Fifty yards later, train and car finally stopped in a cloud of acrid smoke.
Kirsten stared at the twisted, flattened remains of the car. A moment more, and she would have been in there.
He tried to kill me.
She let the idea sink in. Mr. Busk wanted her dead. He had made her go over the tracks, closed the windows, and pressed the shutoff button.
And he had been careful enough not to ruin a driver’s ed car while killing her.
She looked at herself for the first time. Her pants were torn. Her right arm had a bleeding gash along its entire length. Her cheek stung where her face had hit the ground.
But Kirsten felt rooted to the spot. She didn’t move until she saw ambulance lights flashing.
The vehicle came to a screeching halt and two white-suited men rushed out toward the smashed car. A crowd of gawkers had already formed. Their eyes were glued to the accident, but it wouldn’t be long before someone turned her way.
Kirsten got up. Pain shot from her left ankle all the way up her back. She made tracks away from Sunrise as fast as her aching legs could take her.
“What happened to you?” said Nat as she limped into the house.
“I fell,” Kirsten said.
“Where? Into a trash compacter?”
Kirsten went into the bathroom, closed the door, and looked in the mirror.
What she saw was not pretty. Her face was scraped, but it had already stopped bleeding. The arm and leg were much worse. She took off her clothes and showered, gritting her teeth against the pain.
Afterward she carefully covered the open wounds with gauze. Then she wrapped a towel around her, went upstairs, and changed.
She hobbled into her parents’ room and called Maria.
“Maria, hi, I have to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong, Kirsten? Mr. Busk tried to put the moves on you? You attract all the winners, don’t you?”
“No! Listen to me, (boop!) I—”
Call waiting. Of all the times to be interrupted!
“He took me driving—in another car—and he tried to—(boop!) Ohhhhh!”
“Take the call, Kirsten. I’ll be here.”
Kirsten clicked the receiver hook. “Hello!” she snapped.
“Kirsten! Thank God you’re home.” It was Virgil, speaking in a rushed, pinched whisper. “Meet me right away, at Riverside and West. Don’t talk to anybody. Don’t let anything stop you.”
“But I’m on the phone with Maria—”
“Get rid of her.”
“But—”
“Kirsten, this involves your life. Get rid of Maria and don’t tell her I called. Now!”
“Okay.” She clicked the hook again. “Hi, Maria? Listen, I have to go. Can I call you later?”
“You’re going to leave me hanging like this? What could be so important—”
“See you, Maria. Sorry. Bye.”
Click.
She limped downstairs and out to the garage. Nat was playing Nintendo in the den and ignored her.
As she lifted her right leg over her bike, she grimaced in agony. But the pain was dull and throbbing, not sharp like a bone break. She could make it.
She pushed off with her good foot and began rolling. Girding herself, she pedaled down the driveway and into the street.
Kirsten went straight to Riverside Drive, which ran along the west side of Port Lincoln. Toward the edge of town, the houses she passed were larger and farther apart. Port Lincoln became almost rural here, until it disappeared entirely into forest beyond West Street.
But Riverside Drive kept going, all the way to Fenimore Village. Years ago it was the only road that led to Fenimore, until the parkway was built and people could make the trip in three minutes. Riverside had become a cracked, potholed, country road twisting through pines and maples that seemed to grow closer to the blacktop every year. It followed the Sagramore River for a while, then crossed over it on a stone bridge.
It was near that stone bridge that Nguyen Trang had lost his life.
As Kirsten approached West Street, the sun was setting to her left. It had recently burned away the clouds, just in time to make the leaves overhead look like a canopy of flames. Two blocks from the intersection, she could see Virgil’s silhouette. He was pacing, looking up West Street.
She was about to shout to him, but she didn’t.
A red Jeep appeared, speeding from West Street into the intersection. It squealed to a halt, and Mr. Busk got out.
Kirsten squeezed her hand brake. Quickly she got off her bike and hid behind a nearby hedged
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Busk bellowed.
Virgil stammered an answer Kirsten couldn’t hear.
Mr. Busk did not seem happy with the answer, and he began looking up and down Riverside. Lowering his voice, he argued with Virgil, gesturing angrily with his arms.
Virgil looked terribly anxious.
They were waiting for me. This was a setup.
The thought ripped its way into her consciousness. She never would have suspected Virgil.
But Virgil had called her immediately after Busk had tried to kill her.
And Virgil had gone ballistic when he’d seen her reading Nguyen’s disk. A defective mouse? How could Kirsten have been so stupid? Mr. Ruggiero had said the mouse was fine. Virgil had lied so he could sabotage the disk while she and Maria went off rummaging in the file cabinet.
And Mr. Busk had been in the hallway when they’d left the lab.
They were working together. But why? What did they have to do with Nguyen and Rob?
Kirsten’s jaw dropped with a sudden realization.
43, 18, 17.
Those were the ages of “Johnson,” “Jones,” and “Smith.”
The ages (more or less) of Mr. Busk, Rob, and Virgil.
And no one at the hospital checked IDs. No one was suspicious. Why?
Because the attending nurse was Mr. Busk’s sister.
Kirsten heard a slam. She looked toward the Jeep. Mr. Busk was rushing to get into the driver’s side. Virgil was nowhere in sight.
With a roar and a cloud of black smoke, the Jeep disappeared up Riverside Drive.
Chapter 24
KIRSTEN HOPPED ON HER bike. Her pain was gone. She could feel her blood pulsing wildly at her temples.
She pedaled furiously. Beneath her, fallen leaves crackled under her tires.
As she followed the first sharp bend in the road, her tires slipped. She skidded left, sticking out her leg to stop the fall.
She bounced back upright and continued. Her eyes scanned the blacktop in front of her for leaves. She steered around the thickest piles. She could not afford to fall over now.
But the bike was no match for a Jeep. Kirsten saw no sign of it. The engine noise soon died out. Mr. Busk was probably driving along the outskirts of Fenimore Village, heading for the parkway.
She continued a while longer, but finally stopped.
Her breaths came in savage gulps; her throat was parched and dry. She felt unstable as she propped her bike on a pine tree and sat on an old log.
She had lost him. Years ago, after the war, Mr. Busk had vanished once from Port Lincoln. Now he was likely to vanish for good.
And no one would know that he had helped destroy Nguyen Trang.
Now Kirsten knew what Nguyen had wanted. Vengeance.
He had gotten it from Rob. Now he wanted the other two. Somehow they were involved in his death.
As the harsh hacksawing of her own breaths diminished, Kirsten began noticing the sounds around her. The screech of a chipmunk. The skittering of a squirrel. The dropping of acorns. The caw of crows. The lapping of the river below her.
The chugging of a balky car engine.
Yes. The sound was unmistakable.
Kirsten rose to her feet. Below her, a dirt path wound along the riverbank. Silently, on the sides of her feet, she descended the gentle slope and followed the path toward the noise.
The river took
a sharp left less than a hundred yards ahead. Kirsten trained her eye upward. Through the crisscrossing tree trunks and blowing leaves, she caught a glint of metal.
Carefully she edged closer. When she could see the road clearly, she hid behind a sycamore tree.
Whirrrr … whirrrr … chock-chock!
Mr. Busk’s Jeep had veered off the road. Its right bumper had hit a tree, and now the engine wasn’t starting.
She heard Mr. Busk’s voice muttering epithets she’d never even heard before. He pushed his door open, got out, and kicked the door shut again in frustration.
Standing with hands on hips, he looked down Riverside Drive.
Kirsten ducked behind the tree.
Soon she heard footsteps tapping on the road … crunching on leaves and fallen branches … coming nearer.
“Hey. Who’s there?”
Kirsten froze.
“Come on, get out. I see you. You got a car?”
Kirsten took a deep breath and stepped out.
Mr. Busk stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped open. “K-Kirsten?”
“Did you think I was dead?” she asked.
“Well, I—I saw—the train—” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I was so worried. I—I bailed out when I saw that gate go down, and I knew you’d do the same. But then, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t see you afterward… .”
“I got out. I rolled away on the other side of the tracks.”
“Well, thank God you’re alive!”
“Yeah. I sure don’t have you to thank.”
Mr. Busk stepped backward, up the slope. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Kirsten followed him, step for step. “I guess you closed the window before you jumped to avoid a last-minute chill—and your knee nicked the ignition shutoff by accident on your way out. I’m not sure why you went through the trouble to lock the door, though… .”
Now Mr. Busk’s back was to the rear end of the Jeep. He stopped. “Kirsten, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—I called to you! I yelled, ‘Push your door open!’ I mean, the train was pretty loud by then… .”
Behind Mr. Busk, Kirsten spotted movement in the Jeep’s rear window. Slowly, Virgil rose into view, his face covered with blood.
His eyes locked with Kirsten’s for a split second.
The expression on Mr. Busk’s face flickered with instant understanding. He spun around.
Whack!
The Jeep’s rear door flew open, catching Mr. Busk in the chest.
He staggered backward. His foot caught a patch of leaves on the lip of the road.
Windmilling his arms, he fell.
“Hurry!” Virgil urged, pulling the door shut again.
Kirsten raced to the driver’s side. She yanked open the door and hopped inside. The key was in the ignition.
Whirrrrrr … whirrrrr!
Flooded. The engine was flooded. That was what Rob had called that noise. What were you supposed to do?
“He’s coming!” Virgil yelled from the back of the Jeep.
Kirsten locked the door. Mr. Busk’s shirt filled the side mirror. Now he was grabbing the door handle.
Suddenly Kirsten remembered. She turned the key without touching the gas pedal.
Whirrrrrr … whirrrrr … ka-CHOOOOOM!
The Jeep roared to life.
“OPEN THE DOOR!” Mr. Busk howled beside her.
“Go! GO!” Virgil yelled.
Kirsten looked at the dashboard in a panic. She had never driven a Jeep. Everything was in the wrong place.
But she couldn’t think about that. She pulled the shift down to Drive. Then she trained her eyes on the road, yanked the steering wheel to the left, and floored the gas pedal.
The tires left the dirt and connected with the road. And Kirsten felt the crash of shattering glass near her head.
Chapter 25
“GO!” VIRGIL’S VOICE WAS a high-pitched wail.
Kirsten screamed and flinched as shards of glass fell against her. Some stuck to her hair, some tinkled to the floor.
She pressed her foot down hard, but the Jeep was swerving out of control.
The window beside her was a jagged hole. But she was unhurt.
She sat up. Her eyes widened. She was heading for an outcropping of solid rock along the other side of the road. Fast.
“We’re going to die!” Virgil cried.
Kirsten pulled the steering wheel to the right. The Jeep felt as if it were going to keel over.
Then they were on the road. Moving. The blacktop stretched out ahead, mottled with swirling eddies of fallen leaves.
“Stop!” shouted a distant voice.
In the rearview mirror, Kirsten saw Mr. Busk rearing back with a large rock. He let fly.
CRONK!
It hit the roof with a loud, explosive, metallic sound.
But Kirsten kept her eyes forward. Her hands on the wheel. Her foot on the gas.
And in moments, Mr. Busk was an agitated speck in the mirror, disappearing around a bend in the road.
“Yeeeeee-hahhh!” Virgil yelled.
Kirsten grinned. Now this—this was a drive!
A couple of miles later Kirsten had to slow down. For one thing, it was getting dark and the old country road had no lights. For another, this section had some treacherous turns.
“Whoa … stop,” Virgil piped up.
He was now sitting in the passenger seat, staring out his window.
“Why?” Kirsten asked.
“This is the place,” he said. “This is where Nguyen died.”
Kirsten applied the brake and stopped at the side of the road. As she shifted to Park, she gazed out at the steep ravine beyond a thick concrete guardrail.
“They crashed through that?” Kirsten asked.
Virgil shook his head. “That was put up after the accident. A metal railing used to be there. Rob clipped the end of it.”
“Rob?” Kirsten stared at Virgil. “So Rob was driving, not Nguyen.”
Virgil’s head lowered. “Yeah. I guess.”
“You guess?” Fury exploded from Kirsten. “Damn it, Virgil. You lured me into a trap, and what did I do? Leave you with Mr. Busk, where you belonged? No. I may have just saved your life. And for what? You’ve been lying to me every step of the way! I know you were involved in the accident, Virgil. So don’t guess. I swear, if you hold back from me anymore, I will haunt you the rest of your worthless life.”
Or someone else will.
“No … no.” Virgil was shaking his head. “I didn’t lure you, Kirsten. I was trying to save you. To warn you. Mr. Busk called to tell me you’d been hit. He made it sound like it was your fault. He was, like, hyperventilating over the phone. He wanted to meet me, but not at West and Riverside. When I called and found out you were alive, I suspected Mr. Busk had tried to kill you. Before I went to meet him, I wanted to tell you the truth—away from your house, in case he checked. I knew he’d gone off the deep end. He’d been acting strange lately. He knew you were about to blow open our alibi. His sister had told him you were snooping around with the E.R. records—”
“Alibi for what, Virgil? What happened here?”
Virgil’s eyes glazed over. He started breathing heavily. “I vowed I’d never talk about this. I wanted to forget it. I thought … I thought it would go away.”
“It’ll never go away, Virgil.”
“I know … I know.” He began speaking in slow, measured tones, his eyes moistening. “Rob had it in for Nguyen—he was convinced Mr. Trang stole his dad’s job, and that was why his dad had abandoned the family. But that wasn’t true. Mr. Maxson was fired because he was a drunk. And he’d been fighting with Mrs. Maxson for years. Anyway, Rob knew I liked Gwen, and he got it in his mind that he would scare Nguyen away from Gwen—for my sake, he said. That was what this whole thing was about. It wasn’t really for me; it was just an excuse to torment Nguyen.”
“So he killed him?”
“No. He wanted to frighte
n him, take him on a dangerous ride and threaten him. Maybe let him out in the woods without his clothes—something stupid like that. He thought that would be fun. I don’t know why he wanted me to come. I don’t know why I agreed. But before I knew it, there we were, tooling along in the rain. Nguyen was in the middle, trapped between us. We were slipping and sliding, and … a car came in the other direction, in the wrong lane. Rob swerved into the guardrail, and the car went over. Somehow Rob was thrown clear. His jacket was destroyed, but he wasn’t badly hurt. I was wearing a seat belt, but Nguyen wasn’t. His head smashed into the windshield. Hard.
“I blacked out, until Rob pulled me from the wreckage. Nguyen was dead; we checked him. Then … then we panicked. We were worried someone would find out. So we—”
Virgil’s voice broke off. A sudden, choked sob erupted from him, and he began weeping.
Kirsten waited a moment. She couldn’t bring herself to comfort him.
“We moved him,” Virgil continued.
“What do you mean, moved him?” Kirsten asked.
“Into the driver’s seat. To make it look like he was driving. Alone. Then Rob started freaking out about fingerprints. He wanted me to go in and start wiping all the surfaces. We argued and argued, and suddenly …” Virgil took a breath and stared out the window. “Suddenly we heard an explosion. It knocked us off our feet. When we looked back, the car had burst into flames.”
Kirsten sat back in her seat. She let the horrible tale sink in. She sifted through the details, wondering how such a thing could have happened.
“Virgil,” she said, “what about the car that ran you off the road? Did you find out who it was?”
Virgil shrugged. “A drunk driver.”
“A drunk driver?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he happen to be driving a red Jeep?”
Virgil looked away.
Kirsten’s head was pounding. “Busk killed the wrong person that night, Virgil,” she said through clenched teeth. “You and Rob were lucky. You could have at least reported Busk. But what did you do? You helped him cover up the murder of your own classmate!”
“We had no choice!” Virgil’s voice was a harsh, pleading whine. “Busk said the accident was Rob’s fault—and if we all didn’t cover it up, he’d tell the cops Rob caused the accident.”
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