Mountain Madness Read Online Free PDF

never get him through another, assuming the truck somehow survived to see it.
    The pickup’s front tires rolled onto a long stretch of flat road, and Mike eyed the interstate ahead. He let out a single short sound, a cross between a sigh of relief and a whoop of joy. The truck groaned as he accelerated, and one short-lived squeal came from a belt somewhere inside the engine compartment, but Mike was soon cruising. The mountains fell away behind him.
    He’d driven the back roads in his usual silence, afraid that the distraction of the radio might make him miss a turn and slide into a ditch or, worse, off the unguardrailed edge of a cliff. But now that he’d reached relatively safe ground, he punched the power button on the dash and flipped through the radio’s presets until he found an oldies station playing some classic Rolling Stones.
    He merged onto I-25, beating his hand against the steering wheel in rhythm with the tune, and reminded himself of a more important reason to get rid of this old clunker: Trevor. The choice to upgrade to a better vehicle wasn’t just the smart one or the practical one—it was the fatherly one. After all, any time he loaded Trevor in the truck, Mike was putting more than just his own life in danger; his son deserved better than to hurtle all around Colorado in a veritable deathtrap.
    Before the breakup, Libby had sometimes hinted that they ought to get rid of the truck—leaving classifieds open on the coffee table, mentioning the great deals their friends had gotten on their used cars, that sort of thing—but back then the pickup had still been a dependable means of transportation, and she’d never gotten confrontational about it. He’d taken the truck with him when he left, and she’d kept the newer Honda. Since the divorce, she hadn’t said a word about the truck, but he knew she probably dreaded Trevor climbing into its cab the same way she would have dreaded him strapping himself into an electric chair or stepping inside a smoking gas chamber. Mike guessed she stayed quiet about it now only because, as divorcés, they sometimes had to choose their battles; for whatever reason, she’d let the issue of the truck slide.
    Part of him, a very petty and illogical part, wanted to drive the pickup until it disintegrated, just to spite her. Fortunately, it was also a small, easy-to-ignore part.
    He eased the truck up to sixty miles an hour and punched at the radio’s presets again when the Stones dissolved into a series of mind-numbing commercials.
    Cars and trucks, motorcycles and eighteen-wheelers zipped by him on the left, the big rigs sometimes leaving his small truck shaking in their wake, but Mike hardly noticed. Since moving to the mountains, he’d traveled this stretch of road dozens, and possibly going on hundreds of times, and at this point he figured just about everyone in the state had passed him at least once. No big deal; he wasn’t usually in a rush, and he’d never been one to indulge in road rage. Let someone else lose control and wrap his skull around a mile marker—Mike would take his sweet time. Of course, the truck maxed out at about sixty-five, which meant his choice to drive slowly wasn’t really much of a choice at all.
    In the back of the truck, an unsecured tool chest slid against the wheel well and made a disturbing clunking sound. Mike peeked back there to make sure the hasp hadn’t come undone and returned his eyes to the road at once after verifying it was okay. Like his ex-wife, Mike worked out of his home, but unlike hers, his work had little to do with any technological mumbo jumbo. He worked with his hands, made high-quality rustic furniture that he sold mostly in town at craft festivals and in furniture stores throughout most of the surrounding counties. He did, however, still sell many items through the website Libby had set up for him early in their marriage, and even a few on auction sites like eBay. Actually, in the last few years his online