“Yeah,” she said. “Cross the river, then take the first right.”
Kittredge slowed to thirty crossing the Holston. The river was spanned here by a steel truss bridge, fifty years old if it was a day. The bridge was narrow and rickety, but Kittredge liked the angles and rivets, liked the way the emerald-green paint matched the color of the river below. He also liked being able to see through the railings and down to the water. Modern bridges, like the I-40 bridge that spanned the river a half mile downstream from here, blocked your view of the water; all you could see was the concrete sides. When Kittredge crossed a river, he wanted to see the river.
“They’re tearing this bridge down next year,” he said to her, partly just to break the silence, but partly to make up for the way he’d treated her earlier. He’d been stingy with his humanity at first. He’d been unintentionally cruel, forcing her to expose herself to him, too—expose her pain and her shame—before he started treating her like a crime victim, like someone deserving of respect and compassion and at least some attempt at justice.
She glanced out at the antiquated girders strobing past. “If they want to tear this thing down, they better hurry. Looks like it might collapse before they get to it.”
“Naw,” he scoffed. “Keep this thing painted, it’ll last another hundred years. The new one’ll be wider and stronger. Safer, sure. But nowhere near as interesting.” He surprised himself then, stopping the car midway across. She seemed surprised, too—her head snapped around in his direction, her expression a mixture of puzzlement and alarm, her right hand edging toward the door latch. He pointed out her window. “See that little dip in the railing right there?”
She studied his face for a moment before turning to look. “Yeah?”
“I jumped off of there once. A long damn time ago. Night I graduated from high school.”
“You jumped from there? That’s a long ways down. You drunk?”
He chuckled. “Shit-faced. Wouldn’t’ve done it sober. Never did, anyhow—not before, not since. Glad I did it the once, though.” He let out a low hnh, a monosyllabic grunt. “If the Lord looks out for fools and drunkards, I had double coverage that night.” He glanced in the mirror and saw a truck coming up behind them, so he nudged the Crown Vic on across the bridge. He signaled and took the right onto John Sevier for a half mile, following the river downstream a ways before turning off the highway; before turning on to the back road that the map showed leading to Cahaba Lane, where she said he’d taken her. “This guy took you off the beaten track, that’s for sure,” he said. “Was he just wandering around, looking for someplace private to park?”
“No. He knew right where he was going.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He knew the roads. I could tell by the way he was driving. He knows his way around out here. Maybe he lives out here somewhere.”
“Could be,” Kittredge said. “I’ll check with the gas stations and quick-stops around here, see if anybody knows the car. You said it’s a Mustang, kinda old?”
“A ’67,” she said. “Third year of production.”
“He told you that?”
“Didn’t have to. I knew it.” He glanced a question at her. “I had one, once upon a time,” she said. “A long damn time ago.” Her words—“a long damn time ago”—were an echo of his. Is she making fun of me? he wondered. Couldn’t blame her. But maybe she’s deciding to trust me. “They widened the radiator grille on the ’67,” she went on. “That’s how you can tell it from the ’65 and the ’66. Made those fake air scoops on the sides bigger, too.” She took a long breath; blew it out. “It wasn’t really mine. It was my stepfather’s. I stole it when I ran away from home.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen? Jesus. You must’ve wanted to get away from home mighty bad. How come?”
“Take a wild guess, Detective.” He winced, cursing himself for his stupidity, but didn’t say anything; didn’t want to risk interrupting her story again. “My mama worked nights,” she said. “He started in on my sister first. She was two years older than me, and she protected me. Took the bullet, so to speak. At the time, I didn’t realize what a sacrifice that was. ‘Greater love,’ and all that. But after a while she couldn’t take it anymore. She ran away at fifteen; tried to talk me into going with her. I should’ve. Would’ve, if I’d known what it would be like once she was gone. Once I was home alone with him.”