rhonda strode back toward her, blood flowing in rivulets down her chin and onto her t-shirt.

As the car tilted downward, inching past the split railing, Lucy silently prayed. The groans of the car grew louder, and it was rocking unsteadily when Rhonda stuck her head through the window.

“You might think you will live happy forever, but you won’t. Not with murder hanging over your head. Besides, you won’t get away with this,” Lucy angrily chided, feeling the car slide more.

“Honey, I’ve already gotten away with it. I just thought I would come back and help send you on your way.” With that, Rhonda shoved on the car.

As the Mustang moaned and began to slide, Lucy whipped her arm out and grabbed Rhonda’s ponytail, wrapping it around her hand.

“Let go!” Rhonda screamed in panic, grabbing at Lucy’s hand, but Lucy held on tight as the Mustang’s last tire lost its grip on the railing, and the car nosedived toward the river below, the shrieks of both women converging into one long scream.