Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  Deuce whipped the pages over one after another, creating a little breeze, as Pete and I scribbled where he directed and tried to keep up with his explanations of what we were signing. My hand started to cramp.

  “Good.” Deuce pulled the completed stack toward himself and tapped it into order. “I’ll file this at the courthouse on Monday. May I congratulate you on being property owners? Taxes are due April and October. You’ll receive a postcard reminder from the county treasurer.” He blinked at us from behind his glasses, and I noticed for the first time that they were surprisingly absent of smudges. Two bits of glass Deuce did know how to clean.

  I was staring back at him, still trying to take it all in, when he glanced at his watch again. Oh, right — the waiting fish.

  Pete nudged my elbow, and we beat a hasty retreat, murmuring out thank yous on the way out the door. We sat in the truck, letting the built-up heat escape out the windows and trying to recover from the weight of responsibility that had settled on us.

  “Wow,” Pete said. “It’s for real, huh?”

  I gave him a wobbly smile. “Now we have roots.”

  Pete reached for me. “Are you prepared to kiss a newly minted landowner?”

  “Always.” I leaned into him.

  Okay, maybe I ended up on his lap, pressed against the steering wheel. And I suddenly got a whole lot warmer. If the windows had been closed, we would have steamed them up. It was a good thing there weren’t any unsuspecting pedestrians strolling downtown for the next several minutes — or if there were, I sure didn’t notice them.

  “Maybe we should go home,” Pete murmured against my neck, “and thank Herb and Harriet again.” But he didn’t remove his arms from around my waist.

  I opened my eyes and traced his jawline with a fingertip.

  “Or do you want to keep making out like a couple of teenagers?” Pete chuckled — that deep rumble that drives me crazy.

  “Mmmm. Yes to both,” I whispered.

  We shared another long, wet kiss before we disentangled and I slid off his lap.

  “Don’t go too far.” Pete’s hand shot out and kept me from scooting along the bench seat.

  With a grin, I fastened the middle seatbelt while he put the truck in gear.

  In the gaps between the buildings, I caught glimpses of Mt. Hood across the Columbia — the first time I’d seen her clearly in several weeks. Some of the smoke haze had lifted, leaving the sky powder blue. The dormant volcano, her surface worn down to the last remaining dingy snow and bare glaciers, was sporting a large lenticular cloud cap like the kind of floppy sun hat a socialite would wear to the Kentucky Derby.

  It seems as though the strong gorge winds can manufacture moisture out of nothing — in exactly the same way they can also suck the fluid out of all vegetation, turning grasses and trees into dry crisps. But I was holding out hope for rain and considered the cloud a good sign. We sure needed precipitation. The chilly temperature last night also boded well for a major shift in our weather. The river sparkled deep sapphire blue, the same color as Pete’s eyes.

  I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow and smiled up at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

  The brakes squealed as Pete pulled up at the intersection with Highway 14. He leaned down to sneak another smooch while we waited for the cross traffic.

  A dirty pickup with the bed full of fence posts and rolls of wire slowed, its left turn signal blinking. The driver offered a friendly wave and grin as he caught us kissing. It was Archie Lanphier, in an ordinary t-shirt and ball cap. It appeared he was using some well-deserved off-duty time to prepare another section of his growing hobby — a vineyard.

  Vehicles are supposed to slow down on the stretch of Highway 14 that bisects Platts Landing since there are no stoplights to control traffic, but that doesn’t mean everyone obeys the posted speed limit. In fact, very few do.

  A white semi-truck with a trailer was approaching, rapidly closing on Archie’s bumper. In typical farmer style, Archie was being careful not to tumble his cargo around in the pickup bed, making a wide, slow turn onto Main Street — the kind of turn where the driver actually swerves a little in the opposite direction, riding the outside of his lane, just to give himself extra clearance.

  The semi barreled on, unaware, unheeding. Was the driver blind? Or maybe the bright sunlight made Archie’s brake lights and turn signal impossible to see.

  Everything stood still and kept flying at the same time. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Stretched out my hand to Archie, trying to catch his attention. Too fast. Too fast. And yet incredibly slow.

  Pete slammed his fist on the horn.

  And then everything happened at once.

  Archie cranked his steering wheel and punched the gas, narrowly missing our left front fender as he skidded into the safety of Main Street. The semi driver swerved too, slipping past Archie’s tailgate with a hand’s breadth to spare. In that heart-stopping, frozen moment, the semi driver and I locked gazes. I’m sure my eyes were as big as his, and my face just as white, both of our breaths stuck in our chests. His passenger was yelling, too, his mouth contorted.

  The semi flashed by in a white blur, the trailer fishtailing and brake lights pulsing unevenly like a Morse code signal — long, short, long, short, short. But the driver got the trailer straightened out as its wheels flung a wake of gravel and dirt from the highway shoulder.

  I gasped a lungful of air. In only a couple seconds, my mind rapidly replayed all the things that could have happened that didn’t. Then I realized I was panting and shuddered — a full-body, involuntary shudder.

  Sounds and smells returned in an instant, burst upon my consciousness with painful clarity — an osprey’s piercing call, the breeze whistling through the tall, dead grass at the base of the stop sign, the engine’s rough idle. The dust cloud from the semi’s brush with the edge of the far ditch drifted over us, filtering through the open windows.

  I coughed and shakily released Pete’s arm — I’d left white finger marks on his skin which quickly flushed bright red.

  The semi-truck and trailer had been white too. Too white. Brand new clean. The way no vehicles in Sockeye County ever looked for more than two hours after being washed. Especially not commercial vehicles. Farmers and long-haul drivers didn’t waste time polishing their rigs this time of year — or ever, for that matter.

  And then it clicked. “Was that a live bottom trailer?” I rasped.

  “Yep,” Pete said through clenched teeth.

  CHAPTER 22

  It felt as if we’d been sitting at the intersection for hours when in reality it had probably been less than a minute since the near collision. But the semi-truck and trailer were getting smaller by the second, racing down the highway.

  Pete released the brake and stomped on the accelerator, pulling onto the highway in a smooth curve. My pickup has a whopping big engine, thanks to the young fellow who souped her up before running out of cash and reluctantly selling her to me when I needed something beefy to pull my fifth-wheel trailer. She might be old, but she’s a terrific, if gas-guzzling, workhorse.

  I swiveled to check on Archie through the back window. He was squealing through a tight U-turn and lost a roll of wire that bounced across the street before coming to a rest in a mound of blackberries. At the very least, Archie probably wanted to give the semi driver a ticket for nearly rear-ending him, but maybe he’d recognized the stolen truck and trailer combination too and realized there was much more at stake.

  I was the only one of the three of us with hands free to make a phone call. I dug through my purse. By the time I found the phone and straightened, the scenery was whizzing by at warp speed in streaks of brown and blue. The white trailer was still a speck in the distance. I squinched my eyes closed so I wouldn’t lose my lunch.

  “Too fast,” I muttered.

  “I think the driver recognized you,” Pete gritted out. His knuckles were whit
e on the steering wheel, his arm muscles tight but elbows relaxed. “Or at least this pickup as frequently parked at the Imogene. He knows we know, and he knows how to handle a semi. Got Sheriff Marge yet?”

  My old truck was vibrating as though she might start shedding extraneous parts at any moment. I squeezed the phone and took careful aim to poke Sheriff Marge’s speed dial number. I pressed my toes against the floor to keep myself upright on the seat.

  Pete took a curve at ninety-ish. Either the red needle on the speedometer or I — or both — were jiggling so much that a clear reading was impossible. I was slung sideways and braced a hand against the passenger door.

  My phone didn’t seem to be working. I hit clear and tried again.

  We were closing on Lupine in a hurry. Platts Landing has one intersection with Highway 14. As the county seat, Lupine demonstrates its importance, and population, by having three, which meant an exponential increase in the odds of a horrific collision if the semi, and we, didn’t slow down.

  Sheriff Marge barked a greeting in my ear.

  “Jack Roscoe’s semi and trailer, eastbound on 14,” I wheezed, “almost to Lupine.”

  Sheriff Marge grunted a few things I couldn’t understand. Then I realized she was running — or stumping, rather, in her leg cast — and huffing into the phone. I did make out “county line” and “state patrol” before she shouted “Get in!” and a dog’s excited barking took over.

  “Sheriff Marge,” I yelled over her raspy breathing and the increasing road noise on my end. I jabbed a finger into my free ear and hunched over the phone.

  “Are you following?” she shouted back. The crazy dog was still barking.

  “Yeah. Archie too.” I peeked over my shoulder at his pickup keeping pace with us. We were gaining on the runaway semi, but not fast enough.

  “What? He’s off duty,” Sheriff Marge hollered. “Never mind. Just don’t do anything stupid. Keep me updated.” The line went dead.

  I dropped the phone in my lap and clenched the edge of the seat with both hands. I doubted my definition of not stupid would meet Sheriff Marge’s expectations, but it was a little late to reconsider. What would we do when we caught up to the semi, anyway?

  I risked a quick glance at Pete. He was focused, tense but fluid at the same time, touching the steering wheel with slight corrections, but keeping the truck smooth in the lane. However, now would not be a great time to start a conversation about future plans. The wind buffeting through the open windows whipped my hair around my head and poofed my skirt, but I was completely absorbed by just hanging on.

  A little red car flew by, going the opposite direction. I sent up a quick prayer that everyone in Lupine was staying safely home tonight — that no one had a sudden urge to spend their Friday night at a movie in The Dalles or desire to go out for dinner in Hood River or for a scenic drive to cool off after a long week.

  By the time the first Lupine intersection came into view, the semi was already past it. We flew through too, no other vehicles in sight.

  “Tunnels coming up,” Pete said.

  I pressed my lips together to keep from biting my tongue. If the Lupine crossings were bad, the tunnels would be worse. I wondered if the semi driver was aware of them, if he’d scouted his escape routes before stealing the truck and trailer. As Pete had said, he seemed to know what he was doing, keeping that big rig racing down the highway. The trailer had to be empty. He could never reach these speeds if it was loaded.

  The tunnels that were carved through the basalt that would have otherwise interrupted Highway 14 were built before semi-trailers were as tall as they are now. There’s clearance for commercial vehicles, but only toward the middle. The live bottom trailer had a lower profile than most, but the tunnel arches bear the scars of those who have tried to go through without moving over. Traversing a tunnel safely in a semi means taking up both lanes. If someone was coming the other way — and at these speeds — surviving would be an extremely long shot no matter how many air bags deployed.

  One vehicle — a minivan — was stopped at the second Lupine intersection. The family stared at us, their aghast expressions frozen as we streaked by.

  The back of the white trailer now loomed large in our windshield, and I could easily read the name of the distributor on the mud flaps. Ahead on the right, I glimpsed the back half of a blue car that was just easing from a stop at the third intersection.

  “No,” I breathed, “stay there,” urging the driver of the little car to look west one more time before pulling out.

  But my telepathy had no effect.

  “Brake!” I yelled, and Pete reacted instinctively. He couldn’t see the coming collision from his side of the cab, but he slammed on the brakes, and we both lurched forward. The mad squealing of tires sounded behind us — or maybe it was us — and I folded over my seatbelt, head between my knees, waiting for Archie to crumple his front end against our rear bumper. And all I could think about was how much dog hair was under the seat and that I really ought to vacuum out my pickup more often.

  “Babe?” Pete laid a warm hand on my back. His voice was a little shaky.

  And I realized the impact hadn’t happened. Instead, we were rocking gently, creaking a little as though in a lazy hammock. I sat up and found Archie staring back at me through the open windows between us. Somehow, he’d missed us and pulled alongside in the opposite lane.

  He looked the way I felt, absolutely wrung out — of sweat, of color, of emotion.

  Metal grating on metal — a horrible screeching wail — jerked my attention to the road ahead of us. The semi had hooked the little blue car by the front quarter panel and was dragging it, like a reluctant parasite, down the highway. Sparks shot out from under the car’s rear axle, and the rubber ripped off one of its tires and flipped through the air.

  I don’t think the semi driver slowed one bit. He was swerving, the trailer tipping precariously from side to side, trying to shake off the nuisance that was stuck to his front bumper. I thought I saw at least two heads bobbing in the little car.

  The first tunnel was just out of view beyond a sweeping curve. We knew that — did the semi driver?

  I bent in half again, blindly swishing my hands over the floor. I found my phone just as Pete shifted the pickup into gear again. This time Archie took the lead in the pursuit of the semi, but we were chasing at a reasonable speed. Somebody needed to stay alive to clean up the pending mess. I braced a foot against the dashboard and dialed Sheriff Marge.

  “Where are you?” she hollered.

  “East of Lupine, heading into the tunnels. We’re going to need an ambulance and a couple wreckers.”

  “Going to?” she yelled over an eerie howling that wasn’t her siren.

  “What is that? Where are you?” I yelled back.

  “Lily doesn’t like how I drive,” Sheriff Marge bellowed. “Coming in from the east. See you on the other side.”

  “Be careful,” I yelled to empty air.

  I grabbed Pete’s arm and shook it.

  He took his eyes off the road for a millisecond, enough to shoot me a worried glance.

  “If the semi makes it through the tunnel, he’s liable to hit Sheriff Marge head on,” I said.

  “He won’t make it through,” Pete muttered, but he floored it.

  We closed on Archie fast, pulled up beside him. I made waving motions that could have meant anything and yelled about Sheriff Marge coming from the other direction before we shot past him.

  I’m not sure what two old pickups hot on your tail look like in a semi’s rearview mirrors, but Archie and Pete gave the semi driver an eyeful. Enough to make him nervous, if he wasn’t already. His swerves became more exaggerated, wider. The blue car was still locked onto the front, and the people inside were getting whipped around.

  The highway arced over the inlet to Reed River, a Columbia tributary, running parallel to the railroad tracks on a manmade berm. The Reed’s the kind of cool, splashing stream with lots of hidey-holes
that salmon love, so it’s a popular spot for sport fishermen. I half expected to see Deuce Hollis in his shirtsleeves on the bank.

  The highway veers away from the railroad tracks just before the tunnel entrance, with a deep, soggy ravine between them. Each mode of transportation has its own tunnel, side by side burrows through the rock.

  Pete and Archie stacked up on the semi’s right side, directly behind the little blue car, forcing the semi toward the left and reducing his ability to swerve. We were close enough for me to see to the oval Ford logo on the blue car’s trunk. With the road also curving to the left, we were on the high side of the slope.

  “I know you love this truck, Babe,” Pete said. “I’m sorry.” And with that, he steered into the side of the trailer just behind its landing gear. The hood barely hit the bottom of the trailer, just a few inches of contact — just a few feet between I don’t know how many thousands of pounds of steel and us.

  I glanced back and saw Archie was doing the same near the trailer’s rear end, trying to avoid the protruding wheels — two pressure points. The trailer started skittering, the tires chattering as their contact with the road was disrupted.

  Pete fluttered pressure on the accelerator, nudging the trailer — as gentle as those kinds of bumps could be. The hood developed wrinkles, the sound of glass breaking and metal crunches. I pressed my other foot on the dashboard beside the first and pushed my back deep into the seat. My toes curled inside my shoes. I dug my fingernails into the seat upholstery. I needed all the grip I could get.

  “Come on,” Pete grunted. “Hit the brakes. Come on.” He gave the trailer another shove with the front end of my pretty pickup.

  The trailer teetered, a long second of wavering, then it snapped sideways, sliding down the steep cant of the highway, dragging the semi-tractor with it at a crazy right angle. It hurtled toward the low side of the highway, careening, leaving black tire streaks across the pavement.