Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Did they recognize him? Get a name?”

“No and no. Even so, I think this opens up some possibilities.”

“Including the possibility that Joseph King found out his wife was screwing around and flew into a rage.”

“If that’s the case,” I say, “the information should have come out in the course of the trial.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of a vehicle behind me. I’m driving the speed limit, which is fifty-five miles per hour. I drift slightly right, hugging the white line so he can pass, and I turn my attention back to my conversation.

“Tomasetti, I talked to Joseph at length the night I was in the house with him. I don’t think he knew about Naomi’s affair. I sat there and listened to his daughter tell me there was another man in the house that night. A man with a long gun, standing outside her mother’s bedroom. The deeper I get into all of this, the more strongly I feel that Joseph King did not kill his wife.”

Even though I’m alone and in my own vehicle, I find myself lowering my voice. “We need to look at Wade Travers.”

“All right. But if we’re going to—”

The Explorer jolts with so much force my head snaps against the seat rest. Headlights flash behind me. I catch a glimpse of a hood coming up fast on my left and I think, Drunk driver. A pickup truck. White.

Vaguely I’m aware of Tomasetti’s voice coming over the Bluetooth. “Kate?”

“Hold on,” I grind out.

The truck hovers for an instant, too far back for me to see the driver. Quickly, it veers right and slams into the Explorer. Steel clangs against steel, screeching as my vehicle is shoved right. I’m jerked left, my head bouncing off the driver’s-side window. “Shit!”

The steering wheel is nearly wrenched from my hands. Both right wheels, front and back, leave the asphalt, swerve onto the gravel shoulder. I grab tight, yank it back, feel the back wheels skid, then catch.

“Kate, what’s going on?”

“Crazy driver running me off the road.”

The truck’s engine groans. A lot of power. Big engine. Tall hood. Souped up. The grille looms outside my window. Too close. Can’t see the plate. I hit the brake hard. Down to forty miles an hour. The truck surges ahead, swerves right. I’m not fast enough to avoid it. The truck’s rear bumper crashes against my left quarter panel.

The fender buckles. My tires lose purchase. The road curves left. I’m not going to make the turn. The Explorer goes into a spin. I brake hard, steer into the skid, but my efforts are fruitless. I try to get a look at the truck’s license plate, but it’s too far ahead and moving away fast.

The Explorer crosses the road. Tires screeching. Dirt and gravel fly outside my window. I’m thrown hard against my safety belt as the vehicle nose-dives into the ditch. The airbag explodes, punching me in the face and chest like a giant boxer’s glove.

Abruptly everything goes still. I’m so stunned that for a moment I’m frozen in place. The Explorer has stopped at a steep angle. Engine no longer running. Something hissing. I’m being held in place by my shoulder harness and seat belt. I’m aware of the airbag slowly deflating. Pain in the general area of my chest where the strap cut into me. The windshield is cracked. The hood buckled. Through the glass I see mud and grass and yellow cattails.

I lift my hands, set them on the steering wheel; I’m shaking violently. I shift, move my legs. No pain. No serious injuries.

“Shit.” I groan the word and look around for my phone. It had been in the cup holder in the console; I’d been using my Bluetooth. It’s probably somewhere on the floor now.

I set my right forearm against the steering wheel and unlatch my safety belt. With my left hand I reach for the door handle. Relief slips through me when it creaks open. The Explorer has come to rest nose-down in a six-foot-deep ditch. The grille is submerged in a couple of feet of water. I climb out, set my feet on the ground, sink into mud up to my ankles. Last year’s cattails scrape my legs as I wade through them. The bank is steep and I have to use my hands to traverse the incline. Slowly, I make my way up to the road’s shoulder.

It’s almost fully dark now. No one around. The truck that hit me is long gone. I feel alone and exposed, more shaken than I want to admit. This was no accident, a little voice whispers, and a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature sweeps through me.

I’d been on the phone, not paying attention. The truck seemed to come out of nowhere, approaching me at a high rate of speed. Was this a case of drunk driving? Of road rage? An impatient driver who became angry because he thought I was driving too slowly? I don’t think so; I’d given him ample opportunity to pass. No, this is something else. But what?

Realizing I need my phone, I slide back down the incline and crawl into the Explorer. I grapple around inside, finally locating my cell on the passenger-side floor.

I dial 911 as I make my way back up the slope and report the accident. Then I dial Tomasetti.

“What the hell happened?” He doesn’t bother trying to conceal his concern.

“Someone ran me off the road. Took off.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I glance over at the wrecked Explorer. “Auggie’s not going to be too happy with me.”

He’s not amused. “Where are you?”

I look around. There’s a farm about a quarter mile down the road. A church across the street. “Ohio Eighty-eight,” I tell him. “A few miles south of Parkman.”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way. Keep your goddamn sidearm handy, will you?”

*

I’ve investigated dozens of traffic accidents over the years, from routine fender benders to fatality wrecks and everything in between. Even with all that experience, it’s different when you’re the one behind the wheel.

It takes ten minutes for the Portage County sheriff’s deputy to arrive on scene. Deputy Chaney is a no-nonsense African American guy with a professional demeanor and a keen sense of humor, both of which calm my frayed nerves. I let him know right off the bat that I’m a cop—which earns me a little bit more in the way of regard. He listens carefully when I tell him about the white pickup truck running me off the road.

“Drunk driver?” he asks.

“I don’t think so. It seemed intentional.”

“Road rage?” he asks.

“I was going the speed limit, gave him ample room to pass.”

“You never know what’s going to set someone off,” he tells me.

I don’t offer another explanation despite the one pounding at the base of my brain. I don’t know who the driver was. I don’t know his intent. Because of the sensitive nature of my suspicions about a neighboring jurisdiction, I hold my silence.

When I’m finished with my statement, the deputy puts out a BOLO for the truck to the state highway patrol and surrounding law enforcement agencies.