He couldn’t risk going to the house in hopes of getting Butch’s family to help. What if they wouldn’t come to the door? Or stalled? It was up to him to use whatever tools he had at his disposal to save Francesca. As long as he wasn’t too late…. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, he clung to the steering wheel, trying to remain in his seat despite the jolting of the vehicle as it bounced across the rocky desert. One tire had already popped. He’d heard it go several seconds earlier, had to fight to keep the steering wheel from pulling too hard to the left as a result, and expected one or more of the other tires to follow suit. He was driving over cacti, broken bottles, who knew what else. But he didn’t care if all four wheels wound up rolling on their rims. He wouldn’t stop. He’d seen Butch’s dog shoot off that porch with single-minded intensity and was willing to bet he’d reached his goal by now. If Francesca wasn’t dead, she would be soon, or she’d be severely hurt.
