by Gayle Wilson
As she stepped out the front door and into the halogen-lighted parking lot, she realized that while she’d been inside, the rain that had been falling off and on all day had gotten much heavier. Although the day had been warm, there was a definite chill in the night air.
Holding her purse over her head, she made a run for the car, unlocking the driver’s-side door and slipping quickly behind the wheel. She sat for a moment, listening to the rain beat down on the roof of the Toyota, trying to think if there was anything else she could do tonight.
During the two days she’d spent in Linton, she had talked to everyone Lorena had mentioned who might have seen Richard. Then she had followed up on any other possibilities the people she’d talked to had suggested. The owner of the busy truck stop, farther from town, had been the last name on her list.
Not only had she run out of people to ask about Richard and Emma, she was also tired, damp, cold and hungry. The thought of her hostess’s solicitude and the comforts of the room she’d been given offered more temptation than she could resist. She’d done all she could today. She would start again in the morning.
Maybe with Sheriff Adams, she decided. Surely there was some way he could speed up the coroner’s report. How long could an autopsy take, given what she’d been led to believe about the condition of Richard’s body? She shivered, deliberately destroying that unwanted image.
She turned the key in the ignition and then pulled out of the parking lot and onto the narrow two-lane that led back into Linton. There were no streetlights this far out, of course, and with the rain, visibility was poor. Although she had driven the same route this afternoon, she found it was a very different prospect under these conditions.
She concentrated on the centerline, the only marking on the blacktop. She leaned forward, peering over the steering wheel and through the windshield, which was beginning to fog. Keeping her eyes on the road, she felt for the defrost switch with her right hand. After a couple of attempts she located it, and in a matter of seconds, the windows began to clear.
She tried to relax her shoulders, which had tensed with the effort of following the winding, unfamiliar road. The sign just off the interstate had said it was twenty miles into Linton. This afternoon, she hadn’t been conscious of that distance at all. Tonight it seemed as if she had already been traveling forever.
For the first time since she’d left the truck stop, a vehicle approached in the other lane. Either the driver had his high beams on or the headlights reflecting off the wet asphalt made them seem brighter. She squinted to shield her eyes from the glare as she blinked her own lights from low to high a couple of times. The signal had no effect on the oncoming car.
Pickup, she realized as it flew by with a swish of tires. Judging by the way her car responded to the wind force created by its passage, it had been a big one. And making no concession in speed, despite the conditions.
Idiot, she thought before she put the pickup out of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate again on the centerline.
She had gone perhaps two miles when she became aware of headlights in her rearview mirror. She kept her eyes on the car coming up behind her long enough to determine it was traveling at a much higher rate of speed than she was. Obviously someone who was familiar with this road and who would undoubtedly want to pass because of the snail’s pace she was forced to maintain.
Although the line was double, indicating a no-passing zone, she eased as far to the right as she dared, considering there were no markings along the shoulder. She maintained her speed, fighting the urge to accelerate as the headlights behind her loomed larger in her review mirror.
There was a straightaway just ahead. She could see the double yellow lines change to a single one. Under her direction the Toyota hugged the edge of the road, giving the automobile behind her as much room as possible to pass.
As it did, the driver blew his horn. Not a quick honk to warn her he was coming around, but a long sustained blast that grew louder as the vehicle pulled alongside her car and then whipped by with the same noise she’d heard before.
Exactly the same, she realized. Through the rain and darkness, she caught only a glimpse as it sped by, but the size was right. As was the color, either black or a dark blue.
She would have sworn it was the same pickup that had been traveling in the opposite direction only moments before, its headlights on high. She watched until the red of the oval-shaped taillights disappeared around the curve ahead.
Only then did she draw a deep, relieved breath. The first one she’d taken in a while, she realized. Even if it was the same truck, she told herself, there were dozens of explanations. A couple of kids out joyriding. Or maybe the driver had forgotten something and had needed to go back to town for it.
Just because the same vehicle passed her twice on a relatively deserted stretch of highway didn’t mean she should get paranoid. Despite those attempts at self-assurance, she automatically slowed the car. Let whoever is in such a hurry get far ahead. Let him get to Linton long before I do. Let him arrive, take care of his business and get out of my way.
After a few minutes, that ridiculous sense of threat began to fade. She even managed to relax the grip her hands had taken on the wheel and to sit back in the seat. Despite the poor markings, the centerline was proving to be a reliable guide. Only a few more miles to the town limits, and then she could look for the turnoff that would take her to the Bedford house.
Daring to glance away from the road a moment, she adjusted the heater, feeling better as the warm air began to fill the car. She pushed the button on the CD player, letting the familiar, relaxing sound of Norah Jones’s voice wash over her.
She looked up at the rearview mirror to find the road behind her still deserted. There would probably be very few people out on a night like this. Even as the thought formed, headlights appeared in front of her at the top of the next rise. Her hands automatically tensed around the wheel again.
Ridiculous, she chided herself as she loosened them. Even if this were the same pickup, that was no reason to act as if its driver were targeting her. He probably hadn’t thought twice about her car, except to bemoan her lack of speed.
She tried to decide if the truck would have had time to return to town and then make it back here. Since she had no reference points along the unfamiliar stretch of highway, and since she’d failed to look at the odometer when she’d left the truck stop, she had no idea how far from town she was.
She tried to ignore the approaching lights, again keeping the car as near the shoulder as she dared. This attack of nerves wasn’t like her. And she hated it. All she could do was put the unaccustomed anxiety down to her exhaustion and the emotional toll of the last few days. After all, her husband had died on one of the roads in this area.
She raised her eyes from the yellow line, watching as the approaching lights grew larger. And they were still on high, she had time to think before she realized that they were not only blindingly bright, they were also headed directly at her.
She blinked, attempting to see through the driving rain. In the split second she had to evaluate the path of the oncoming car, she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. It was headed straight for her car.
She swerved to the right, that reaction unthinking. The right tires left the road with a jolt as the headlights shone into her eyes, their glare terrifying.
At the last second before collision, she jerked the steering wheel, plunging the Toyota completely off the road. It bounced over some unseen obstacle as the pickup roared by, so close she couldn’t believe it hadn’t struck her car.
She had automatically slammed on the brakes, but as the car began to fishtail, she released them, trying to steer back up onto the road. The back right tire seemed to be slipping in the roadside mud. All she accomplished was to turn the car so that it continued to slide sideways along the shoulder for a few more feet until the right front fender struck a telephone pole.
Her rate of speed had been slowed enough by then t
hat the impact was minimal. Restrained by her seat belt, her head jerked forward, slamming back into the headrest as the car came to an abrupt stop.
Stunned, she sat without moving as the wipers continued to clear the rain off the windshield, revealing the twin beams of her own headlights shining across the two-lane at an upward angle. She looked to her left, but there was no sign of the pickup that had run her off the road.
She tried to analyze her impressions of its make or model, but everything about the last few seconds had been a blur. She’d been too busy trying to avoid a collision to get a clear picture of anything about it except those glaring lights.
After a few seconds, she reached over and punched the off button on the CD player. In the sudden silence, the drumming of the rain and the noise from the back-and-forth movement of the wipers seemed to intensify. As did her feeling of isolation.
Someone had just run her off the road. She was out in the middle of nowhere with a possibly disabled car.
That was the first thing she needed to find out, she realized. Whether the car could be driven back into town.
Her knees were shaking so badly with delayed reaction that it was difficult to get her foot back on the gas pedal. She eased the accelerator down, but the back tires spun, unable to get any traction in the mud. After a couple of careful attempts, she shut off the engine and then killed the lights.
Now there was only the sound of the rain, but she felt safer in the darkness. If he came back again—
Despite the fact that her body was vibrating as if she had a chill, she had enough presence of mind to realize that thought had slipped over the line. Someone had forced her off the road, but the idea that the driver had made a couple of preliminary passes at her before he’d done so was ridiculous.
This couldn’t have been deliberate. A drunk driver. Or, as she had speculated before, teenage joyriders.
The arguments presented by her rational mind had no effect on the surety of its more primitive, instinctive part. Someone had deliberately caused her to wreck her car. The same someone who had sped by her with his lights on bright. The same someone who had passed her with an angry wail of his horn.
Who might even now be turning his truck around to come back and finish the job he’d begun. She could sit here and wait for him to return, or—
Put in those terms, the decision was simple. She reached across and grabbed her purse off the passenger seat. Even as she climbed out of the car, her fingers fumbled her cell phone out of the bottom of her bag.
She could call 911, although they probably wouldn’t consider a car in a ditch an emergency. Better to dial information and get the name of the nearest wrecker service. It would probably be out of Pascagoula, but there might be something local. In any case, it didn’t seem she had a choice.
And then she needed to call Mrs. Bedford. She had already missed supper, and if she were a couple of hours later getting home, as she suspected she would be, she knew Lorena would imagine the worst.
Wrecker first, and then the Bedford house. Even as she dialed information, the image of a pair of mocking blue eyes was in her head. She could imagine Jeb Bedford’s reaction if she told him what she believed had happened tonight. The same one anyone in this sleepy little Southern town would have.
That didn’t mean she was wrong, of course. It only meant that she would be alone in her opinion. Being alone, however, was something with which she was now very familiar. Something with which she had long ago made her peace.
CHAPTER SIX
IF IT HADN’T BEEN for Lorena, there was no way in hell he’d be out here in the rain looking for a car that had gone off the road. Or for the woman who had been driving it.
And who do you think you’re kidding?
Jeb had known who was on the other end of the line as soon as his aunt picked up the phone. Just as she had, he, too, had been listening for it to ring as soon as it had gotten dark.
He slowed as the headlights of his Avalanche illuminated a vehicle on the side of the road. It was sitting perpendicular to the two-lane, the right front panel crushed against a telephone pole. He had no doubt the car belonged to Susan Chandler.
He drove past the small silver car, evaluating the damage as well as he could through the fogged driver’s-side window. Then he made a U-turn in the middle of the deserted highway and guided the big sport utility truck onto the shoulder a few feet from the sedan. He was careful not to pull off the road far enough to get stuck in the ditch where the rear wheels of the Toyota were mired.
Although his headlights were directed at the driver’s side of the car, there was no sign of the driver. Just as it had when the phone rang, a knot of unaccustomed anxiety began to form in the pit of his stomach. If Susan Chandler wasn’t in her car, then where could she be?
She’d told Lorena on the phone that she’d already called a tow truck and was going to wait here until it arrived. Clearly, since the car was still in the ditch, that hadn’t yet happened.
He rolled down his window, sticking his head out despite the downpour. “Mrs. Chandler?”
He waited, but the only sound was the rain pelting the roof of his car. Muttering profanities, he opened his door.
After the cocoon of warmth the heater had created inside the cab, the wet chill immediately assaulted him. He knew from experience it would seep into the shattered ankle, aching along all the pins and wires and screws that held it together.
Given the situation, however, it didn’t seem he had any option other than to go look for his aunt’s guest. He eased down from the high cab, holding on to the handgrip until the undamaged right leg was solidly on the ground beside the left.
“Mrs. Chandler?” Again he waited, rain pouring down on his bare head and shoulders. Surely she wouldn’t be stupid enough to start walking back into town. But, of course, he would have passed her on the way if she had.
Maybe someone driving back into town had spotted the wreck and stopped to help. It was the kind of thing he’d expect almost anyone around here to do. Whether or not Ms. Chandler would be trusting enough to accept a ride from a stranger was another question. If she had, maybe she’d left a note with instructions for the wrecker service on the dash.
Mindful of the treacherous footing, Jeb began to limp over to the Toyota. As he approached, he realized that she’d been right to call a tow truck.
Any idea he might have had that he could maneuver the Camry out of the ditch himself was discarded as he surveyed the situation. It was obvious someone had tried to drive it out, causing the wheels to sink even farther into the mud.
Still looking down at the back tires, now buried up to their rims, Jeb opened the driver’s door. The overhead light came on, making it obvious there was no note on the dash or in the seat. And no sign of Susan Chandler.
He blew out an exasperated breath before he straightened to look over the top of her car. He had left his headlights on, and the twin beams cut a swath through the rain and darkness into the area beyond the telephone pole. As he watched, a figure materialized out of the bushes along the side of the road, stepping forward into their illumination.
He recognized Susan immediately, despite her bedraggled appearance. Her clothing was soaked, making her cotton blouse cling revealingly to her body. The strap of her leather purse still hung over her shoulder, however, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.
He refrained from asking any of the obvious questions as she approached, shoes sloshing with each step. When she rounded the car, he could see that her eyes were wide and dark in a face that was far too pale. Strands of hair were plastered to her cheeks and neck, water streaming from them.
He couldn’t imagine why she’d gotten out in the rain rather than waiting inside the Toyota for the wrecker. Not unless—
The thought was sudden and disturbing. A concussion might create enough disorientation to cause that kind of behavior. He’d seen men with head wounds do some bizarre things.
“You hurt?” he asked as she stopped
in front of him.
Wordlessly she shook her head.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“I didn’t know who it was.”
Not the most rational answer, he decided, considering that she was supposed to be waiting for the wrecker. There was no way she could have been certain he wasn’t the tow-truck driver, considering the poor visibility. Or had she been planning to hide in the bushes even after they’d arrived?
Hide. That was exactly what she’d been doing, he realized. For some reason, Susan Chandler had been hiding.
“Who did you think would be out here in a downpour calling you by name?”
She pressed her lips together as if deliberately refusing to respond to his sarcasm. With as much dignity as she could manage, considering that water was dripping off her chin, she pushed a piece of hair off her cheek before she shook her head.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, knowing there was something else going on here. It would have taken more than a minor accident on a rain-slick road to rattle her this badly.
“Nothing. I…” Again she closed her mouth, cutting off whatever explanation she’d been about to make. “Nothing.”
“You did call a wrecker, didn’t you?”
She nodded, her eyes holding on his face. Seeing what was in them, something that looked very much like fear, he found that he had to resist the urge to put his arm out to draw her to him. He would have done that to Lorena or almost any other woman of his acquaintance. Susan Chandler, however, had given no indication she would welcome that kind of comfort.
Not from him or anyone else. The aura that surrounded her was one of unapproachability. Even now.
“They said it would be about an hour.”
Obviously not local. “They’re coming from Pascagoula?”
She nodded, pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes with the spread fingers of her right hand. Through her thin cotton shirt, he could see the outline of lace on the top of her bra. And under it, the too-rapid rise and fall of her breasts. As if suddenly aware of how revealing the wet fabric might be, she put that hand on its opposite arm, running her palm up and down.