When I looked in the rearview mirror again, the bright lights nearly blinded me. The glow filled the truck in an unwelcome way. Then they flashed, signaling me, I thought, to pull over, to get out of the way. I glanced back to the road before me. All I could see was two tire tracks ahead of me, indentations in the ice that were intended to get me home. I didn’t know what would happen if I forced the truck tires out of the ruts.
A horn blared and the lights disappeared. I panicked when I looked behind me again. My heart raced faster each time the horn blew. Honk! Honk! Honk! I couldn’t get out of the way, and, to make things worse, the reason the lights had dimmed inside the cab was because the car—and now I could tell that the vehicle was a car—had driven straight up behind me, was right on my bumper. I was scared. I didn’t know what the person wanted me to do.
The car kept coming, and rammed into my rear bumper. The truck lurched to the right and jumped out of the rut. I fought back and popped the tires back in the tracks. My forearms burned, but I held onto the steering wheel for dear life. Bright light filled the cab again. Then the car dropped back. I couldn’t tell the make or model. All I could see was white-hot light and a silver grill.
The car came at the rear bumper again, only this time at an angle. The driver was out of the tracks. They hit me again. The crash was loud, and I screamed, matching the pitch of metal against metal. I spun down the highway just like I had on Villard Street. Out of control, afraid that I was going to die.
I held onto the steering wheel, trying to keep sight of the tracks, of the road, but it was impossible. The wheel spun as if it had a mind of its own. My strength had failed. My fate was out of my control, in the hands of physics and nature. Before I could take another breath, I was off the road and into the ditch. All I could do was hang on and hope that I didn’t end up on a lake covered with thin ice.
CHAPTER 30
Gray. White. Spinning. Panic. I was at the mercy of gravity, the pull of the moon, and the fury of the wind. Pages flew in the air around me like a flock of frightened, wingless birds. I was no different, trapped in the cab, unrestrained, not sure if I was going to live or die. Blood filled my mouth in between gasps. Then suddenly, the Studebaker came to a stop with a defiant thud. The front of the truck burrowed into a deep drift of snow, whipping my head back and forth. And then there was nothing, no motion at all. The world stopped spinning.
After I regained my bearings, I looked out the windshield and saw only snow. Dim light from the dashboard provided a slight glow, enough to see inside the cab. I realized two things right away: I was still alive and I wasn’t badly hurt, other than a bang on the head and the bite on my tongue.
I was left to assess my situation. There was nothing to see beyond the snow on the hood of the truck. The view out the back window was pretty much the same. More snow on the ground. More snow falling from the sky. I was encased in a blustery, thick white sheet of frozen water particles, facing downward at a forty-five degree angle. Backing out of the drift would be impossible.
The engine was still running, which was a good thing, and I had plenty of gas in the tank, so I wasn’t going to freeze to death anytime soon. I could stop and start the engine with the heater on full blast when I needed to warm up.
I was worried about the person who had run me off the road, what their intention was, where they were, if they were waiting for me to either climb out of the truck or try to get back on the road. What then? Did I have a real reason to be worried? Or was I overreacting? My immediate thought was that caution was best taken in a situation like this. I didn’t know who the driver was or if they truly meant me personal harm, but I didn’t think that I had any choice but to believe that they did.
From there, I allowed my paranoia to manifest into a fighting stance. I had no choice but to defend myself, even if the effort and vigilance was against the unknown—or nothing at all. For all I knew the person who had ran me into the ditch was ten miles down the road by now, or stuck somewhere, too, as a result of the impact. Maybe they had crashed like I had. There was no way to know.
So if there was intent in running me off the road, I had to wonder who would want to stop me from getting home?
I didn’t have to wonder very far.
The person who killed Nils Jacobsen, that’s who. They must have followed me. Knew what I was up to. But how?
I had information that might help Guy Reinhardt figure out what had happened to Nils. Maybe the identity of the murderer was in the envelopes that I carried. I didn’t know. How would anyone know that I had any information at all—unless I was followed to and from the State School, and the person had put two and two together about why I was there.
I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw that the two envelopes had fallen onto the floorboard. I looked around, then leaned over, picked them up, and set them on the seat next to me, where they would remain in my sight, close at hand. The next thing I did was reach behind me and pull the .22 rifle off the gun rack. I wasted no time chambering a round, then placed the rifle next to my leg, within quick reach. The touch of the metal barrel was the only comfort I could find.
Now that I had decided that I wasn’t severely hurt—the bleeding in my mouth had slowed, and the throbbing in my head was subsiding, not requiring any headache pills—I really had to think about surviving. With a source of heat, I knew I had some time, but I couldn’t last forever in the snowdrift. I had food, blankets, and other survival needs stored in the cab, and I had the knowledge and skills to use them. This wasn’t the first time in my life that I had found myself stuck in a ditch in the middle of winter.
I tuned my ears to listen for anything out of the ordinary. All I heard was the scream of the wind and snow pelting the truck. Hank told me that if I ever got stuck to stay put. Someone would be out looking for me. “Stay put.” He was emphatic and demanding even in death, even in my memory. Hank knew more about surviving a North Dakota winter than anyone I had ever met, so I listened to him, even now.
The problem was, no one knew where I was this time out. I was not on a trip into town. I was halfway across the state. Only Guy knew that I was on the road, that I was due back from Grafton in several hours. I had told George Lardner that I was in Cooperstown, but nothing else. If anything, I held onto the hope that Guy or George would notice my absence and send someone to look for me. I might have to get through the night, survive the drop in temperature and the growing storm. Maybe longer if the storm really did turn into a dreaded panhandle hook.
That thought spurred me to move, to reconsider staying put. I had to at least try and get out of the ditch, to get back on the road, on my way back to Dickinson. I couldn’t sit there and wait for someone to find me. A killer or a rescuer. I had to try to free myself and get home. I missed Shep and the comforts of home more than I ever thought I would.
I rolled down the window in case the tailpipe was clogged, and revved the engine to test its strength. Every piston fired perfectly. The transmission was a standard three-speed column-shift. I rocked the truck by clutching and shifting from reverse to first, then back again. The Studebaker didn’t move. The engine roared, determined to make the vehicle move. The tires spun, stuck in the snow, whirling at thirty miles an hour, going nowhere. Deep down I knew the attempt was pointless. My toes were already cold, and doubt crept around the edges of my confidence. I was scared, worried, but I couldn’t let those emotions control me, get the best of me.
I rocked the Studebaker back and forth four times before I gave up. I was spinning my tires, going nowhere. I could smell the rubber warming up. I needed all the tire tread I had. There was nothing left for me to do but turn off the engine. I needed to face the fact that I was trapped.
I rolled the window back up, sighed, and put my head back against the gun rack. Closing my eyes was out of the question, too. I feared falling asleep. I feared freezing to death. I was going to have to keep myself awake for a while. For my health and for my safety, I had to stay vigilant and aware of every
sound I heard outside the truck.
I couldn’t let the truck run forever to keep warm. To make sure I wasn’t going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, I needed to go outside and make sure the truck’s tailpipe wasn’t clogged. I really didn’t want to go outside, but if I was going to start the truck again, there was no avoiding the trek to the rear of the Studebaker. But that could wait now that I had turned off the engine.
I didn’t want to alert the wrong person to my location. Time would tell if someone was looking for me. A bad someone. I shivered at the thought. I would wait before I made a move of any kind.
Beyond clearing the tailpipe and setting flares, the only other thing I needed to do was keep myself hydrated and warm. I had water and a can of beans, and I also had matches and candles. If I needed to melt snow for water, I could do that. But I wouldn’t use the candles for light unless I had to, unless the batteries in my flashlight ran out of juice. I was prepared to be stranded. I wasn’t prepared to wonder if someone was coming after me.
I started to tidy the passenger seat back up, organize my page proofs and the envelopes, along with my personal index, which I made sure was on top of the pile. I knew that I would have to organize my thoughts soon. There would be time to do that after I got everything settled.
With everything in its place, I felt like I could relax a little more. After getting a blanket settled across my lap and another one wrapped around my feet, I dug into my purse for my cigarettes. Before I lit one, I rolled the window down about an inch to ventilate the cab. A quick peppering of snow blew inside through the crack. Winter was ambitious, determined to spread its cold, deadly touch to every inch of the world. I was going to have to ration my cigarettes as much as anything else. I gave up more heat to have a smoke. Being calm and focused was important, too.
I smoked the Salem as fast as I could, then rolled the window back up. Even in that short time, a thin layer of snow had collected on my lap. I was cold, could see my breath, but I put off starting the truck. I could endure the declining temperature for a while longer.
Snow had completely covered the windshield and the driver-side window. The passenger window was clear, cleaned off regularly by gusts of wind that wrapped around the truck, allowing me to see outside but not far. If I was going to pass time by reading or working, then I would need the flashlight. I hesitated to light the silver Stanley torch. That’s what my father had called a flashlight, a torch. I smiled at his presence, even in words. He would have encouraged me to stay strong and brave in the situation I had found myself.
I knew I had to quit being afraid. I couldn’t be scared to light the flashlight because a bad person might find me. I didn’t know that the bad person really existed. What happened could have been an accident. Simple as that. And if there was a bad person out there? I had the rifle to fend them off.
If I was going to be stranded, then I was going to have to do something to pass the time or I was going to go mad. The first thing I needed to do was clear my mind. I lit the flashlight and white light immediately filled the cab. I angled the beam at my pile of books and papers. Then I went to work on my personal index. I had more questions to make sense of if I could.
B
black car, who owns one?
G
Grafton State School
did Anke Welton tell me everything?
did Joey know Tina?
why did Tina leave?
E
enemies
did Nils have enemies?
did the Rinkermans have enemies?
J
Jacobsen, Anna (widow)
Jacobsen, Joey (who knows about him?)
Jacobsen, Nils (victim)
M
missing girl (Tina Rinkerman)
who was the last person to see her?
was it really her in the black car?
motive
who would want to kill Nils?
is Tina still alive?
why did Tina leave home?
Q
questions
is Anna pregnant?
what color was the car that hit me?
who is Joey’s mother?
did Nils keep Joey a secret?
did someone find out about Joey?
did someone follow me?
R
relationships
did Nils know Tina?
murder and disappearance related?
Rinkerman, Adaline (mother)
Rinkerman, Tina (missing girl)
Rinkerman, Toren (father)
Rinkermans (three sons)
S
suspects
could Anna be a suspect? Why?
an enemy?
none right now
a person who discovered Nils’s secret?
could be random, but doesn’t make sense
Rinkerman men have been questioned
T
troubles
did Nils have any money problems?
did the Rinkermans have any troubles?
V
victim, Nils Jacobsen
W
who saw Nils last? (I don’t know)
The additions helped me clear my mind but did nothing to get me closer to figuring out who had killed Nils Jacobsen. I had no motive, no suspect, and no theory about how or why the murder had happened in the first place.
I knew that Nils had a son that I hadn’t known about, and I assumed no one else knew about him either. And I knew that a girl about the same age, who had spent time in the same place as the son, disappeared not long before Nils was murdered.
Murdered. Every time that word crossed my mind an image of Nils flashed in my memory. Not the happy, helpful Red Owl Nils, but the dead one, sitting in his car, shot in the head, the life drained out of him, the reasons for his harsh, sudden death unknown and unfathomable.
I shivered, sighed, and wished I had the answers we all needed to bring justice to Nils’s killer, to honor Nils’s life, if that were possible. Even if I did know who the murderer was, there was no one I could tell, sitting stuck in a snowdrift miles from home.
I sighed again, and looked over to the passenger seat at the two envelopes that I had retrieved from the State School. I was instantly angry and curious. Guy had sent me on a mission that had turned dangerous. I don’t think he could have foreseen the surprise storm any more than I could have, but I had to wonder what he knew, if there was any hint that I could be in harm’s way. I really didn’t think that Guy would have sent me somewhere if he knew I was going to be in danger. He would have told me to be extra careful. Or sent someone who was better at protecting themselves. No, I finally surmised, Guy had no clue what was in the reports any more than I did. My guess was that he didn’t know about Joey Jacobsen, either. At least not to the extent that I did. And that was where my curiosity overtook any anger I felt. I decided that Nils’s murder, Joey Jacobsen’s existence, and Tina’s disappearance were all related. My theory was beginning to form. All I needed was more information.
My eyes had not left the envelopes. I knew they were for official business only. I knew I was only a courier. I also knew that I was stuck, short of freezing to death, with who-knew-what lurking in the blowing snow beyond the truck.
I picked up the sealed envelope and edged my fingernail under the tape just a bit to see if the adhesive would break free. I stopped. I knew I was about to violate a trust.
If I opened the envelope the rest of the way, would I be breaking the law?
If I froze to death before anyone found me, would my crime matter?
I wasn’t immune to going places I wasn’t allowed. When Calla Eltmore was murdered, I’d sneaked into her office and found a pile of letters that led me to a secret—one I would have never suspected—and ultimately to her murderer. That had turned out all right. What could be the harm of me knowing what was in the report?
I would tell Guy what I had done—if I survived.
I looked around, then I slowly peeled away the tape fro
m the envelope.
CHAPTER 31
The wind pushed through every gap and crease in the Studebaker’s steel body. Frigid air was an invisible snake that I couldn’t see, but I sure could feel the bite of the nasty thing. I resisted the temptation to start the engine.
I sighed and looked back at the envelope in my hands. I hesitated to pull the first report out, still fearful that I was committing a crime, knowing that I was breaking the trust between Guy Reinhardt and myself.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what was in the reports. But there was something beyond my need to know what the State School documents said, beyond the crime of the act. If I read them, committed them to memory, then no matter what happened, if they were destroyed or lost, I would be in possession of the information. I knew that argument was thin, but I felt like I could justify my actions if I ever had to. I had found myself in extraordinary circumstances, and I wanted to make sure I was able to deliver the information to Guy.
I looked around me for no real reason other than out of habit and fear, then pulled the papers out of the first manila envelope.
There was a collection of papers, four or five at first glance. The one on top was instantly identifiable in bold letters: “Admission Report.” Tina Rinkerman’s name was written on a thin line underneath the header in exact cursive script and dated 05/21/1952. The next lines were her birth date, 01/22/1951, her height, weight, and the color of her eyes. I tried to conjure an image of the girl, but the recent one was blurry, frozen on a dark, snowy night as she floated by in the backseat of an unknown car. Others were sightings in the Red Owl or Walgreens, but they were as vague as the first.
See Also Deadline Page 19