by Clea Simon
The car behind me didn’t notice. Instead, the lights crept up through the snow until they filled my rearview mirror. Squinting, I gave the old car a bit more gas.
And the lights came up again. In the reflection, I couldn’t see the car, couldn’t see a driver. He had to see me, though. I was in front of him. I was—
The first bump left me gasping and confused. I gripped the wheel, expecting to feel the sidewind of a blowout. Had I hit a pothole or a branch blown into the road? My GTO steadied, and I whispered thanks to American steel. Lights or no lights, I’d keep my eye on the pavement, what I could see of it, the rest of the way home. Behind me, the car had dropped back, leaving me in sudden darkness, except for the cones of illumination directly in front of me.
That was fine. The road was straightening out here. No more distractions—just a simple shot to Beauville. While the wind buffeted my car again, I settled in. I’d faced down crackhead muggers and urban rats that swarmed up from flooded subway tracks. I could handle this.
Those lights, though. This guy was getting annoying. I didn’t want to stop, not on a road like this. I wanted to give him a message, and it wasn’t peace and love. I clicked on my directional. Let him think I was pulling over. There wasn’t much of a shoulder. We were back on what was more or less a straightaway, but the raised road bed tumbled into a ditch before it hit trees. As the lights came up, I sidled to the right.
“Pass me, asshole.” The lights came closer. “Come on…”
For a moment, I relaxed. That driver was cutting it close. I had an impression of a big black town car, a silver bumper shining in its own reflected light, creeping up on my left. “Pass, damn it.” Where was that uninhibited acceleration now?
I pulled over slightly more. Felt the rumble of uneven ground. Any further and I’d be off the pavement. “Pass!”
And then I felt the screech and crunch of metal as the big car moved into mine, forcing me into the ditch and into a roll and then into a blackness as heavy and unyielding as that car.
Chapter Thirty-seven
My mother always said I had a hard head. I couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds when I woke up, my mouth filled with blood. The engine was still ticking, I was still warm, and the snow was still melting to star-shaped slush on a windshield that leaned at a crazy angle to the world outside.
I spit out the blood, and gasped against a wave of nausea as the movement jarred my right arm. Twisted somehow behind me, it made itself known with a throbbing howling pain that could have put me back under, if I weren’t so angry and, I’ll admit it, scared.
The car was right side up, more or less. But it was leaning so far over that I knew there’d be no driving back out of the ditch. Nothing for it then. Bracing myself for the pain, I reached over with my left hand to hit the safety belt catch and cried out loud as it released and I automatically caught myself with my right. It was my wrist, hot and burning, though I noted with some pleasure that it still seemed to work. Still, I used my other hand to grab my bag and root around for my cell.
For a moment, I hesitated about who to call. My mother. Lew. They were gone and the momentary flash—Wallis was my closest contact—had me barking out a laugh that set my wrist throbbing like a beacon. As much as I didn’t want a fuss, Mack and Tom were out of the question. Not if I wanted to be sure I got out of here. No, it was Creighton. At least I had his private line, which was a little better than dialing 911.
“Where are you?” He was all business, and to my horror, I started to cry.
“About five miles out of town, heading west.” I worked to keep the quaver out of my voice. “I hurt my arm.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in an ambulance, and protesting less than I would have if they hadn’t given me something very nice to smooth out the pain.
“Hang on.” I was lying on a stretcher, making noise about getting a ride home, when Creighton climbed in. “Give us a minute.” The EMT left.
“Okay, what happened?”
I smiled. It was the drugs. “You care.” I was joking, but it came out softer than I meant.
He wasn’t having any of it. “This isn’t funny, Pru. You haven’t been back that long. This is still winter. People die on the roads in winter.” He had his stern face on, those light blue eyes as cold as steel.
Through the haze of painkillers, I remembered something. “It wasn’t my fault. Really. Someone drove me off the road.”
His brows went up at that and he crouched by my side. “Tell.”
I did. Not that he bought any of it.
“Saturday night. Maybe they’d been partying at Happy’s.”
Thoughts like trapped flies buzzed around my head. “Wrong direction. I was heading into town.” Besides, I knew I’d never seen a car like that in the lot behind the bar.
“Well, I wouldn’t make too much of it. Night like this, someone gets a little careless…” He gave me that look again, like his eyes could fix me to the floor. “You’ve got to be more careful.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Jim. Really.” The drugs were pulling me under, keeping me from making my case. “It was a late model sedan, black or dark blue, and it rammed me. Twice.”
“Why don’t you leave this to me, Pru.” He was patting my hand, looking up at the EMT. “I’ll look into it, and see if there’s anything to it.” And then he was gone.
I woke to a nurse who was talking to me like I’d talk to a goldfish.
“Now, we’re just going to bandage you up and get you comfy, all right?”
“No.” She looked at me, a little confused. I could see her measuring my next dose. “Is it broken?” I lifted my arm cautiously.
“Why don’t we wait till morning—”
“I’m not going to.” Frustration was making me angry, and anger cleared my head. “I need to go home.” I didn’t add the obvious—that I had a cat to feed. I knew this kind of place. That would make them keep me in longer.
“It’s sprained. Badly.” The baby talk was gone, and I could see how thrilled she was. Recalcitrant patient. Saturday night wreck. I had to hope she wasn’t going to draw blood anytime soon. “You’re to be under observation.”
I kept my mouth shut. Once she had me in a room, I’d make a break for it. My wrist ached, with a grinding throb that made me think of dentists and Nazis. As long as it wasn’t broken, though, I could take care of myself. Clothes might be a problem; the EMT had cut away my shirt and coat with what seemed a bit too much glee. And a ride…
Blame the drugs. Jim Creighton was one step ahead of me, waiting as I was wheeled into a room. “I bet you think you’re leaving.” He nodded to the nurse. They’d had some kind of agreement.
“Damn straight,” I said, careful to hold my arm against my belly as I levered my legs off the table. “You have no reason to hold me.”
“Not even for your own safety?”
That blindsided me, as did the sudden dizziness that threatened to put me back down again. “I thought you didn’t believe me?” I fought against it, focusing on the hem of the curtain. Anything rather than his tight-mouthed frown.
“I said, I’d look into it.” He was enunciating every word slowly and I managed to turn toward him. The hour—or tension—had aged him. The short-cropped blonde hair was still boyish, but there was a set to his face, lines around his mouth, that I didn’t remember from our last time together.
That startled me, and I realized how drugged I must have been. He’d heard what I’d said. He’d been trying to play me. The thought warmed me, rather to my surprise. Not that he cared, but that he had the wits to try to outsmart me.
“What are you smiling at now?” Despite his tone, his face had relaxed a little.
“Nothing, officer. Nothing at all. But I’ll make you a deal. If you get me home tonight, I promise I’ll stay out of it. Leave it to you and go about my business. You know I’m fine, and I’ve got Wallis. She’s probably worried stiff.”
I meant it as a joke and was rewarded by the
ghost of a smile. When he didn’t respond beyond that, I had a moment of worry—and tried to think of alternatives. But then he spirited a parka out of somewhere, and I realized he’d been prepared for this. That was okay. He knew me well enough by then to know that I had no intention of keeping my word.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Stupid, stupid human. I can’t believe…” If I expected sympathy, I got none. Instead, I had Wallis pacing the kitchen floor, her tail lashing furiously as she muttered under her breath.
“What?” I’d shooed Creighton off with a promise to call in the morning and come in to fix myself a drink. The pain pills had begun wearing off while we were still getting me dressed, and I’d refused more, preferring an anesthetic I knew. Besides, the smooth warmth of the whiskey reminded me that I was an adult. More and more, around Wallis, I felt like an idiot child. Or, perhaps, a kitten. “It wasn’t my fault. Is this because I lost the cat?”
“When I hunt, do I walk up to my prey and announce myself? Do I?” Her ears were halfway back. This was serious.
“No…” I didn’t really see what she was getting at. That could have been the last of the pain meds, though. It might officially be Sunday already, but I really needed to get back to bed.
“You can’t just go about getting yourself in trouble. You can’t.”
I nodded, leaning back against the counter. Bed. Sleep. I felt the soft pressure of her head as she rubbed against me. I reached down to pick her up with my good arm. It was awkward, but she was purring. “You can’t.”
“I need you, Pru.” With my face buried in her lustrous fur, I found my way upstairs and lay down, still holding her soft body. Her purr was the last thing I heard.
When I woke, however, it was her words that echoed through my head. Announce? Who had I told—and what?
I’d have asked Wallis, but she was nowhere to be found. I understood. Neither of us is good after displays of unguarded emotion. And while I was intensely curious to follow up on what she’d said, I was relieved by her major point. Unlike Creighton, my tabby had believed that I’d been targeted. She wasn’t buying the whole “Saturday night drunk” crap.
Then again, I acknowledged as I made my creaky way into the kitchen, she was a cat, and cats don’t have to deal with cars. I did, and as the coffee was brewing, I made some calls. Creighton wasn’t a bad guy. He’d had my GTO towed into town. Someone would be looking at it. I was tempted to leave it at that. It was Sunday, I had no clients, and the longer I was awake, the more my various bruises made themselves felt. My wrist might not be broken, but the simple act of dialing the phone had set it throbbing again. Maybe Creighton wasn’t so clueless. Maybe I could leave it all to him.
Then it hit me. He didn’t know the half of it. Thanks to my urging, neither I nor Doc Sharpe had told him the Persian was missing. He didn’t know about the missing brush—or the hair I had found on the brush. And, I realized with what felt like a physical blow, I couldn’t tell him. Not without implicating myself in petty theft at the very least—and a lot more complicated matters if I went on.
I’d already searched the shelter; the Persian was gone. But she was out there somewhere. Doc Sharpe had given her a deadline of Monday. Someone else had intervened with what might be a more pressing threat. An animal in my care had been taken and was in danger. And nothing gets me moving more than a good head of steam.
A few calls and the offer to mortgage my first born got me a rental car: a four-door sedan better suited to my grandmother. The roads were a mess, the early spring snow settling into a wet slush that had lighter cars hydroplaning on the curves, and the Ace bandage on my wrist didn’t help, but I managed. The rental’s new-enough tires had some traction, though I could tell my wrist would be screaming by day’s end. Well, by day’s end maybe I’d have some answers. First stop was the auto shop.
I knew Mikey G from the old days. We’d never been close, but we’d been part of a crowd that hung out together, sharing beer and weed, so he’d only muttered a little when I called him at home. He met me at the shop where his father held court, looking so much like his departed dad I did a double take as he ushered me in.
“Axle,” he said, pointing. My baby blue baby was up on the lift. I had a vague memory of family members—other mechanics—working here, but today he was alone. “Front right.” With his father’s girth, he’d adopted his speech patterns—or lack of them.
I nodded and swallowed. It wasn’t like I had a choice. “Did you notice anything unusual—anything on the back bumper?”
It was a long shot, and it didn’t pay off. He only looked at me. I told myself that the storm and the mud from the ditch would have obscured any trace of the other car. In truth, I knew that among all the dents and dings, one more would be hard to pick out.
“Never mind. When can you have it up and running?”
Another pause. The way he rubbed his chin made me think of the beard he’d grown in high school, back when he’d cracked the occasional joke. “If I still had my cousin Red helping out,” he started, then stopped himself with a shake of his head. “Tuesday?”
My wrist was in for a workout. As I ducked under the garage door, though, another thought hit me. “With this weather, you must be getting lots of work.”
My car might not show a dent, but the car that had hit me had been gleaming, bright and new. He shook his head. “Not really.” For a moment, he looked fuddled and I dared to hope. “Maybe I can get it back to you tomorrow.” He coughed up the sentence like it was penance. “Late. If I have the parts.”
I nodded. That hadn’t been my point, but I’d take it. I had another lead to follow.
***
The sedan drove like a truck, and my wrist felt like a fireball by the time I reached the cop shop. If I were lucky, Albert would be in his office and I could cadge some aspirin—or something stronger—from his desk. If I were really lucky, he’d have brought in Frank, and I’d have a shot at intelligent conversation. First, though, I had to try out an idea. Telling myself the pain would keep me sharp, I pushed open the big glass door that led to the police station. Just another accident victim looking to file a report.
Creighton looked happy to see me. Once I started talking, that changed.
“Someone really was trying to drive me off the road, you know. That wasn’t an accident.”
“Good morning. And how are you today?” He motioned to the seat in front of his desk. I took it, but could barely sit. “Feeling better?”
“I’m fine.” He looked down at my bandaged wrist, so I kept talking. “I’m here about last night. It wasn’t just someone trying to pass, Jim. That other car rammed me—two or three times. Then they tried to drive me off from the side. I can’t tell if you were just trying to humor me last night or not by saying you’d investigate, but that’s the truth. Someone wanted me off the road. Someone wanted me—” I paused, the word sticking in my throat—“dead.”
“And why would anyone want that?” His words stopped me. In truth, I hadn’t thought much about it. I was looking into a suspicious death, two suspicious deaths. And I’d lost a cat. I’d also stolen and then lost a grooming tool. I hadn’t told Creighton about the brush. Right now, it seemed like small potatoes.
“Who the hell knows?” I believe in a good offense. “All I know is that it wasn’t an accident.”
“I believe you, Pru.” He said, his voice quiet. “I wanted to get you out of there, and I was hoping you’d stay in the hospital or at least at home, in bed, where you’d be safe.” He cleared a sudden roughness from his throat and refused to meet my eye. “I’m not a fool.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I just—”
“You just want to be in control of everything.” There was an edge now, and he was looking straight at me. “But I wish you’d let me do my job. I’ve made some calls. I’ve got people checking, and there haven’t been any late model sedans brought into body shops in the five-town area. Not overnight, not this morning.”
“T
hat doesn’t mean—” Anything, I wanted to say. He didn’t let me finish.
“I know how to investigate a crime, Pru, but you’re not the only person in this town. I’ve got responsibilities, and if you keep getting yourself into trouble.” He paused to clear his throat again. “Look, maybe it was an accident. Or maybe someone just wanted to scare you. You can be a pain sometimes. You know that, don’t you? So, for me, can you just let it be for a while? Just lay low? I’ll stay on it. I promise.”
I nodded. Everything he’d said was true. But even as I moved my head, I was making my own plans. He’d stay on it, sure. That meant he’d call around again on Monday, maybe on Tuesday. Or he’d deputize some underling who didn’t see the importance of locating a dented fender from an accident during a spring storm. And he’d said “five towns,” which meant Beauville to Amherst. We were only a short drive from Albany, and I didn’t know if his jurisdiction meant he could compel information from body shops in another state. No, I’d have to look into this myself. I would simply have to lay low enough to stay off Jim Creighton’s radar.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I wasn’t expecting answers as I made my way out of the cop shop. I wouldn’t have minded a consult, though, and was disappointed to find the adjoining office locked up tight. What else did Albert have to do on a Sunday? I toyed with the idea of dropping by his house. It wasn’t the bearded animal control officer I wanted to consult with, it was his ferret, Frank. But the idea of encouraging any intimacy—or of entering his living quarters—made me vaguely ill. No, I had other sources. Didn’t I?
Princess Achara. The Siamese had tried to tell me something yesterday. She may have even engineered her visit to the animal hospital in order to reach me. Sitting inside the big rental car, I called her person to arrange a visit.