Sula turned on the heater, then looked behind the seat of her truck for a possible weapon. A tire iron stuck out from under a plastic Fred Meyer bag. She grabbed the iron and laid it on the seat next to her envelope. After another minute, her cell phone rang. Her hand shook as she answered it. “Yes?”
“Put the envelope on the concrete near the doors and drive away.” He sounded so serene, almost cheerful. Sula wondered about his sanity. “Then forget about all this. It’s the safest thing you can do.”
She hung up on him. She would comply with his demand because Tate’s life was at stake, but she would not forget. Sula grabbed the FDA package and the tire iron, just for security, and scooted out of the truck. She crossed the gravel and stood on the concrete pad in front of the big overhead doors. Her hands held tightly to the envelope, creasing the edge. Letting go of the evidence she had worked so hard to obtain was not easy.
Sula tried to think of an alternative. A way to beat Rudker at his own game. But the risk to Tate was always there. She set the package down and hurried to her truck. Before getting in, she looked around to see if she could spot his car parked somewhere, but the road curved in both directions and the pine trees were thick on either side of it.
Small sobs bubbled up in her throat as she drove back down McBeth. She vowed to write it all down when she got home, every detail from the very first conversation she’d overheard to her last exchange with Rudker, including his threats to her and Tate. Next she would give two copies of the document to her lawyer, with instructions to turn one over to the FDA and one to the police, should anything ever happen to her.
She would also track Nexapra’s development and approval. When the first wave of suicides hit the press, she would send a copy of her testament to the media. By then, Rudker would be too busy fending off bad publicity and lawsuits to come after her.
Sula suddenly realized she was moving too fast for the next curve. As she lifted her foot to hit for the brake, something slammed into the back of her truck. She flew forward into the steering wheel. Her nose smashed against it, blinding her with pain. She bounced back and her foot slipped off the brake. Sula struggled to orient herself, only to realize she was headed straight, while the road curved sharply left. She found the brake again but it was too late.
The truck was airborne.
Chapter 31
Rudker saw Sula’s truck leave the road—heading straight out into a space between two tall fir trees—but he missed what happened next. First, he had to yank his own steering wheel to keep from careening over the edge and following her down the mountain. He pressed the brake to get control. The Taurus fishtailed and nearly took out a group of cyclists coming up the hill on the opposite side of the road. Several of them deliberately ran their bikes off the asphalt and into the drainage ditch to keep from being hit. He could hear the bikers shouting obscenities at him as he sped away. He hoped none had gotten a good look at him or noted the license plate.
If not for the bikers, he might have gone back to see where the truck landed. He hadn’t intended to slam her so hard. He only meant to run her off the road and scare her, so she’d realize how serious he was about stopping this nonsense. But the other had grown excited by the pursuit. The voice egged him on with aggressive taunts: Show her who she’s dealing with. Smash her now! You know she won’t give up.
Rudker had no regrets though. He had warned her and she had brought this on herself. On some level, he knew he would be relieved to read in the paper tomorrow that Sula had died. The little boy obviously had other parents, responsible people, unlike Sula. So the boy would be all right without her. Sula’s file at Prolabs indicated she had no immediately family, so there was no one to feel her loss or get worked up about her accident.
She may not be dead. You may have to try again. The voice would not give him any peace.
For a long moment, Sula was suspended in air, wrapped in a vacuum of silence and disconnected from reality. Her one thought was: Tate has good parents. He’ll be fine without me. Then gravity took over, sucking her down. Sula’s stomach heaved.
The truck landed on a small pine tree that snapped like a pencil, then bounced hard on the ground. Sula flew up, but her seatbelt held. She clung to the steering wheel as if it would save her. The truck’s second contact with the ground was not as smooth. It hit something big and hard and flipped upside down. Her head smashed into the roof as the truck landed and rolled.
It kept rolling, knocking her head and torso around the interior—smashing her against the door, the steering wheel, the windshield. She closed her eyes against the flying glass shards and thought, this is it.
The truck lost some momentum, and the rolling took on a surreal slow motion. With one last jolt, accompanied by a loud whack, it abruptly stopped. Sula opened her eyes to discover the truck was on its side, the driver’s side door smashed against the ground. She did not move except to take several long deep breaths. She could not believe she was still alive.
A moment later, she became aware of the pain. In her head, her shoulder, her left arm. She had to get out, to seek treatment, but how? She seemed to be up against a giant fir tree, with a trunk big enough to nearly cover the windshield, which was no longer there.
Before she could give it serious thought, a trickle of warm blood rolled into her left eye. Sula wiped it away and refused to think about its source. She knew she had cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but nothing felt broken. She hurt everywhere, but not in a way that made her think she might die. Her fingers went to her seat belt. It had saved her life.
Cautiously, she unbuckled it and her body slumped against the door. A sharp pain in her shoulder made her re-evaluate her condition. Still, she had to crawl out of the truck and get up to the road where she could get help. The truck’s front seat was standing straight up from the ground. She reached up and grabbed the edge of it with her left hand and the passenger’s seat belt with the other. Twisting out from under the steering wheel, she pulled herself upright until she was standing against the door.
Once she was up, Sula realized the tree didn’t entirely cover the windshield and there was room to squeeze out. She noticed her keys in the ignition and pocketed them. Her purse and cell phone were nowhere to be found. Careful to avoid the chunks of glass still clinging to the perimeter of the windshield, she stepped over the steering wheel and brought one leg in contact with the ground. The truck shifted with the redistribution of weight. Sula froze, waiting to make sure it was stable. With a hopping motion, she pulled her other leg through and landed face down on the ground.
A bed of pine needles cushioned her fall, but her shoulder screamed in pain. For a minute all she could do was take deep breaths to keep from crying out. Heart still hammering, Sula struggled first to her knees, then to her feet. She turned back to the truck. The roof of the cab and the canopy were both crushed, but the front end was largely unscathed. She stared up the hill to see how far she had rolled. It was impossible to tell. The hillside was dotted with trees and shrubs that blocked her view of the road.
Sula shook her head. She could have so easily crashed into a giant tree with a three-foot wide trunk. This area had been selectively logged and the vegetation was not as thick as it might have been. That had probably saved her. The sound of a car climbing the hill sent a wave of relief through her. It couldn’t be that far to the road.
With a deep breath, on wobbly legs, she started to climb.
Rudker headed straight for where his jeep was parked on 8th Avenue. His body hummed with adrenaline. He had to breathe deeply to keep his foot off the gas and his driving civil. Fortunately, traffic was light. Attracting the attention of a cop while still in the rental car would be tragic.
He left the Taurus sitting at the corner of 8th and Garfield. He would come back later, after the Enterprise office had closed and drive the car into the lot. Or not. If the cyclists coming up McBeth had seen his plate number and turned it in, and if the cops spotted the car, they might watch it to see who surfaced
. It might be best to just leave it.
While traveling out West 11th, Rudker called Enterprise—still using the stolen phone and stolen ID—and explained that he’d caught an early flight that morning before the rental office opened and gate opened, so he’d left the car across the street. He reminded the young man that he’d paid for three days and reassured him the keys were in the mail. The clerk seemed to take it well. At least, he didn’t ask too many questions.
Rudker was too keyed up to go home. Instead of relieving the pressure building inside him, running Sula off the road tweaked his tension even higher. He needed an aggressive game of racketball to settle him down, but he didn’t want to face anyone just yet. Making idle, social conversation would be impossible at the moment. Other people’s lives and problems seemed so trivial in comparison to what he was going through.
The best thing he could do with his energy was work. First, he had to eat. He stopped at Padres, a new classy bar on Commercial Street. There was a dearth of decent restaurants in west Eugene, and Padres served excellent sandwiches without all the background chatter of a family restaurant.
Rudker sat at the end of the bar near the television. An attractive female bartender took his order for a club sandwich and a Miller Lite. He had to take the edge off, somehow. She brought the beer with a seductive smile. On another day, he would have flirted with her, but today he didn’t trust his social instincts.
While waiting for his sandwich, he watched television. In a minute, KRSL’s noon news report came on with Trina Waterman and her fruity sidekick, Martin Tau. After a brief rundown on a local bank robbery, Trina reported: “Today’s breaking news involves a city counselor, a hefty bribe, and a local company on the brink of disaster. We’ll have that story for you when we come back.”
Rudker almost sprayed beer out his mouth. Jesus. Did she mean Prolabs? He looked around. The bar was nearly empty. A young couple sat in a corner booth, intent on each other, and an older gentleman sat at the other end of the bar. No one seemed to have heard the news—or cared. Ruder took another long swallow of beer. Neil Barstow, his chief financial officer, had offered to handle the Walter Krumble situation. Had he fucked it up?
Rudker willed himself to relax, to wait until he heard the broadcast. Why? the voice taunted. You know you’re screwed. You have been since the day you moved to this inane little town.
Rudker watched the bartender make his sandwich just to keep his mind busy for a moment. She had a nice ass, but she didn’t wear gloves when she handled his food. That bothered him. Then he heard Trina’s voice again and his eyes cut back to the TV. The young blond reporter had a glint in her eye he hadn’t seen before. She charged right into her story: “Walter Krumble, Eugene’s longest serving city council member, came forward today and admitted taking a bribe for his yes vote on Prolabs’ building plans.”
Ah shit. This was the last fucking thing he needed right now.
The camera cut to Krumble, sitting at a small table in a room Rudker didn’t recognize. The old man looked as if he’d spent the last two days in an airport terminal. Where was he now? In the police station? Would the DA file charges against Barstow? Would Barstow implicate him?
Shut up and listen!
On the screen, Krumble started talking: “A Prolabs’ executive, Neil Barstow, approached me late last month and offered me fifteen thousand dollars to vote yes on the zoning change.” The old man’s voice was unsteady. He stopped and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want it at first, but I’ve been broke and depressed since my wife got sick. So I called him back and said okay. I had intended to vote for the permit anyway. Now I regret taking the money, and I plan to give it back.”
The camera cut back to the newscaster. “Police brought Barstow, Prolabs’ chief financial officer, in for questioning this afternoon. As yet, no official charges have been filed, but a police department spokesperson said the case was still being investigated and that charges would be filed soon.”
The camera cut away to a riverside scene.
What the hell had gone wrong? Krumble had contacted them. He had seemed so stoic, the last guy on earth who would ever go public with dirty laundry. Rudker did not believe the old man had come forward on his own.
Next the newswoman started talking about Diane Warner’s death, as if the two stories were somehow connected. The bitch. She had probably gone after the story, dug up the information somewhere, somehow. Trying to fill some holes on yet another slow news day in Eugene. Christ, this would be a setback. The building permit would be revoked, the expansion plans would be put on hold, and JB Pharma would blame Rudker.
Maybe you should teach Trina a lesson too.
He let that thought go. One bitch at a time. For a moment, his career, his life as he knew it, seemed to be slipping away from him. The voice mocked him. Don’t be such a pussy. It’s not over until you say it’s over. Goddamn it, take charge.
He reached for his cell phone to call Barstow. Rudker intended to let his partner know he would make it worth his while to keep quiet. Barstow was likely to lose his job when the merger went through anyway. Rudker planned to offer him a nice retirement package and find him an excellent white-collar defense lawyer. This was minor, he told himself. As long Nexapra stayed on track and the merger went through, his career would soon soar.
On the ride to the hospital, Sula floated in and out of consciousness. The climb to the road and the wait for the ambulance had used up all her reserves. The cyclists had called for help, and once she knew she was being taken care of, her mind and body let go.
By the time she was reached the emergency room, she was alert enough to be semi aware of the proceedings. First, she was wheeled into a small room separated from other small rooms by only a retractable curtain. The space consisted of a bed, medical supplies, and two-feet of walkway.
There, a nurse assessed her injuries. He was a soft-spoken middle-aged man who introduced himself as Ron. Blond and boyish, he reminded Sula of a math teacher she’d had. Ron gave her an icepack for her head and told her he’d be back. Long after, a doctor, also in his forties but Ron’s physical opposite, came in to stitch her head.
“I’m Mike Rathburn,” he said with a quick smile. “I’m going to get you numb, then cut a little of the hair around this wound so I can stitch it.”
Sula didn’t relish having a bald spot, but she was feeling pretty lucky to be alive. It took almost forty minutes for the doctor to finish his sewing job and Sula was glad she was lying down. The doctor stepped back and announced with a touch of pride. “Ten stitches. You’ll probably have a bit of scar, but your hair will cover most of it.”
Sula reached up and felt the gash. It ran along her temple, away from her face. She knew it could have been much worse. Most of the glass in her truck cab had broken out.
The doctor left and she was alone for about ten minutes, then Ron came back and said he was taking her to X-ray. He smiled sweetly, his boyish face contrasting with his gray hair and serious nature. “The doctor said you could have pain medication. Would you like some?”
“Please.” She hurt all over, and her shoulder felt like it had taken a few blows with a baseball bat.
Ron handed her a white pill and a paper cup with water. “It’s Vicodin.”
“Thanks.”
Sula woke with a start when the doctor came in with her X-rays. She had been moved to a regular room with another patient, a middle-aged woman who slept.
“You have a broken collar bone, two cracked ribs, a skull contusion, and some abdominal bruising.” Mike tapped the folder containing the slides. “Your abdomen will probably hurt much more tomorrow than it does now. You can thank the seat belt that saved your life for that belly ache.”
“What happens with the broken bones?”
“For the ribs, nothing. They’ll hurt for a while and you’ll just have to take it easy. For the collarbone, we’ll put you in a brace that will keep the bones in place while they heal. You’ll need to wear it for a month or so.”
“When can I go home?”
“The head injury gives me the most concern. We’re keeping you overnight for observation.”
Sula sighed. She was ready to go now. The crowded room with the white walls made her claustrophobic. She hated being pushed around in a wheelchair, hated having decisions made for her, but she couldn’t work up the energy to protest. She hurt all over, despite the Vicodin. She felt weak, as though her body were operating under extra gravity. Every movement was a slow struggle.
After another hour, Ron came back with a padded-strap harness-like thing. “We need to get your shirt off. Would you like me to get a female nurse?”
“No, we’re okay.” Sula unbuttoned her short-sleeved denim shirt, which now had a small tear in the sleeve. She got her right arm out okay, but Ron had to help her with the left side which was attached to the broken collar bone.
Ron stood behind her and looped the brace into place. As he tightened it, her shoulders pulled back into a good-posture position, and Sula cried out with the pain.
“Sorry. I know that hurt.” Ron came around to help her get her shirt back on. “You’re lucky those cyclists saw, or actually heard, your accident.” He shook his head. “Cell phones. I thought they were the end of civilization when they first got popular, but they have saved so many lives.”
A brief memory of the yellow-clad bikers standing around as she was loaded into the ambulance came back to her. Followed by another image of the emergency technician touching her forehead. She didn’t remember much else between crawling out of the truck and arriving in the emergency room.
Apparently, she had managed to hike back up to the road, but she didn’t remember doing it.
“How are you doing? Do you need another pain pill?”
The Suicide Effect Page 20