Authors: Christy Evans
Drip Dead (21 page)
“He managed to get the son into rehab and the whole thing was hushed up. But I heard there were some nasty arguments out at the cabin while it was going on.”
I laughed. “Paula, I can always count on you to know absolutely every story about everybody in town! How do you do it?”
Paula laughed. “Live anywhere long enough and you know where the bodies are buried.”
Ahead of me, the empty road disappeared into the darkness outside the range of the headlights. I gave the ’Vette a little more gas, and felt it pull against me, the way the dogs pulled at their leashes. I was already at the limit of safety on the dark, winding road, and it took all my self-control to keep from giving the car its head.
I backed off the throttle as we approached a bend, downshifting before I powered through the curve, then back into fourth as we came out onto the straightaway. This was the part I loved, using the engine and the brakes and the transmission together. When it all meshed, it felt like I was part of the car.
We had dropped the name Veritas, and I was convinced Phil Wilson knew what it was. I still had more questions than answers, but I could feel myself getting closer to a solution. As a bonus, we’d had fun at the auction and now we were flying through the night on our way home.
A perfect end to a perfect evening.
I braked for another curve. The pedal felt a bit mushy. I’d have to get the ’Vette into the shop and have it checked, though I wasn’t sure how I’d pay for it right now.
I pushed that worry aside for another day. Tonight I was just enjoying the car. But I did back off the accelerator and let my speed drop.
We passed a “Reduced Speed Ahead” sign, followed by a mileage sign that told us we were two miles from Pine Ridge. I eased up on the throttle.
Almost home.
“Deer!”
Paula’s scream came at the same instant my peripheral vision caught a flash of movement at the right side of the road.
I hit the brakes. Hard.
Screeching tires fought to grip the road and I fought to maintain control.
The car slowed.
The deer ran across the highway.
I pulled hard to the right, narrowly missing his powerful kick as he bounded past the headlights.
The brake pedal went to the floor.
And stayed there.
I downshifted, cringing at the roar of the engine as I forced the transmission to absorb the momentum. We slowed, but not enough.
I yanked the wheel to the left, away from the edge of the road, but I overcorrected and drifted across the center line.
I pulled back to the right, stabbing at the brake pedal.
Nothing.
Fighting a growing tide of panic, I reached for the hand brake and yanked as hard as I could.
The brakes locked and the car skidded down the road toward the sign that welcomed us to Pine Ridge.
I struggled to keep the car on the road. I downshifted again and winced at what I might be doing to the engine.
The back wheels broke loose for an instant and the car spun out of control. All I could do was hold on and pray for a soft landing.
The right wheels slipped off the pavement into the gravel on the shoulder. I heard the rattle of stones against the back end.
I could imagine each one ripping into the fiberglass, but I knew the flying stone absorbed energy that would otherwise pour into the wheels. Spinning my wheels in the gravel was preferable to speeding down the highway right now.
As the right wheels spun in the loose gravel the left wheels gripped the asphalt, spinning the car in a one-eighty. Suddenly we were headed back the way we’d come.
The car veered across the highway.
We hit the edge of the pavement, rode up and over a low berm, and nosed into the ditch.
Fiberglass crunched and splintered.
Headlights pointed crazily at the dark night sky, then went out.
The engine died and silence descended.
chapter 24
Paula hadn’t spoken since she spotted the deer.
I looked over. Her eyes were wide in terror and her mouth was clamped tight.
“Paula?”
She looked at me, confusion and shock in her expression.
“Paula? Are you okay?”
It took a few seconds for her to unclamp her jaw and answer me. Her voice came out low and shaky, but she was able to speak.
“I—uh—I think so.”
I tried to move, but my left hand wouldn’t release the steering wheel. I concentrated on unfolding each finger, slowly releasing my grip. It was a slow and painful process.
As I was working to regain the use of my hand, Paula recovered enough to reach her purse and dig in it for her cell phone.
She punched in 9-1-1.
In a few seconds she had a dispatcher on the line. She gave them our location and said we’d had an accident.
“I don’t know if there are any injuries.” She looked over at me. “Are you hurt?”
“Yeah, I think I am,” I said, my voice shaky.
She listened for a moment.
“They’re sending an ambulance,” she said to me.
In the distance we could already hear sirens approaching. I’d done this twice in the last few days. That was twice too many.
The police arrived first, with fire/rescue and the aid unit close behind.
Soon the car was surrounded by several burly men in turnouts and helmets. After several tries they managed to get the passenger’s door open without causing any more damage, which was little consolation given the amount of crackling and crunching I’d heard. Fiberglass cars did not handle impact gracefully.
The car had come to rest with the driver’s door pinned against an embankment. I was trapped inside, trying not to think about how much damage that might mean.
“Are you all right?” the paramedic asked.
I fumbled with my seat belt. The latch released and I slid to the right. I was fine until I tried to lean on my left arm to slide over the console.
Pain shot through my wrist and I slipped sideways, unable to support my own weight.
The paramedic was out of his coat and in the passenger’s side of the car at once. He put an arm around my shoulders and cradled me against him.
“Stay still,” he ordered. “Let me check you over before you try to move.”
For several minutes he poked and prodded and carefully manipulated my joints. Except for the left wrist there didn’t seem to be any major damage.
The paramedic helped me work my way across the console and out the passenger side of the car.
One look confirmed my worst fears.
The front end of the Corvette was shredded, resin and fabric separated like the layers of a flaky biscuit. The retractable headlights had been ripped from their moorings and dangled by their wires in front of the flattened nose.
My toy was broken. Badly.
I started shaking long before they loaded us into the ambulance for the ride to the emergency room. A sheriff’s deputy wrapped a scratchy blanket around my shoulders, and gave me a chemical hand warmer to hold.
Paula got the same treatment.
I answered a few questions, explaining to the deputy about the deer.
“All this because a deer ran across the road?” He sounded skeptical.
“I didn’t want to damage my car,” I said. I looked at the wreckage sitting slammed against the embankment. “Not like it helped.”
“So you swerved to miss the deer, lost control, and went into off the road? Is that it?”
Another deputy was questioning Paula, keeping her far enough away I couldn’t hear his questions or her replies.
“No, that wasn’t it. There was a lot more.” I tried to explain about sliding and spinning and going back the wrong way.
The deputy looked more and more confused. “Why did you pull the emergency brake?” he asked when I slowed down a little.
“Because the brakes failed.” I stopped short. “Didn’t I tell you that part?”
From his expression I obviously had not.
I started over with swerving to miss the deer and tried to piece the events together in the correct order. Things were becoming confused in my head, and the pain in my wrist made it hard to think about anything else. It had all happened so fast, and I was shaking so hard my teeth began to chatter.
The deputy signaled the ambulance attendants and we were packed into the back for a ride to the emergency room.
We were met at the emergency entrance by nurses, Sheriff Mitchell, and Sue.
Sue rushed over to me as the nurses helped me out of the ambulance and into a waiting wheelchair. “I’m here if you need me, Georgie,” she said, squeezing my hand. The right one, fortunately. “I’ll wait until you’re through and take you home.”
“Dogs?” I croaked. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air and my voice wouldn’t work right.
“Taken care of,” she said.
The sheriff was there in his official capacity, a fact he made abundantly clear by shooing Sue away from me.
“You can talk later.”
Sue took the hint and retreated to a seat in the waiting room. She’d brought a book, and as they wheeled us into the treatment room it looked as though she were prepared to wait all night if she had to.
Friends like that are worth more than any car.
Still, every time I thought of the ’Vette stuck against the embankment I wanted to cry. I pushed the thoughts away. Doctors first, mechanics later. And thank God for good insurance on both.
Fred Mitchell followed us into the treatment room and spoke with the attending doctor. “Be sure you get a BAC in addition to whatever else you’re doing,” he said.
“Don’t you need my permission for that, Sheriff?”
“It’s routine to ask for it in all accident cases, Miss Neverall. Just figured it was easier to wait until we got you to the hospital.” He nodded toward my layers of blankets. “The deputies said you were hurt and they wanted to get you in here as soon as possible.
“And I figured you’d like this a lot better than a field sobriety test,” he added drily.
Such a considerate man!
“And if I don’t give permission?” I asked.
“We get a court order. Doesn’t take long, and we get the same result. Just makes extra work for us and we might need to hold you until we get the order so we can draw more blood.” He grinned. “This way is easier for all of us, and then Sue can take you home.”
Even in my addled state I noticed that I was once again Miss Neverall, and he had referred to Sue by her first name.
“I haven’t had anything to drink, Sheriff Mitchell. Just water. But if it will make you feel better, please take a little extra and satisfy your concerns.”
Mitchell didn’t rise to the bait. “Thank you, Miss Neverall. Just standard procedure in all accident investigations.” He held out a clipboard with a sheet of paper. “Will you sign this release, please?”
I signed and he left.
My indignation stayed. While the doctor examined me I fumed. “What kind of a question is that? Do I want to let him run a blood alcohol test, or do I want to sit in jail while he gets a court order and runs the test anyway? And for what? Because I had a car accident?”
The doctor ignored my ranting and continued with my exam.
He held the stethoscope to my chest and asked me to be quiet and take a deep breath. He made me hold the breath for several extra seconds before allowing me to breathe out.
I took the hint.
The doctor made some notes on his clipboard, then helped me to lay back and stretch out on the exam table. He checked my arms and legs, elbows and knees, taking care not to jostle my wrist, which had swollen alarmingly.
“I don’t think we need pictures of anything else,” he said at last. “So I’m sending you off to X-ray for that wrist.”
The nurse returned and helped me into the wheelchair.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re through,” the doctor said. “For now, just try to relax, if you can.”
Easy for him to say. I didn’t want to think about how many ways my life was in shambles.
The diagnosis, when it came, was just more of the same.
I’d sprained my wrist. The doctor talked about various grades of injury and said he thought it was only a grade one. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Either way, it meant I couldn’t work for the rest of the week.
A nurse came in to ask if Mr. Hickey could come back and talk to me.
We’d just been talking about work, and Barry showed up. It took me a minute to realize why; his wife was in here, too.
“Of course,” I said. I turned to the doctor as the nurse hurried away. “That’s my boss.
You
can tell him I won’t be working the rest of the week.”
You
can tell him I won’t be working the rest of the week.”
Barry’s reassuring bulk filled the entrance to the treatment cubicle, his broad face troubled. “Are you okay, Georgie?”
“Hey, Bear.” I tried to force a note of cheerfulness into my voice, with only modest success. “How’s Paula? I haven’t seen her since we came in.”
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