by TAYLOR ADAMS
Then you’re no longer a suspicious party—you’ve recast yourself as a tormented hero now cursed to live with guilt. You missed your chance, Ray. You could have helped save the life of a suicidal woman on that remote highway if only . . . IF ONLY . . . you’d been more perceptive to the signs. Eh?
As cover-ups go, I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or idiotic. Maybe a little of both. It worked, after all. On everyone else.
Yes, dear readers: that means Corporal Raymond Raycevic himself typed the suicide note on Cambry’s flip phone. He fabricated that little Robert Frost masterpiece, found my number in her address book, hit send, and let it sit there in her outbox for later.
Bottom line?
She.
Did.
Not.
Kill.
Herself.
People who commit suicide go to hell, I remember our mom telling us once after one particularly brutal marathon of Sunday school. I don’t know if she still believes it—that her daughter is burning in a lake of fire right now. But it gives my mission a powerful and crystalline urgency: I’m going to rescue Cambry from hell.
I will catch her killer tomorrow.
I know what I’m up against, and I know the severity of making this charge. By all accounts, Corporal Raymond R. Raycevic has a valorous record. Last year he rescued two children from a burning trailer. He heroically shot a fugitive in a gunfight on I-90, where he’s credited with saving a deputy’s life. Back in 2007 he jumped into the Sun River and pulled an elderly woman out of a wrecked truck. On paper, he’s basically Officer Jesus (if Jesus shot one guy). And I have to admit, when I called him, Raycevic sounded like a decent guy over the phone. Genuine, even. If he’s a walking, talking insect, he’s got the human act down pat. I imagine he’s quite lovely until he peels off his skin.
Why should he fret, anyway? The case is closed, history is written, Cambry’s body is cremated, and he’s still working his beat (or highway, or whatever state troopers patrol). Tomorrow I’ll see him in the flesh, and I’ll ask him the questions that have been burning inside me for months. He doesn’t know I know. He has no clue he’ll be walking into my trap tomorrow. He’s in for a surprise, dear readers.
I’ll make him confess to Cambry’s murder on that bridge.
I have a plan.
* * *
Something occurred to him. “You’re recording me.”
“No shit, Ray.”
He blinked. A surprised flutter, like he was processing new information. He must have forgotten about the Shoebox recorder studiously logging every word, every breath, every pause. Had he incriminated himself yet? Hard to say. But he’d sure come across as a bullying asshole.
Because she did toss herself.
That was a career ender. It could go viral all by itself, but Lena was after bigger revelations. And it delighted her to see the big man off balance. He’d underestimated her, all right, and now he was paying dearly for it. She stepped back, giving herself more room. She didn’t like allowing him so close to her, his fetid strawberry breath in her face. Close enough to grab her throat.
Her calf bumped something—the bumper of her Corolla.
No. Cambry’s Corolla, always and forever.
She maneuvered around it and lifted the Shoebox recorder. She held it protectively to her chest.
“You’re recording me,” Raycevic said, “because you believe I had something to do with your sister’s death. Is that right?”
She nodded. “That’s correct.”
Somehow this felt like an anticlimax. For months she’d daydreamed of accusing him powerfully, articulately, like a prosecutor leveling a scathing charge before an enthralled courtroom. She’d wanted the microphone to hear the conviction in her voice. But she’d lost her nerve somewhere in the moment, and he’d taken control of the conversation. He’d been so close to her. So big.
He still was. He slurped his tongue over his teeth, as if he were chewing tobacco. He glanced at her—she tried to look stoic, like the heroine in an action movie—and then down at the recorder. “Turn it off,” he said finally. “Then we’ll talk.”
“No.”
“Turn it off.”
“Still no.”
“Turn it off, please.”
“Did you really think saying please would help?”
“I’m making you an offer,” he said. “I will tell you what you want to know, if you turn that thing off. What I’m about to tell you has to be off the record.”
“Non-negotiable,” Lena said. “The mic stays on.”
The cop held out a calloused palm. “Can I at least . . . look at what you’re taping me with?”
“You must think I’m stupid.”
“If you want the truth—”
“Hey. That’s close enough.” He’d been creeping closer again. He halted midstep, like they were playing freeze tag. His eyes glowered.
They stood six feet apart. To an uninvolved party, they’d look like a state trooper pulling a civilian over for a traffic violation, and perhaps exchanging a few testy words. Lena repositioned and moved around her car. Giving herself a few more paces of distance. And an open escape route, if he attacked and she needed to suddenly backpedal.
He watched her move.
It was all in the open now. Her intentions, his. She caught her breath. The recorder listened against her chest, its spokes quietly turning. She already wished she’d worded it better, made it more of an accusation. More of a spectacle. Not a simple admission to his question: That’s correct. It was her big moment, Cambry’s big moment, recorded forever for court and history, and she’d succumbed to stage fright and ceded control to him. Like a scared little girl.
Chickenshit, he’d called her. That was public record now.
Nothing happens like you plan it.
Last night in her Seattle apartment, she’d dreamed about Cambry. A real dream, not a nightmare. No guts, no gore, no horror—just a face-to-face moment. To Lena it felt desperately important. There was so much to ask. So much to say. This was her chance to tell her sister she loved her, that she’d always loved her and admired her across all the distance between them, and that she was sorry for everything she’d done—
But in her dream, Cambry sat on her hands and refused to even look at her. She turned away, blinking away tears. Sullen, heartbroken, cold. As if embarrassed.
Lena, go.
When Lena tried to touch her arm, she flinched away. No eye contact.
Go, she hissed. Go, please.
Lena didn’t understand.
Just go.
It made no sense to her. Why go? Why now? They were finally reunited for a blurry moment, but somehow Cambry and her furies didn’t want to be there. Her sister was always restless. Even in death, she would rather be somewhere else.
You have to go now. Her voice hardening. Go.
No love. No warmth. Just cold urgency.
You’re running out of time—
Then it ended.
The dream evaporated.
Lena awoke alone in the darkness before sunrise in frustrating dismay. Leaden heartache. She felt rejected. Like this was the spiritual equivalent of Sorry, I dialed the wrong number, and Cambry didn’t really want to talk to her. Even now. Even as a ghost.
Even in Lena’s imagination.
Before she’d left, she’d typed the dream into her blog, and then swallowed it like a pill. On the drive to Montana, she’d sculpted the dreamy nonsense into a narrative. Cambry wasn’t being cold; she was just ashamed of something. Guilty, maybe, for leaving her family without closure? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Lena assured herself the dream was her sister’s troubled spirit urging her forward (Lena, go), out the door to Hairpin Bridge (You’re running out of time) to confront her killer and avenge her.
And now here she was.
Here he was. He still watched her across their uneasy standoff. Something darted between them, gray and flecked. Like a windswept snowflake.
It was ash.
/> He looked at the recorder in her arms and sighed. “It’s true.”
“What’s true?”
“I followed your sister. On June sixth.”
Her stomach twisted.
Corporal Raymond Raycevic licked his dry lips and spoke slowly, making every syllable distinctly clear for the recorder. “I stopped her, Lena. But not for speeding.”
He paused, letting it sink in.
She loathed him. She loathed his power over her. She loathed herself for submitting to it.
“Cambry saw something she shouldn’t have seen,” he said. “When I stopped her vehicle, I asked her to come with me so I could protect her. But she didn’t trust me. I was trying to calm her down. I didn’t want to use force to restrain her, but I was getting ready to. I told her I’d count to three, and then she agreed to come with me and get in my vehicle.”
She didn’t, Lena knew. She wouldn’t have.
“She looked me in the eye and said yes, that she would get out, if I took a step back to give her room to open her car door. I did.” His lip curled with annoyance. “She floored it and sped off.”
Now that’s the Cambry I know. For a moment it was like her twin sister was alive again, revealing new surprises, and Lena’s heart clenched into a painful fist.
“I chased your sister, but I’m not the bad guy, Lena.” Raycevic softened and looked almost hurt now. “You never really considered that, did you?”
More flakes of ash drifted between them, like dead pollen.
“You admit you chased her?” she asked.
“Yes. Trying to save her.”
Chapter 9
Cambry’s Story
Cambry estimates her low-fuel light has been on for five minutes. It’s difficult to judge time with an adrenaline high, during a careening chase down treacherous hilly roads, but according to the Corolla’s digital clock, it’s 8:35 now, and approximating a mile of fuel consumption per minute, she reasons she has twenty-five minutes of gas left. Maybe a few more, if she’s lucky. If the timing of that lightning flash was any indication, she sure as hell isn’t.
Nine o’clock.
That’s when I die tonight.
Another bolt crosses the sky like a blink of daylight.
She expects thunder, but it never comes. The anticipation of it sets her nerves on edge. Her mouth is dry. Her eyelids feel like paper. The night air rushes through her open windows, a chilly blast.
The clock changes to 8:36. Twenty-four minutes left.
This road had better lead to the interstate.
She’s just wagered her life on it.
She’s committed to this direction. If she turns around, she’s dead. He’ll lift that black rifle from his passenger seat and rake her with bullets. Even if she manages to pull another dizzying one-eighty, she can’t possibly slip by him fast enough. She’d die with holes in her face.
This road must lead to the interstate, right? She’s studied the local maps at Dog’s Head and knows I-90 runs parallel to Highway 200, separated by ten miles of granite foothills and low prairie. What are the odds of the road being a dead end?
Better than your chances of getting past him. And that rifle.
She tightens her grip on the wheel and stays the course. This isn’t Plan A or B or even C, but with a calculated roll of the dice, this will take her to I-90, and the interstate will have constant traffic. Even out here, in Howard County. Traffic means witnesses. Witnesses mean this cop on her tail can’t gun her down without cooking up one hell of a cover story.
Still . . .
He probably is, right now.
He’s almost certainly got a spare gun. Isn’t that Dirty PoliceWork 101? If he’s the type to burn evidence, he would almost certainly keep a papers-free handgun rattling around in his trunk to be planted near her bullet-riddled body. Or even an airsoft gun, as long as it looked authentic enough to justify a split-second response. Whatever he is—whatever he wants to do to her—the worst thing she can possibly do is underestimate him. His broad, false smile lingers in her memory. Candy-coated venom.
And he’s gaining on her. Those piercing headlights, intensifying in her mirror.
She hopes to God she made the right decision. By her geographical knowledge, the chances of this closed road being a dead end are decently low. But another obstacle? Much higher. The road could be washed out or blocked by a rock slide. Or it could lead to a busted bridge. Any of these scenarios will force her to stop, and stopping is instant death.
It’s closed for a reason, Cambry.
She runs the numbers in her mind. If the road is clear (a gamble), it can’t be more than ten miles to the interstate. It’s ten more from the interstate to downtown Magma Springs, her original destination. Even assuming she doesn’t encounter another motorist (unlikely), and the cell signal doesn’t return until she’s downtown (also unlikely), she’ll still be okay. With five extra miles in her tank, even.
You’ll be okay. As long as you drive straight, and don’t deviate again.
And as long as the road isn’t blocked ahead.
That, too.
Trying to hide at the turnoff back there had cost her a few extra minutes and miles—not to mention it had diverted her onto a new course. And it gave Raycevic time to grab his rifle from his trunk. So all in all, a poor outcome. But it was worth the risk. Who can predict lightning, of all things?
Maybe he can. Whoever he really is.
She remembers a Halloween story that used to fascinate her as a teenager. She’s told it to Lena numerous times, and she has added different flourishes in each telling, but here’s the gist of it: A young guy is living it up at Mardi Gras with his friends and breaks away from his fellow groomsmen to take a leak in an alley—where, to his terror, he bumps shoulders with the gaunt figure of the Grim Reaper. Oh, shit, right? The man flees the alley in panic, drives to the New Orleans airport, flies to a random continent, then rents a car there and drives hundreds of miles farther, farther, farther, until the car dies, and after seven days of hiking into the snowy tundra, he takes refuge in the deepest, darkest, most hidden cave he can find.
The Grim Reaper is there, waiting to take his soul.
He has to ask: “How did you find me?”
And oddly, the Reaper seems equally puzzled: “I was told you’d be here. What were you doing at Mardi Gras?”
No one can outrun fate.
Not even you, Cambry.
The Charger’s headlights crowd up behind her. The muscular roar of his engine intensifies, morphing into something raw, primal, flesh-eating. It gives her a shiver. She’s imagining him as more than a man, and that’s a mistake. He’s not a supernatural being. He doesn’t haunt these highways like a roving demon. He’s just a man, a man she witnessed doing something illegal, and now he’s after her to cover up his secret. A man can be outsmarted. A man can be eluded. And a man can even be bargained with. Although she’s not about to try.
She thinks about her parents. About Lena. She tries to picture their faces. It’s been over a year.
Her car strikes another pothole—a bracing metal shriek. She’s still over five hundred miles from home, technically, if there’s even a place she can call home in Washington—but she’s closer than she’s been since November. Closer than ever, in a way.
The Charger pulls closer and its high beams project a long shadow of her car against the racing pavement. For a moment, she glimpses the silhouette of her own spotlighted head, the shadow sweeping right as Raycevic pulls up on her left.
She twists her neck to look at him. Fighting the eye-watering brightness, she glimpses his dark form inside the car, as black as construction paper. His window is open. His left elbow rests on his door. In his hand, hanging loosely out the window, is a small shape she can’t quite discern in the hurtling light, which is fine, because she already knows exactly what it is.
He’s pulling alongside you. To shoot you.
She’s minutes from the interstate now, so he has to make his move. Even
if it’s as sloppy and violent as a drive-by shooting. He needs to stop her from reaching civilization at any cost.
She pushes the gas harder. The engine roars.
The black shadow inside the Charger accelerates, too. Right behind her, his own eight-cylinder roaring in furious reply, reeking of burnt oil and carbon monoxide. Swinging up on her left side, like he’s trying to pass her. She knows it’s a losing game.
She ducks against the steering wheel. It doesn’t matter, because if she slouches low enough to be shielded from gunfire by her door, she’s too low to see the oncoming road. And who’s to say bullets won’t just pierce the door anyway? This isn’t a movie. It’s real life, where death comes abruptly and unfairly. Like it almost certainly did for whoever Raycevic was feeding, piece by piece, into those four small fires.
It’s 8:41 now. Nineteen minutes to live.
She’s afraid to look back again, but she does.
Oh, God, he’s so close now. He shouts something at her, muffled by the air whipping between them. She can’t hear it, and even if she did, she knows it’s a lie. It’s just words. She can’t trust anything he says, because the Glock is in his hand.
Aimed at her.
“Leave me alone,” she screams into the wind.
Maybe he heard. Maybe he didn’t. He shouts something else to her, removing his other hand from the wheel to cup to his mouth, his voice barely breaking through the roar of twin engines, the howling slash of air. It’s something simple, just a few syllables. Pull over, probably.
“Leave me alone,” she screams back. Louder. “Please.”
She gives it another pump of gas, but it doesn’t matter. His Charger is effortlessly faster. He’s pulling closer, almost parallel to her now. Maybe he’s trying to box her in? She can see the pistol more clearly now, aimed at her through the windshield in his hand. She wonders why he hasn’t fired a shot at her yet, or put a bullet into her tire and sent her tumbling in a bruising wipeout. There are no witnesses out here. No cars, no homes. Just silent, uncaring forest.