by Greg Enslen
She only had time to notice her white shirt billowing out around her like a veil before the car was upon her. She raised her arms, welcoming the release of death, and tried not to think about how much it would hurt.
For a moment, Judy was completely calm. There was nothing else to do now but wait. This was the right thing to do, and it was all going to be over in one moment.
She held her arms up to greet the car...and it swerved.
Judy heard the tires and brakes working as the driver tried to avoid her, and she opened her eyes. The car roared at her and then, lurching to her right, missed her by inches. She felt heat and wind as the car rushed past her, and the side mirror grazed her hip, knocking her aside sharply with a sudden stab of pain.
Judy listened as the car swerved behind her and crashed loudly into the trees, but her mind was still numbed by what had just happened to her. One moment she was welcoming death with open arms, and the next, the hot metal of the car had rushed past her, sparing her life.
She had hoped against hope that this would happen—Judy could admit it to herself. Now it had happened, and she was okay, and her hands drifted down to touch her arms, her body, her legs, almost unbelieving. Her side hurt from the mirror, and that was it. She was okay, and Vincent—
Judy turned and saw the car. His new Mustang was wrecked, looking like a crushed-up tin can. He had spun out and hit a tree off to the right side of Blackwood Lane back-first—from the condition of the car, it looked as if he’d backed off the road going sixty miles an hour. A white cloud of smoke drifted around the car—it was probably catching fire.
The back half of the car was splayed out in all directions from the scarred blackness of the unforgiving tree trunk. A thin line of fire was running up the tree as well as flickering around the base of the car and the tires.
She moved slowly to the car. Vincent was in the driver’s seat, and for a moment she thought he was dead—there was blood everywhere. The fire would come soon, and in the coming of that fire she would be freed....
Vincent moved, coughing and spitting up blood, and she saw that one of his arms was bent in an odd direction. His head came up and he looked in her direction. A long moment of recognition passed between them.
He began to laugh.
After a moment, Vincent started coughing again. Judy was overcome by an almost uncontrollable urge to help him, to pry the door open and pull him out. But after a moment, the coughing stopped, and then nothing. She saw his eyes close, slowly, and she waited another long moment, but he didn’t move.
He would die now—either from his wounds, or the fire. It would only be another minute or two, and then she would be free.
Judy smiled and turned, walking slowly to the house.
Chapter 59
Gary wasn’t following closely enough to see the crash—in fact, he’d lost track of the Mustang twice and was five minutes late in arriving to the scene. He slowed the rental car—strange lights were flickered in the trees on the road in front of him.
There was a moment of disbelief as Gary came around the corner and saw the smoking wreck of the Mustang—he’d just been following it minutes before, and here it was, wrecked and about to catch fire.
Gary stopped the car and backed up, parking the car on the road. Hopefully, anyone coming around that blind corner would be able to stop in time, or his rental car was toast.
He hopped out and approached the car—a wall of smoke already hung over the entire wreck, making Gary cough. He covered his mouth with his shirt and saw the flames flickering beneath the Mustang. If there was anything to do for Vincent, Gary would have to do it fast.
The car had crashed into the trees back-first; the guy had probably swerved to miss an animal or lost control. Maybe he’d had too many beers back there at The Hole—it was a Saturday night, and Gary had no way of knowing how long Vincent had been at the bar.
Gary glanced at the road—it seemed like they weren’t far from Vincent’s home, if Gary remembered right, but he didn’t see any lights.
He approached the car and peered into the front seat. Vincent didn’t look good at all.
Gary tried the door and managed to pry it open, grabbing the guy by one arm and pulling. The man screamed and Gary let go, using the other arm to pull Vincent free from the car.
The flames were licking around the bottom of the car, and Gary thought the gas tank would explode soon. There was a strange, gritty smoke in the air, and he thought that it might be from something burning in the wreckage, insulation or something.
He dragged Vincent away from the car and dropped him onto the road at a safe distance.
Gary knew that he needed to find a phone. Gary thought about going to Vincent’s house, but he wasn’t sure he could find it in the dark. Vincent was in pretty bad shape, and Gary decided he would backtrack to a gas station he’d seen a mile back, on the outskirts of O’Fallon. Vincent needed an ambulance.
Gary bent over and pulled off his sweatshirt. He balled the sweatshirt up and tied the arms around the guy’s waist, using it to slow the bleeding from a major wound in the guy’s side. After the man was more stable, Gary climbed back into his rental and, turning the car around, left for the gas station.
Chapter 60
Judy kicked off her muddy shoes once she was inside and closed the door behind her. She was cold and wet, and she instinctively flicked on the wall switch that ignited the gas fireplace she loved.
Judy was moving like a robot, her mind flooded with so many thoughts and wishes and regrets, her body moving on autopilot. Her eyes were glazed over, trying to understand the strange turn of events, and wondering what to do about them.
Only minutes ago, she had wanted nothing more than to die, quickly and painlessly.
Now, more than anything, she wanted to live. Now that he was dead, she could do anything she wanted.
But first, she needed a shower. Yes, a hot shower, and then she needed to put on pajamas.
The police would be here soon, coming to the house with their hats in their hands to tell her about the accident on Blackwood Lane and her dead husband. He’d wrecked his car, they would say. And she would be surprised.
And saddened—she needed to remember to act sad. Couldn’t forget that part.
The police would nod their heads and say how sorry they were for her loss. And she would agree with them—there was no point in arguing the finer parts of that discussion. And after the cops were gone, she could finally settle in and get a good night’s sleep.
Tomorrow, she would start her life over.
Pulling her shirt and jeans off, she climbed into the shower. The water had never felt so good, one of a thousand little delights she had never expected to experience again.
Now everything would be even that much better.
Chapter 61
Vincent was shuffling along the muddy field, dragging D.W.’s leather duffle bag and trying to ignore the pain. Like him, that bag had seen a lot of action tonight, but it was holding up better than he was.
His hip was killing him, and he was dragging one of his legs. He was carrying the bag with his left hand because his right arm felt broken, strangely angled. There was a nub of white bone sticking out of his elbow, and his arm and shoulder roared with dull pain.
The walking, with the arm moving and hitting his chest and stomach as he walked, wasn’t helping.
When Vincent had awakened, he was lying on the shoulder of the road. It had taken a couple of moments for him to remember what had happened, but as he sat up to look at the burning car, it had all came back to him. The drug buy and the riverboat and the shootout. The money in the duffel bag. Driving home after a quick beer with his crew to celebrate.
Vincent had been driving fast and he’d rounded a corner and seen a ghost step out onto the road. Vincent had swerved and missed it, and in that moment he could remember wondering if it was a real ghost.
Then the car had gone completely out of control, spinning around and crashing, and then sudden horrible pain a
ll up and down his right side. His arm was broken, and the emergency brake handle had broken off and stabbed him in the hip.
After the wreck, the smell of smoke and fire had brought him around. He’d glanced up and seen the ghost again, staring at him, looking in through the broken windshield, and....
No, it hadn’t been a ghost at all.
It had been Judy, wearing something white and loose that billowed out around her like a ghost’s veil.
It was his wife who had stepped out onto the road and tried to kill him.
But that was not the last thing he could remember before waking up on the road. No, the last thing he remembered was the face of his wife, ghost-like and sallow in the flicking light of one failing headlight. Vincent remembered the slight smile on her face.
He should’ve killed her when he had the chance.
He stopped walking and readjusted his tentative grip on the heavy bag, then continued toward his house.
After Judy had left, he must’ve passed out again, because he woke up on the side of the road, well away from the car. Vincent chalked it up to his own strength—he must’ve unconsciously crawled from the wreckage. Judy certainly hadn’t helped him, and he didn’t remember anyone else.
After he’d come to, he had gone back to the Mustang and gotten the duffel bag out of the passenger seat. He stopped at the trunk of the car, scooping up and snorting several large pinches of coke, enjoying the cocaine before it was lost to the fire. It was a shame, seeing all that beautiful coke wasted. He hated to think about how much money had been lost, all because of his stupid wife. The bitch was going to pay.
Painfully, slowly, he’d climbed the tree-covered embankment that separated the road from his house.
It was slow going, but the fire that burned in his heart drove him on. The coke made him feel giddy and powerful. He was sure that, if not for the cocaine, the pain in his shoulder and hip would now be completely unbearable.
He could see the house now. Vincent trudged slowly up to the front door and realized that his keys were in his ruined car. He started around the side of the house, looking for an open window.
Chapter 62
“No, he was here,” Gary said again, talking to the shorter cop. “I swear it. See, there are blood stains on the asphalt.” He pointed at the pavement. The two cops had gotten to the accident scene before Gary had even returned from the gas station.
One of the cops, the taller one, was spraying the burning Mustang with a fire extinguisher he had pulled from the trunk of the police cruiser. The shorter trooper was standing next to Gary, looking down at the bloodstain.
“So, you pulled him from the car, then went up the gas station and called it in?” he asked, repeating what Gary had already told him twice.
“Yes,” Gary nodded. “I think he lives near here, so maybe he tried to get home. But he didn’t look like he was in much shape to move.”
The shorter cop nodded.
“Yeah, he lives right around the corner. You climb that embankment of trees and there’s just a field between here and his house.” He turned and watched as his partner put out the last of the fire, spraying under the car at the little flames that refused to die. “Follow me,” he said to Gary, starting toward the car.
Gary followed, not knowing what else to do. Where had Vincent gone? He didn’t think that the guy could’ve gotten up and walked away—he’d had a broken arm and that nasty, bloody hip wound.
The taller cop waved them over and pointed at the broken remains of the trunk lid.
Gary stepped around and stared.
There were at least a hundred or more good-sized packages in the trunk, and the wreck had broken many of them open, spilling a thick white powder out onto the trunk of the tree and the ground around the point where the car had impacted the tree. The cloud of white smoke was worse here, and Gary realized that the smoke around the crash site wasn’t in fact smoke at all.
“That’s a lot of coke,” the tall cop said, matter-of-factly.
“That’s all...cocaine?” Gary asked, unsure of what else to say.
The shorter cop brushed a finger against the trunk lid, streaking a patch of the white stuff, and gingerly tasted a tiny portion then spit it out.
“Oh, yeah. Very pure.” He glanced up at his partner, shaking his head, then turned to Gary.
“Okay, sir,” the short cop said. “Thank you for calling this in. We can take care of it from here,” he said, nodding and motioning for Gary to leave.
“But what about the guy—are you going to check on him?” Gary asked, not wanting to leave. “Will you make sure he’s okay?”
The short cop walked Gary over to his rental car. “Yes, we’re going there next to check on him. Thanks for calling it in.” The tone was clear—he was being dismissed.
Gary nodded and climbed into his car. Why were the cops chasing him off? Did it have something to do with all that coke, or was it something else?
Gary didn’t know what to do. There was more to this. Vincent had cracked up his car, a car with a whole hell of a lot of cocaine in the trunk. The woman at the bakery had told Mike that the Lucianos were involved in a lot of bad stuff. Maybe this was just more of it, and maybe the cops were in on it. That might explain why no one had ever helped Judy—everyone around town knew she was in trouble, but no one seemed able to help. Why couldn’t the cops?
Gary realized that he’d just had his first coherent thought about the woman in his dream without the stabbing headaches that normally accompanied thoughts of her.
Why did the cops want him to leave? Why wouldn’t they want Gary to see the guy and make sure he would be okay?
Gary started the car and pulled away from the scene, passing the crash site and driving on down Blackwood Lane. The turn for the Luciano house was not far down, if he remembered correctly, and there was just too much going on for him to drive away now.
He crested a small hill and saw the driveway coming up on his right. Gary glanced in the rearview mirror and couldn’t see the wreck anymore, so that meant the cops couldn’t see his car either.
Gary slowed and turned into the drive.
Going on what he remembered from this afternoon, when it had been sunny and clear, he directed the car up the long, winding drive that led to the house.
The old two-story farmhouse was lit up—someone was home this time, at least. To one side, about a hundred yards from the house, stood an outbuilding that sat between the house and the field that fronted Blackwood Lane. Gary parked his rental on the other side, shutting off the lights and turning off the engine. He remembered to take his foot off the brakes, extinguishing the twin lights in the back that would’ve surely given him away. And then he sat and waited for the cops to come.
From here, he had a view of the front door.
Chapter 63
Judy went into the bedroom, locking the door, and climbed into bed, tired.
She’d been wasting time, doing her hair and tidying up the bedroom, waiting impatiently for the police to hurry up and come and give her the bad news so she could cry. Judy was saving it up, waiting for them to get here, but they weren’t tears of sadness or loss. They would be tears of joy for the sudden, unexpected change in her life. The policemen wouldn’t know the difference—to men, all tears looked the same.
It had been a horribly long day, and all she wanted to do was go to bed, but she needed to stay up for the cops.
Judy got out her brush and started brushing her hair again to pass the time. It was matted and tangled from the full day outside and the shower, and she worked the brush through her hair, missing the length of it that was now gone.
She had always been proud of her hair, of the way it had looked hanging down to her shoulders and catching the light. Vincent had known that—he had been good at taking away things that mattered to her.
There was a sound from downstairs, and Judy stopped.
It didn’t sound like a knock at the door—it was probably the cops, pulling up outside. S
urely someone had seen the wreck by now and called the cops, who would immediately recognize the vehicle. They were coming, she was sure, and when those cops knocked on that door downstairs, her life would change forever.
Judy would sell this house—it would be the first thing to go. Between that money and the envelope upstairs, she would be able to escape. The Luciano family wouldn’t care, now that Vincent was gone.
And she would move to California.
She could get a little house near the beach, and she could paint all day long. She could paint the beach as it really looked, not like she imagined it to be. Judy could walk on the sand and stand in the water and feel the gentle crash of the waves against her legs. She could take her new easel out onto the porch and paint the setting sun as it highlighted the crests of the waves marching in to shore.
And she could look for Chris. He was out there somewhere, and if she was lucky, he would remember her. For some reason she felt closer to him than ever before—maybe it was just the fact that she had plans to go west. It felt almost as if he was in the same room with her, right now.
Judy glanced at the reflection of her eyes in the shiny brush handle, and wondered if the dark circles underneath them would ever fade away. Her hair was different and she looked years older, but hopefully he would remember her.
There was a crash just outside her bedroom door, a sudden loud crinkle of breaking glass.
Startled, she looked up. The bedroom door was outlined in harsh light. Why would the cops bust in instead of knocking on the front door? Who else would it be?
Something hit the door. The doorknob turned slowly, but the door did not open. She heard something solid rest against the door, and then someone kicked it, hard. Another kick, and another, and then the door burst open, spraying shards of wood through the air.
The door slid slowly open.
It was Vincent.