Other Days, Other Eyes

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At first the other car was just a blood-red speck in the dwindling perspectives of the highway, but even at that distance—and in spite of the glare caused by the keyhole-shaped iris of his left eye—Garrod was able to identify the year and the model. It was a 1982 Stiletto. Prompted by an illogical apprehension, he eased his foot off the throttle and his own car began slowing from its 90 mph cruise. Even with the smoothness of his movement the turbine gave a moan of mechanical disappointment on the over-run.

“What’s the matter?” His wife was predictably and instantly alert.

“Nothing.”

“But why did you slow down?” Esther liked to keep a close watch on all her property, in which category she included her husband, and her stiffly-lacquered broad-brimmed hat made scanning movements like those of a radar dish.

“No particular reason.” Garrod smiled his protest at being questioned, and watched as the Stiletto ballooned larger in the windshield. Suddenly—as he had known it would—the Stiletto’s left-hand turn signal began to flash orange light. Garrod checked and saw the sideroad which branched off the highway at a point midway between the two cars. He hit the brake and his Turbo-Lincoln dipped its nose as the tyres gripped the road. The red Stiletto swerved across their path and vanished up the sideroad in a cloud of saffron dust. Garrod had a fleeting impression of a boy’s face at the sports car’s side window, the mouth a dark circle, shocked, accusatory.

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