by Janet Dailey
What if he’d already waited too long?
After scribbling a note on the pad he kept in the glove compartment, he climbed out of the cab and stuck it in the screen door. Back in the truck, he started the engine, switched on the lights, and raced toward the highway.
Twenty minutes up the main road, he spotted his worst nightmare. The flashing red and blue lights of Highway Patrol cruisers, clustered on the opposite side of the highway, could only mean one thing.
Sick with dread, he parked on the shoulder of the road, climbed out of his truck, and crossed to the other side. There were two patrol vehicles, the troopers standing together, looking down at something in the deep barrow pit—something Sky couldn’t see until he came up even with them.
The white Cadillac lay upside down, its crumpled chassis gleaming in the moonlight. The driver’s side door hung open as if it had been forced. Sky’s heart dropped. There was no sign of Lauren.
“Where’s the driver?” he asked one of the troopers.
The man eyed Sky suspiciously. “Do you know her?”
Sky struggled to downplay the anxiety that was eating him alive. “I came out here looking for her. Her name’s Lauren Prescott. She’s the congressman’s daughter. That’s his car.”
The lawman nodded. “We already ran the license, so we know that much. She’s on her way to the hospital. The ambulance took her ten minutes ago.”
“Then she’s alive?” He forced his voice past the icy fear that clutched his throat.
“She was when they took her. But she was unconscious. Looked like she smashed her head pretty bad on the steering wheel. She was hanging from the seat belt, bleeding the whole time. No telling how long she’d been there before somebody saw the car and called it in.”
Sky’s first impulse was to jump back in his truck and race after the ambulance. But right now he needed to know more about what had happened and why. He stared down at the wrecked car. The front end was battered but pretty much intact. From the doors on back, however, the Cadillac’s solid body had been crushed like a tin can.
“That car didn’t just roll,” he said. “Looks like it was hit from behind, hit hard, by something big enough to do a lot of damage.”
“We figured the same—maybe a big truck. She could’ve braked for something, an animal maybe, while the truck was coming up behind her, going too fast to stop.”
“Then where’s the truck? The driver had to have known he hit her. Why would he leave?”
The trooper shrugged. “Suspended license, maybe. Or something in the back he didn’t want us to find. Or maybe he just didn’t want trouble with his boss. Things like that happen out here, with nobody around to see. Since the wreck took place in Blanco County, it’ll be up to Sheriff Sweeney to look into any criminal charges.”
Abner Sweeney. As if any news could worsen the situation after what had happened to Lauren. But Sky had spent enough time here. Right now all he wanted was to get to the hospital and find her.
As he turned to cross the highway, back to his pickup, his eyes caught the gleam of light on the asphalt. He could see where the Cadillac had torn up the shoulder as it careened off the road. But it was what he didn’t see that chilled his blood.
There were no skid marks on the pavement. The driver who’d hit Lauren had made no attempt to stop or swerve.
To Sky, the crash no longer looked like an accident. It looked more like attempted murder.
Lauren stirred and moaned. Her first awareness was pain stabbing her head, pain in every joint, every muscle of her body. Her eyes opened, taking in the white ceiling tiles, the cold lights. A plastic clip on her finger was attached to the monitor above her bed. An IV bag dripped clear liquid into her arm.
“Thank God.” The voice was Sky’s. His big hand tightened around hers, gripping hard, as if he never wanted to let go.
“What . . . happened?” She had vague memories of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the seat belt snapping against her body. Were those memories real, or was she waking up from a nightmare?
“You were in a wreck,” Sky said. “You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs, a nasty gash on your head, and a concussion.”
Lauren’s free hand went to her forehead, fingers feeling the thick bandage. She struggled to sit up, then fell back as the pain lanced her ribs. “I’m in the hospital?”
“You are. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“What time is it? What day . . . ?”
Sky glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s five-fifteen in the morning. You’ve been unconscious almost eight hours.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “You gave me a bad scare, Lauren.”
She turned her head and looked at him. His clothes were rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed with fatigue. “You were here all night?”
“When you didn’t show up, I went looking for you. By the time I got to the wreck, the ambulance had come and gone. I took a minute to talk to the troopers, then got here as fast as I could. I knew you didn’t have anybody else.” His fingers tightened around her hand. “I’m not a praying man, but I prayed last night. I was so scared I was going to lose you.”
Lauren forced back a freshet of tears. “As you once told me, I’m tougher than I look.” She tried to smile. Even her face hurt.
“There are signs that somebody might have hit you on purpose. Can you remember anything about what happened?”
Closing her eyes, Lauren groped her fogged memory. “There was this big truck—brown, I think. It pulled out of the diner and stayed right behind me. I thought it was gone. Then it came out of nowhere and . . .” She’d hit a blank wall. “I’m sorry. It must’ve rammed me and run me off the road. That’s all I remember.” She opened her eyes. “You’re right. The driver must’ve done it on purpose. But why?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Sky said. “If the reports are true, your father could’ve been mixed up with some pretty rough people. And since they didn’t know he’d passed away, they wouldn’t have realized it was you, not him in that car. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“But what if—” She gasped as awareness struck her. “Oh no! My father, the funeral, the press release—” She pushed herself up, clenching her teeth against the pain. “Help me, Sky! I’ve got to get out of here!”
Rising, he eased her shoulders gently back down to the pillow. “You’re not going anywhere till the doctor says so. The funeral can wait as long as it has to. And if you’ll tell me what to say in that release, I’ll write it down and give it to the press myself—or find somebody else to do it.”
“Traitor!” She gave him a mock scowl. Her sudden movement had pulled the clip off her finger. At the sound of the beeping monitor the nurse came rushing into the room.
“You’re awake!” Her motherly face brightened. “Goodness me, but you had us worried, girl. This gentleman here never left your side. If you’re smart, you’ll hang on to him. He’s a keeper, and I can tell how much he loves you!”
Lauren felt the hated blush creep into her face. Sky had never said he loved her or given her any other reason to believe he wanted a long-term relationship. The woman had probably embarrassed him half to death.
“Hang on, and I’ll get the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be glad to know you’re awake.” She bustled out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.
“You look dead on your feet,” Lauren said. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine here.”
“I’ll do it as long as you promise not to get up and try to leave,” Sky said. “You’re to stay put, hear?”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “My father had no family left but me. If I don’t take care of things—” She broke off, remembering. “Oh no! Where’s my purse? I need—”
“The troopers sent it with the ambulance. It’s in the cabinet with your other things. But I’m going to tell the nurse not to give it to you. You need to rest.”
“Stop trying to manage my life, Sky Fletcher!”
He gave her a slow smile. “Hey, you’ve got your spunk back. I can tell you’re feeling better already. But you’re not doing anything till the doctor clears you.”
“He’s right.” The doctor—a short, balding stranger—strode in the door. “The fact that you’re awake and lucid is a good sign, Miss Prescott. But we’ll want to run a CAT scan to get a look at that bump on your head. Somebody will be here to take you down to Radiology in the next few minutes. After that, you’re under orders to rest. You can plan to be here through tomorrow, at least.”
With a mutter, Lauren lay back on the pillow. Her head was throbbing, but the pain was nothing compared to her frustration. It had fallen to her to deal with her father’s death and all its messy implications. And here she was, practically shackled to the bed, forbidden to move. If she ever got her hands on the scumbag who’d rammed her off the road, so help her . . .
“Give me the name of the mortuary and I’ll call them,” Sky said. “They can put the funeral on hold till they hear from you.”
“Thanks.” Lauren surrendered with a sigh. “It’s called Worthington Hills. They’re in the phone book. While you’re at it, you can call Tori. Tell her what happened and where I am.”
Two young men in scrubs had come to wheel her bed out of the room. Sky reached down and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be back tonight. Rest.”
All she could do was return his hand squeeze before they whisked her away.
By the time Sky was back on the road, the sun was coming up. Braced by two cups of scalding black coffee, he shifted mental gears, preparing himself for a day’s work with the horses.
Last night had been the most gut-wrenching experience of his life—sitting by Lauren’s bed, his gaze fixed on her battered face and closed eyes—those beautiful, copper-flecked eyes that might never open again. He had told her he loved her—told her more times and ways than he could count. Whispering close to her ear, he’d told her all the things he’d held back—how much she meant to him, how he wanted to build a home for her and their children, how he wanted to begin every morning of his life with the sight of her beautiful face on the pillow beside him.
Now that she was awake, she wouldn’t remember a word of what he’d said. But never mind that. And never mind that he’d been up all night, felt like crap, and had a day’s work ahead of him. All that really mattered was that Lauren was going to be all right.
His sunglasses were clipped to the truck’s visor. He slipped them on to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. He was bone tired, and the day promised to be another scorcher. A dust devil danced over the flat, dying out as it crossed the highway. Up ahead he could see the diner where the truck driver would have waited for the white Cadillac to pass, then pulled out to follow it, waiting for his chance. If he ever caught up with the bastard, Sky vowed, he would rip him apart with his bare hands.
But the driver would almost certainly have been working for somebody else—somebody with reason to want Garn Prescott dead. So it was Lauren who’d paid for her father’s mistake. That had to be the truth of it.
A few minutes later Sky slowed down, scanning the roadside until he spotted the wrecked Cadillac. It was lying where it had rolled last night, probably waiting to be loaded and hauled off. Would Abner Sweeney have the sense to inspect it for evidence, or would it go straight to the junkyard?
No one was here this morning. Sky pulled his pickup onto the shoulder and swung to the ground. He needed to get home, but this would likely be his only chance to look at the crash scene. Last night the troopers and paramedics had been focused on saving Lauren. Looking for evidence in the dark would have been the last of their concerns.
A glance in the morning light confirmed that there were no skid marks on the asphalt. Any glass or other debris from the collision would have been cleared off the road by the troopers. But if the driver had meant to kill Prescott, it made sense that he’d stop the truck, get out, and check to make sure he’d finished the job. If he’d done that, he would have left tracks.
The trouble was, there were plenty of other tracks at the scene. Sky identified the standard-issue boots the troopers wore. The paramedics usually wore sneakers. There’d be no way to tell what footgear the trucker had been wearing except by elimination.
The tinder-dry grass on the slope made for poor tracking. But the car had come to rest on a bed of sand, washed down the barrow pit by storms and runoff. Kneeling a few feet back, Sky studied the sand.
Most of the prints would have been made by the paramedics. If the truck driver had been wearing sneakers as well, picking out his tracks would involve calculating which had been made first. But no—there would have been two paramedics, and Sky could see now that there were only two sets of sneaker prints, which left—
His heart slammed as he saw it—the narrow cowboy boot print with the pointed toe. Here was another one, and another, all but covered by the larger sneaker imprints. He’d seen boot tracks like those before, near where Jasper had been shot, and it wasn’t hard to guess who might have left them. But how could the truck driver have been Marie?
Sky forced his sleep-starved mind to concentrate. Lauren had mentioned a brown truck. The Haskell trucks were brown. Stella Rawlins owned Haskell Trucking, and Marie worked for Stella. But did Marie know how to drive a semi? Was she capable of using one of those huge trucks as a murder weapon?
There was a lot he didn’t know about his cousin, Sky reminded himself. Marie had come a long way from the little girl he’d left crying in the kitchen the night he ran away.
But maybe he was wrong about the boot prints. Some truckers wore cowboy boots. And not all truckers had big feet. Some were even women. He needed more evidence. And even if he found it, there were still a lot of questions to be answered.
Using his cell phone as a camera, he snapped photos of the tracks, then walked a cautious circle around the Cadillac, taking pictures of the wreck from all sides. That done, he headed back up to his pickup.
Halfway out of the barrow pit, his eyes glimpsed something bright in the yellowed grass. There, at his feet, was a cheap cigarette lighter encased in pink plastic, exactly like the one he’d seen Marie use. After snapping a photo, he took out his handkerchief and picked it up. It was clean and free of dust, which meant it couldn’t have been here long.
How many macho truckers would carry a pink cigarette lighter? It wasn’t final proof, but if Marie had dropped it, the fingerprints should tell the tale.
With the lighter safely wrapped in the handkerchief, Sky climbed back into his truck. His thoughts churned like black dust in a twister as he started the engine and pulled onto the road.
He’d been cutting Marie slack from the first night he’d seen her in the Blue Coyote. When she’d blamed Coy for shooting Jasper, he’d chosen to believe her, and he’d looked the other way when he found the marijuana patch. Even when Coy’s body turned up, he’d kept his suspicions secret, telling himself there was no evidence against her and that the wistful little girl of his childhood memories couldn’t be a murderess.
But it was time to face the truth—and time to act on it.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at the Rimrock and parked next to Beau’s Jeep. He found Beau alone in the kitchen, drinking his morning coffee.
Beau glanced up as Sky walked in. “You look like you just spent a night in hell,” he said. “We got the message you left. How’s Lauren?”
“Awake and giving me sass. Those nurses are going to have to hog-tie her to the bed. I promised her that if she’d rest, I’d call the mortuary and write a press release about her father. Maybe you could give me a hand with that.”
“Sure. Heart attack, right?”
“Right. Short and sweet. No mention of the scandal or the gunshot. Funeral pending. When it’s ready, we can e-mail it to the local TV and radio stations and the newspaper.” Sky fished in his pocket for his cell phone and the lighter he’d wrapped in his handkerchief. “Right now I’ve got something you’ll want to see.
”
He showed Beau the photos he’d taken and the lighter he’d found at the crash site. While Beau studied the evidence, Sky got a lock-top sandwich bag and slipped the lighter into it. “Lauren says she was rammed by a big brown truck. Sound familiar?”
“The Haskell trucks are brown. But we’ll need more than this to prove the driver was your cousin.”
“How about fingerprints? It shouldn’t be too hard to get a bottle or can from the Blue Coyote with Marie’s prints on it. If the prints on that lighter are a match, we can put her at the scene.”
“But we’d also have to prove she was driving the truck. For that we’d need to show cause and get a warrant to search the Haskell lot for the truck.” Beau glanced at Sky. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Sky gave him a grim nod. “If we want to go ahead with this, we’ll need to involve your buddy Abner.”
“Leave Abner to me. The fact that he’s running for office will put some pressure on him. He might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s smart enough to know that an arrest will make him look good to the voters.” Beau pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. “Marie’s your cousin, Sky, the closest thing you had to a sister growing up. Are you sure you can do this without backing off?”
“Damned sure. She almost murdered Lauren. The woman’s got to be stopped.”
“Then here’s what I’m thinking,” Beau said. “Hear me out, and feel free to argue when I’m finished. If the truck checks out, we may be able to get Marie for attempted murder. But a smart lawyer could claim the wreck was Lauren’s fault and get the charge reduced to leaving the scene of an accident. That’s a slap on the wrist—most likely a fine and probation or a few weeks in the county jail.”
Sky forced himself to keep quiet and listen. Beau was making sense, he knew. But that didn’t mean he had to like what he was hearing.
