I drop Glen off, and steer Rainier onto the grounds of the Packard estate.  That's right, I'm here.  As I start up the long, winding drive, things begin to get a little strange.

Maybe they would have gotten strange sooner if I hadn't had Glen in the car, but that's okay.  I was glad for the company.  Tough as I am, I'm not sure I could've done this alone.

The woods surrounding the road are snow, and lantern-like lights light the way on either side, like a procession of glowing lawn gnomes.  I only barely remember being here in the spring, and the skeletal trees of winter give the drive a completely different look. 

I'm not going up to the house, either.   The family graveyard is on a little spur road that splits off before the main drive reaches the house.  I vaguely remember going that way for the funeral--yes, Ren's funeral, my mind shies away from the memory of it even now--but it wasn't real.  I can't even remember what kind of car I was riding in that day.   I could half-convince myself I wasn't really there, because I can't remember the car.

The first indication of the strangeness is that I know where I'm going.  Okay, so, sure, I know subconsciously which way to go, no big deal.  But it's dark, and the snowy woods look completely different, and on top of that it doesn't feel like a buried recollection, and I should know, I have plenty of those.  It feels like…

I don't know what it feels like.  The winding drive has a familiar feeling that's wrong, but not in a bad way. 

When the unmarked turn from the main road onto the unlit, narrower drive leading around the estate to the graveyard and boathouse comes up, I shoot the gap in the lights without hesitation, stabbing the brakes late and hanging Rainier's tail out on the snowy road.

That's it, that's it, that's it!  I'm driving like Ren.  I usually turn in too soon--I should be running over little lanterns, assuming I even know where the turn is.  But my lovely, late-apexing Ren would have drifted through, probably sideways.  And that's what I just did.  Never mind the fact that I knew where the turn was without hesitating, and I shouldn't have.

I wonder who's driving the car?

I don't fight it.  The music is Ren's, and the car's his too.  If he wants to drive it through me, that's fine.  I can get behind that.  The sensation of not quite being alone in the car intensifies as I deliberately ignore it.  The woods flash past, lit only occasionally by the police chopper's spotlight as they search for me.  You'd think it would be easy, with the sparse tree cover--

Oh, hey, the road ahead is dark.  I turned the headlights off.  When did I do that?  The road is a gray on black blur, a narrow band of snow-covered road between the dark trees.  My night vision isn't so great even with my glasses on, and this speed on an unfamiliar road with no visibility to speak of is just flat suicidal.  But I'm not frightened, now that I know what's going on.  I haven't missed a turn yet, and there are thirty-four of them on the long, semi-circular drive.  "Thanks, Ren," I say in acknowledgement of the trivia.

Ren's silly poppy Duran Duran gives way to Ozzy Osbourne.  It's the second overt departure from Ren's music--why did Cygnet put "Miracle Man" on here?  It's a delightful driving song, but it's more mine than his.  Ren isn't--wasn't--a big metal fan, really.  Maybe Cyggie had some other purpose.  Whatever the reason, it's far too late to do anything about it.  The tape is what it is. 

My fingers are light on the wheel, and my feet on the pedals feel as though they're connected to my body by little more than cobwebs.  I've retreated to a tiny room at the back of my mind, and my body's driving by itself.  I don't interfere.  If it is Ren (and it is; I'm sure I know how he feels) then he'll take care of me, speeding through the woods with no lights or not.  Besides, what's the worst that could happen?  I'll smack this airbag-less Crane-Packard into a tree, die, and be with him. 

That's not what Ren wants, though.  Wouldn't be.  I still want it, a little, but I know it's out of my hands.  I'm as much a passenger as I'd be if I was in the right-hand seat.  I can feel him now, a subtle change in the air that somehow completes the world, makes everything Right.  I take a deep breath, feeling tears start.  I'm not broken any more.  I can do anything I want. 

I'm alive.   

Ren's less so, but he's close at hand nonetheless.  Rainier rounds the last of the thirty-four turns completely sideways.  There are eight or ten generations of Packards buried here, depending on who you ask.  The oldest, most weathered headstones have birthdates in the 1700s.  They're arranged in neat, martial rows, separated into groups by family and in-laws--Packard, Harrison, Sanford, an occasional Cassarell and Falstaff.  There are plots for friends of the family and dearly departed servants as well, separated by a tasteful wall, just below the crest of the hill.

That's all Ren's knowledge, too.  I try to remember if he ever told me about the graveyard, then let it go.  I doubt it.  Ren didn't like the estate much, and we didn't talk about it much either. 

Rainier climbs the ridge and hops over the grave of Ren's grandfather Harrison David Packard, just barely trailing one rear tire across the slab, and my hand goes to the e-brake.  With a quick tug, I get the car rotating.  The Crane-Packard's lights come on (oh, my other hand moved) as the car pivots, nosing around the newest, largest monument in the cemetery, and the words are right in front of me as Rainier comes to a stop.  The cold, hateful gray marble stares back at me:  Warren Harrison Packard.  October 31, 1966--April 20, 1996. 

He's gone.

Not just in a gone-from the world sense, but the distance between my brain and my hands vanishes in an instant.  My little comfortable room in the back of my head expands to include the usual complement of arms, legs, fingers, toes, eyes and ears.  The loneliness comes back, too, but diminished.  I'm in control of it all now, and there's stuff to do yet.

I leave Rainier's engine running and get out. It's like shedding a second skin. The cold air feels doubly chilly on my back and thighs and palms, the parts of me that have been sealed to the car for the past four or five hours.

The graveyard is weirdly silent, like most of them are.  The police helicopter clatters overhead, somewhere out of sight, but even that significant noise is muted, whether by snow or graveyard ambience I'm not sure.

I pop the trunk and look at the metal containers that spent the trip strapped down there.  Exactly three five-gallon jerricans will fit in the trunk of a Crane-Packard (not by design), and there's just enough space on either side for some other miscellaneous items.  I stand the cans upright, open the caps, and smell the gasoline fumes.  "Strike a match, go on and do it," I hear myself murmur, and take one of the jerricans out.