Prosecutorial Prejudice. Pretty words, whatever they signified, and the way they slipped off Washington’s tongue jump-started Harlan’s hopes. Like kindling, the phrase ignited new purpose; Samantha Knowles would regret the day she signed on for the case. She’d pay, one way or another, an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.
The more maddening thing, the thing that wrung him inside out, wasn’t so much the thought of losing Brenda, as hard a pill to swallow as any—only a matter of time before she found another golden goose, regardless if Harlan was in or out of prison. But for three years, he’d been Knowles’s target—a scarecrow holding a wafer-board shield while she slung her thousand arrows.
Like Lot’s wife, fire and brimstone turned his life to a living hell—all because of Knowles.
She had to pay for killing his soul, suffer as he had suffered—a death for a death.
2
Sam turned on the car wipers and drove the next hour to a rhythmic clip, clap in sync with her off-key rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee.” Lucille, her Cavalier, didn’t mind a few sour notes now and again. All the assistant district attorneys scoffed at her refusal to trade the old girl in. But how does one sell a friend—a first car—Sam’s only car. The day she turned eighteen, she walked on to the car lot, said that she wanted to buy a Cavalier and that she didn’t care what color. And that was that. Never asked questions, paid in cash, named it Lucille and drove her off the lot. Something powerful in that experience…like she’d become a grownup.
She patted Lucille’s dashboard. “You’re still a right smart-looking car, as good as the day I bought you.”
Sam avoided singing in public places, only daring to let loose when in the shower or the car, and she never sang in church. She supposed God didn’t need to hear her voice to know her heart. Besides, Justine sang loud enough for the two of them. Though she never bragged about her short-lived professional singing career as a Christian rocker, she showed off her talent at every chance, ripping into harmony and hitting high notes challenging any diva. Who dared to render their sour notes when standing next to perfection?
Sam snapped on the radio, filling the air with a mix of oldies while the morning mist thickened into torrents, rendering visibility to near zero. Common sense told her to pull over, not try to push her way through to Vermont in this weather. Common sense said that Stowe Mountain could wait a few more hours. For thirty-one years, Sam obeyed common sense, but what was a vacation for if not to escape the dictate of common sense?
Common sense aside, Lucille would not run without gas. Sam scrunched herself forward; the road signs still no easier to read. Logic, common sense’s sister, said there should be an exit ramp soon—a fill-up for Lucille, a bite to eat, and a cup of coffee, prudent objectives even for the weather-resistant driver.
Or—
She could use the weather as an excuse to turn around and go back to Manhattan, tell Abe thanks, but the rain melted all the snow and that maybe she could go skiing next year. She’d tried one more debate with Abe last night, but his ultimatum punctured her thoughtful rebuttals. “You’re going, Sam, or you won’t have a job to come back to tomorrow.”
Justine had to get one more sermon in, too. “Don’t look a gift horse…”
Horses were something else Sam avoided.
There had to be better places to go in April other than the Green Mountains. Shivering with the sudden drop in temperature, Sam hit the defrost button and wiped the window with her sleeve, swerving to the right slightly when she saw the sign. “Ah. There. Haven—two miles.”
The icon underneath the exit sign indicated only one hotel and one gas station. Where there was gas, there had to be coffee, although she could try to push on through to Whitehall. Or, maybe there’d be better choices on I-89. She couldn’t be far from the junction. Her stomach groaned like a disgruntled defendant. Sam glanced at her gas gauge—Lucille was running on fumes.
She turned on her directional. “Haven, it is.”
Merging onto a two-lane thoroughfare, she followed the white lines until she came to an intersection. The sign said to turn right onto a narrower road, more like a cow path, a tarmac trail through the forest. What next, a dirt road leading to Ma and Pa’s Boarding House? Wilderness stretched to the right and to the left, as far as she could see through the downpour, anyway.
Logic could not be silenced as easily as common sense. Something had to be wrong. Even a town she’d never heard of couldn’t be that isolated. She should turn around now and chance it to Whitehall.
The mountainous mammal came from nowhere, a mammoth brown blur that stood directly in front of her. Sam screamed and braked, but too late. The wheels locked, and Lucille screeched forward, a two-ton bullet. Metal crunched and glass blasted. Sam’s head snapped forward then backward, a limp appendage as Lucille slid down the embankment, the crumbled, blood-spattered moose stuck to her hood. Car, driver, and beast came to a rest at the bottom of a ditch in the middle of God-only-knows-where-I-am-ville.
Fingered antlers pressed against Sam’s right shoulder.
She could do nothing except mentally assess the damage and raise her left hand to the hole that was once a window. A sharp pain shot up her leg, and Sam noticed a large piece of glass jutting from her upper thigh. Instead of emitting a scream, she squealed with delight. “Yahoo. I can feel! And you can talk, too. Though no one’s going to hear you except that thing on your hood. Hey you, if you’re alive, say something.”
Dead eyes glared back.
A warm trickle slid down her left cheek…too warm to be rain. She lifted her only moving body part, her arm, up to her head—more protruding shards on her scalp, right arm, and forehead.
She tried the door handle.
Jammed.
Wind-driven, icy rain slashed her face, freezing onto the carcass, a crystallized shroud. Water lapped at her ankles. “Great, Sam. You’ll either drown, or freeze to death.”
Where on earth was she? Justine had warned her to buy a GPS. “It’ll direct you to restaurants, gas stations, hotels, and everything. Some of them have buttons you can push if you’re in an accident,” she’d said. All well and good, for Justine, who bought every techno gadget that hit the market. Not Sam. She owned a laptop, carried a cell phone, and knew how to shoot a gun, essential skills required of every officer of the court. Beyond that, she left technology to the geeks of this world and Justine.
Maybe, by some miracle, the area had cell service. Sam groped for her cell phone, remembering Justine’s not so gentle edict. “Cell phones and diamonds are a girl’s two best friends, Sam.”
“Rats.” She’d thrown her cell into the back seat next to her purse and laptop. “Now what?”
Pray.
“Is that you, God?”
Been awhile, but I’m still here.
“I know. I’m sorry. I got so wrapped up in the Styles case that I haven’t had time to even go to church.”
Or read your Bible or talk to Me. Not one prayer in three years.
Once upon a fairytale, she believed in prayer—in the seventh grade, after Daddy and Mama died, after she’d moved in with Great Aunt Susan, met Justine, and started going to church with her. Those early days played back, a movie trailer of memories—how Justine and the other people of her church prayed for one another, mostly about doctor visits, blood tests, and x-rays, but for other things, too, like Amy Defort’s estranged husband. And then there was a prayer for five-year-old Kiersten Newell, in a coma following a car accident. Justine said people needed to pray in one accord, explaining that meant they had to have the same mindset. Thirteen-year-old Sam feared she might distract God if she stopped coming to church, and ruin Kiersten’s chances of getting better. Kiersten came out of her coma, and by that time church became a habit—one Sam managed for over seventeen years, until the Styles case came across Abe’s desk and Sam begged him to give her first chair.
Maybe she deserved this fate; a just punishment if God abandoned her. She’d always imagined she’d
die young but at forty, not thirty-three, and in the line of duty, not by killing a wayward moose. Abe had laughed when he filed Styles’s threat with the police. “Only five years in the District Attorney’s office and already your hate file is thicker than Will Ipslick’s, and he’s been here forty years. Zeal can be a dangerous, thing, Sam.”
Sam laughed with the memory. “Well, Abe, so’s taking a side trip into a country paradise.”
She struggled once more to move her legs.
Nothing.
A fierce gust scraped its frigid claws across her face; rain beat inside and out. “Close your eyes, Sam. Wish it away like when Mama and Daddy argued.”
She opened her eyes again and glared at the remains. “Didn’t work any better then, pal.”
Round, glazed moose eyes peered straight at her. Sam averted her gaze. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I killed you on purpose.”
If these were to be her last moments on earth, she should at least attempt a plea bargain with the Almighty. “God, I know You and I haven’t talked in awhile. I’m sorry about that. The thing is, I’m not ready to die, but I don’t have much to bargain with. So, I guess I’m throwing myself on the mercy of Your court. If You let me know You heard me and that I’m going to live, I’d sure be appreciative.”
Before the concluding arguments, a familiar fragrance, one that simmered from long ago days, rode on another gust of wind. Sam sucked in the hyacinth scent then drifted into unconsciousness.
****
She stirred from some deep hole; a bright light shone in her eyes. Had she died and gone to Heaven, or did God come to render deserved judgment?
“You OK, miss?” The masculine voice sounded nearby, but where?
“Am I dead? Are you God?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Trooper Cummings. We’ve got a team out here to help you. Try to stay awake. Trooper Mitchell is going to talk to you while we get you out of here.”
A yellow-slickered sleeve appeared and removed glass fragments from the crooked window casing while a distant voice bellowed, “Bring those oversized pliers here.”
The rain had stopped, but rivers still streamed off the moose’s remains.
“Ma’am, I’m Trooper Mitchell. Are you Samantha Knowles?”
The female trooper’s broad-rimmed hat covered most of her tiny face, but she seemed pretty in an athletic sort of way, as much as Sam could tell in the darkness. She willed her head to nod, but her neck rebelled. “Yes. But how—”
“We ran a make on the license plate. You’re an ADA with the District Attorney’s office in New York City?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you’d like us to contact? We couldn’t find any info on next of kin.”
“My boss, Abe Hilderman.”
“We’ll notify him as soon as we can. We’ll have you free and on your way to a hospital in short order, but first, we need to be certain of your condition before we go yanking on anything. OK?”
“I hardly think I’m in a position to put up a fight.”
Another male voice, younger than the first, filtered through the window, “Miss Knowles, I’m Zack Bordeaux. I’m an EMT. We’re going to get you out of here, but I need to make sure there’s nothing holding you down except Bullwinkle, here.”
So they’d sent a comedian. Sam laughed, and pain zipped along her right side. Abe used to say he got through the tough times by seeing humor in turmoil. Maybe she should consider all this as a minor setback, hardly a tragedy. Her vacation had started off with a literal bang and a story to be remembered, one that should bring a smile to Abe’s face. Maybe she’d buy a stuffed moose to put on his desk as a thank-you present for her vacation.
“Well, Zack Bordeaux, EMT, I don’t think anything else is holding me down. Mind where you put those hands.”
Melodious twangs highlighted his snorts, then quiet.
“Zack? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Sure do.”
“That’s good. Would you pray for me?”
“Of course.” Masculine fingers pressed against her neck. Maybe she couldn’t move, but at least she could feel—she wasn’t paralyzed.
Hope.
Had God heard her?
Justine believed accidents were ill-named and called them providential interference, that these episodes people called accidents were God’s way of getting one’s attention. If God were trying to get her attention, couldn’t He have sent an angel instead of a moose? Since she was alive and help had arrived, maybe she shouldn’t second guess God, right now.
Zack leaned through Sam’s window and offered a comforting smile. “We’ll get you out of here as fast as we can.” Then he seemed to vanish. “Whoa!”
Trooper Mitchell half-yelled and half-laughed. “You OK, Zack?”
“I’m good,” Zack’s response muffled and distant. “Tripped is all. Pretty slick on this incline.”
Great. Her rescuer was not only a comedian, but clumsy, too. Alonzo would have swished his way to a damsel’s distress.
Shuffling feet and a groan, then Zack’s face reappeared. “Your car must’ve slid at least fifty feet. Nearly out of sight from the road. There’s a path on this property that leads to a private lake used by the local fishermen. One of them spotted your car, and hiked back to the main house to call us.”
“I thought everyone had a cell phone these days.”
“Most folks around here don’t bother to carry one—service is non-existent in these hills,” Zack said.
“Did you get the fisherman’s name?”
“Haven’s town justice, Aaron Golden.”
“Please thank him for me, will you Zack?”
“I will. He’s my uncle.”
Trooper Mitchell stuck her head inside the window and handed Sam a sheet resembling a summons. “You can thank him yourself, Miss Knowles. You’ve got a date in court on Thursday. Speed imprudent.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We have to give you the ticket.”
“No, you have to pay taxes and you have to die, but you don’t have to give me a ticket.”
Trooper Mitchell didn’t offer as much as a smile. “Judge Golden’s a fair man—”
“You already know I’m an attorney.”
“Still have to write the ticket, ma’am.”
Trooper Mitchell left and Zack reappeared, a stethoscope dangling around his neck. Sam dropped the summons and slipped off the stethoscope. “I’ll place it on my chest myself, if you don’t mind.”
“OK.” He contorted his face into a serious profile. “I need to take your vitals.” His warm fingers against her cold wrist tickled. In the misty night, pearly whites flashed as Sam returned his stethoscope with a smile of her own. If only she could see him better. She imagined him to be as handsome as his smile, a Justine-approved hunk, Haven’s Alonzo. “Your BP is a little low, but your lungs seem clear. We’re doing everything we can to get you out of the car as quickly as possible, but it’s going to be a little tricky freeing you from your hood ornament. Are you impaled?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Rather than tug Bullwinkle off your hood, we’re clipping the antlers.”
“Sounds like a good plan—caution is always a prudent course.”
A sea of yellow blended into the night. Snip…snap and her victim slid off, landing to the earth with a quaking thud. Sam rotated her right shoulder and winced—full range of motion, but at a price. She sucked in the first of several deep breaths, while her rescuers’ movements flickered in the flashing lights.
A half-dozen slickers hovered near her left door.
A sudden pop.
Another gust blew against her whole left side.
“What was that?”
A new voice answered. “We just took the door off.”
Zack leaned through where a door used to be, lifted her arms and checked her shoulder.
&nbs
p; “Ouch. That hurts, you know.”
“Sorry. Hard to examine at this angle. But nothing seems broken.” He fingered a piece of antler stuck in the seat next to her left side. “Looks like Bullwinkle tore your seat, not your shoulder. Though, you might end up with one huge bruise. That was nearly a half ton against your chest and shoulder. Lucky your ribs weren’t crushed. Anything else pinning you down?”
“I don’t think so.”
He aimed a flashlight toward the floorboard. “Dashboard’s pretty crumbled up, but it looks like we can get you out. Can you move your feet?”
Sam wriggled her waterlogged toes. “Some.”
Zack turned toward two men in orange vests. “Better work her from the back, fellows. Don’t want to go tugging on her legs until we’re sure nothing’s broken.” He reached across to unhook the seatbelt, and a whiff of musk mingled with man smell, like Abe after his noon workout. Strong arms repositioned her, and Trooper Mitchell spoke from the other side of Lucille. “You’re going to be fine, Miss Knowles. Zack will ride with you in the back of the ambulance.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Gladstone Memorial Hospital,” Zack said.
“Haven has a hospital? Doesn’t even have a decent road.”
Zack laughed, a tiny snort as if not to offend.”Yes, ma’am. Small, but it’ll do. As for the road, you took a wrong turn. You should’ve hitched a left off the exit ramp onto 9N.”
“But the sign—”
“Probably some kids messed with that sign again. They think it’s funny to switch the road markers. Now, take a deep breath so it won’t hurt so much when we move you.”
“What do you want us to do with your possessions?” Zack asked.
“What possessions?”
“The police found your phone, purse, and laptop in the backseat. Not much hope for the electronics, I’m afraid, but I thought you’d probably want your purse.”
“Thanks. What about my pilot case…in the trunk?”
“No can do at this moment. It’ll take a demolition team to open that trunk. The frame appears bent. Our first priority is getting you to the hospital. You’ll have to get it later.”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 2