by Sam Reaves
Behind her she heard a vehicle approaching. She cast a look over her shoulder and saw running lights coming up fast. Abby moved well off the road, almost into the ditch. As the car tore past her she caught a glimpse of a figure hunched over the wheel of a big dark sedan. Abby panted out a curse, a jogger’s reaction to reckless speed on an unlit road. The car left her behind in a hurry and she saw brake lights come on a few hundred yards ahead as it approached the dip into the hollow and then disappeared.
The sound of the engine died away and there was only the scuffing of her feet on the gravel shoulder. She steadied, sustaining a respectable pace. In a couple of minutes she had reached the hollow. The road plunged and curved into deep shadow, the black wall of the viaduct came into sight, and there was a deep, muffled concussion, the trees farther down the slope abruptly lit with a strange orange glow.
Abby’s momentum carried her downhill for several steps in bewilderment before the perception made sense to her. Just as she identified it as an explosion, the tunnel came into sight and the source of the glow appeared: beyond the far end of the tunnel, a car was burning.
Abby descended with jarring steps. Framed in the arched exit to the tunnel she could make out what looked like the black sedan that had passed her. It sat slewed across the road at an angle, a few feet beyond the tunnel. It was burning vigorously, billowing flames coming from every window, black smoke rising, liquid fire spreading out across the pavement beneath the vehicle.
Abby halted, horrified. The driver’s side was angled away from her; she could not make out whether there was anyone at the wheel. “Oh, my God,” she gasped out.
I cannot just stand and watch, Abby thought. Where is the driver?
At the mouth of the tunnel she could feel the heat but it was not so intense that she couldn’t get closer. The gas tank has already exploded, she thought; that’s what I heard. Abby began to run through the tunnel toward the fire. The heat increased as she went, and she had a bad moment when something in the car popped, sending sparks into the air, but when she had passed through the tunnel and was within twenty feet of the car, the heat was still bearable.
What was not bearable was the sight of the body in the driver’s seat. Abby cried out and dashed past the wreck, giving it as wide a berth as she could on the shoulder of the road, seared by the heat, seared by the sight of the human form that sat behind the wheel, being consumed by fire. “Oh, my God, no.” Abby put her hands to her head. The figure in the heart of the flames was already black, faceless, the skin beginning to split, fat bubbling up from beneath. As she watched, the figure moved, limbs contracting, leaning forward. “Oh God! ” Aghast, Abby took two quick steps forward, unthinking, driven by the need to take action. The heat quickly drove her back. The figure on the driver’s seat had stopped moving; it sat slumped over to the right, black and lifeless, nothing but fuel now.
I am watching a person die, Abby thought with the icy calm of shock, and then she saw the man standing at the edge of the road, on the other side of the vehicle.
Illuminated by the flames, he was gazing at her. He stood just off the road, at the end of the guardrail of the bridge. He wore cargo shorts and sneakers but was shirtless, his arms and chest bearing a scattering of tattoos. He had long dark hair combed straight back, hooked behind his ears and curling at the back of his neck. His face was gaunt and haggard, the mouth framed by a moustache that curled around to the jaw on either side. The look in his black eyes was fierce.
Abby took a step toward him. “What happened?” she cried. “Are you all right?”
The man smiled at her in the livid glow, then stepped into the brush and disappeared.
“He smiled at me.”
“He smiled?” The white-haired detective frowned.
Abby nodded. “I thought he’d gotten out of the car. I was worried he was hurt. But when he smiled, I knew he was the one who had caused it, somehow. I panicked and ran.” Abby shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The interview room was air-conditioned and her sweat-soaked running clothes had cooled on her. A patrolman had finally brought her a blanket and a vending-machine cup of coffee but she was still cold.
The white-haired man had introduced himself as Detective Ruffner. He had blue eyes, a receding hairline and a moustache. He looked a little too young and robust to have such white hair. On the table in front of him was a small spiral notebook in which he had made occasional notes with a ballpoint pen. “You did the right thing. I wouldn’t call it panic.”
“It was horrible.” Abby closed her eyes but opened them again right away because when she closed them all she could see was a man-shaped cinder in a bright-orange flame. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to keep it together.”
She had been on the point of physical collapse after climbing the hill and staggering, lead legged and gasping, to the first house with a door she could pound on. The owner had not been pleased to be roused at dawn but had promptly called 911 when Abby had pointed to the column of black smoke rising from the hollow. Abby had sat on the man’s front steps with her face in her hands as the sirens drew nearer, lots of them, and a small crowd gathered at the top of the hill. It had been at least half an hour before a patrolman had come up the walk and said, “You’re the lady that found him?”
Now Ruffner said, “I can take you to the hospital if you need medical attention.”
“No. I just need not to have seen that. But it’s too late.”
Ruffner nodded, a pained look on his face. “We can take a break for a while.”
“I’m fine. I just want to get through this and go home.” Home as in New York City, Abby thought, but she knew that was impossible.
Ruffner sat back on his chair. “OK. Did you see this man exit the car?”
“No. When I first noticed him he was standing at the end of the bridge, at the side of the road.”
“So he might have been waiting there and flagged down the car.”
“I guess so.”
“Or he might have been just a bystander, like you.”
Abby considered. “Maybe. But then what happened? And why did he smile like that?”
Ruffner grunted, reserving judgment. “All right. Can you describe this individual for me?”
“I only saw him for a few seconds. But I’ll try.” Abby closed her eyes and brought up the image. She recited the features, the hair, the gaunt face, the dark eyes, the moustache. The bare torso, the tattoos. “He looked . . . I don’t know. He looked rough. He looked like a biker, or the guys you see in mug shots. When he smiled he scared the hell out of me.”
Ruffner nodded. “Could you make out any of the tattoos? What they were? What they depicted?”
Abby shook her head. “No. I just remember he had tattoos.”
Ruffner sat looking at her for a moment. “I’d like to take you back there and have you show me just where you saw him. OK?”
Abby’s heart sank. “Sure.”
The road into the hollow was blocked by a squad car. The crowd at the top of the hill had grown, gawkers mingling with uniforms and a cluster of officials with credentials on lanyards around their necks. Ruffner pulled up and an officer wandered over from the squad and bent down at his window. “Has the body been cleared?” said Ruffner.
“What was left of it. Car’s still there. The ISP guys are going over it.”
Ruffner looked at Abby and said, “OK?”
Abby nodded. “I’m fine.”
“I’m gonna take our witness down there.” Ruffner steered around the squad car, the officer shooing people out of the way, and eased down the hill. Abby tensed and closed her eyes; when she opened them it was all there: the hulking viaduct, the road snaking over the bridge into the tunnel, the burned-out carcass of a sedan sitting crookedly across the mouth of the tunnel. She could see through the tunnel to another roadblock on the far side, attended by a smaller crowd.
Two black SUVs with Indiana State Police markings were parked on the bridge. Officers in black un
iforms and rubber gloves were peering into the wreck, various cases and items of equipment laid out on the ground to one side. Ruffner parked and they got out and approached the wreck.
It was just a burned-out car under a hot sun now, but Abby was taking deep breaths, remembering what it had looked like lighting the dawn a few hours before. Ruffner exchanged greetings with the state police technicians. “What’s it look like? Any chance it’s an accident?”
One of the techs, burly with a fat neck and crew cut, said, “Yeah, if you can accidentally spread accelerant all over a vehicle, including the driver, and then ignite it.”
Ruffner grunted softly. “I don’t think I’d sit still for that.”
“Me neither. So we’re thinking maybe he was already dead. Or unconscious at least.”
Ruffner nodded slowly, turning to Abby. “Does that help?” he said softly.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “A little.” She frowned. “So who was driving when the car went past me?”
“Maybe your guy. Did you see two people in the car?”
Abby closed her eyes. “I don’t know. It went by fast, and it was dark. There could have been two, but all I saw was the driver.”
Ruffner beckoned with his head. “Show me where you were when you saw him.”
Abby walked slowly toward the wreck. Where the body had been there was nothing but charred metal now. “About right here.”
“And he was where?”
“Right at the end of the bridge, just off the road. Where the rail ends there.”
Ruffner walked to the spot, hands in his pockets, scanning the ground, his eyes going off into the brush at the side of the road and then down into the streambed. In the daylight Abby could see water rippling over pebbles, shaded by trees. “And he walked down into the stream here?”
“I think so. It was dark. I couldn’t see him after he was out of the light from the flames.”
Ruffner nodded and turned to the ISP officer, who had been listening. “My witness here came along right after it happened,” he said. “She saw an individual go down into the streambed here. I wonder if you guys could see if there’s anything in the way of tracks, or anything else that looks like evidence.”
The technician shrugged. “Sure. We’ll add it to the list.”
“I appreciate it.” Ruffner came back toward Abby, deep in thought. “I know I’ve put you through a lot today. If I can keep you for just a while longer I’d like you to come back to the station and look at some pictures.”
“Pictures of what?”
“We keep a photo album of habitual offenders. The usual suspects. You never know, we might get lucky.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, scrolling down the screen. “They all start to look alike after a while.”
Ruffner set a plastic cup full of coffee on the desk at her elbow. “Yeah. They do. Take your time, be sure. If you do see the guy, I think he’ll jump out at you.”
Mug shots were nothing new to Abby; everyone had seen mug shots online. These faces covered the spectrum, from young and defiant to old and decrepit, from sullen to brazen to bewildered. What struck Abby was how white they were. A lifetime in New York had conditioned her, fairly or unfairly, to the idea that somebody who mugged you or broke into your apartment was most likely to have dark skin. Out here in the heartland, she saw, he was most likely to be named Ryan or Wayne and to look like a Viking with his helmet knocked off.
Abby scrolled some more, reaching the end of the screen. “Any more?” she said.
“That’s it. You’ve seen the whole roster.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful.” He took a sip of coffee. “Whoever he is, this seems to be the guy we need to find.”
Abby took a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Am I in danger? I got a good look at this guy, and he got a good look at me. How worried is he going to be about me?”
Ruffner frowned, his gaze drifting across the room for a few seconds. “I think your moment of greatest danger was right then, when you saw him. If he didn’t go after you then, then he probably didn’t think you were a threat. In my experience there’s only danger to witnesses once we get to the stage of potential testimony at trial after an arrest. But please, don’t take that as any kind of guarantee. Take all the precautions you would normally take and then some. And if you see this gentleman again, anywhere, get the hell out of there and call us, fast. That’s about the extent of my advice, I’m afraid.”
Abby nodded. “I guess that will have to do.”
“Do you want me to fly out there and stay with you for a couple of days? I will if you need me to.” Abby could hear the concern in her father’s voice.
Yes, she thought. Get here as fast as you can. Standing with her phone to her ear, looking out through the big picture window into the trees, she took a deep breath and said, “No, that’s all right. I just needed to talk about it. But thanks. The best Mom could come up with was, I should come home for a while. But I can’t do that. I start a new job in two days.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. I can do this.”
A few seconds went by in silence. Her father said, “You’ve had a rough few months, sweetheart.”
“Well, like Nietzsche said, or whoever it was, if it doesn’t kill me it makes me strong. I’m going to be Supergirl here before too long.”
“That’s my girl. Hang in there. Call whenever you need to.”
“I will. Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”
Abby stood looking into the trees after ending the call, her throat tight with the need to weep. After a while she put her phone away and began to gather her things for the walk to campus.
I can do this, she told herself. I am Supergirl.
I will have to be, she thought, if this shit keeps up.
Abby heard footsteps coming down the long hallway and thought: Please come and talk to me.
She had been looking forward to the work. There were courses to plan, textbooks to review, syllabi to draw up. She had planned to show up early and spend the day with her laptop and books, working at a leisurely pace. Instead it had been well after noon before she had finally been able to go home, shower, call her parents, and then hurry to the campus. She had stopped at the student union to appease a raging hunger with a vending-machine sandwich and had been at her desk ever since, trying to concentrate on a mountain of work while suppressing the image of a human being going up in flames.
She had to stop and take a breath for a moment; this was not the first image she’d had to learn to suppress, and it took energy.
She saved the document on her computer and looked up as the footsteps halted at her door. “Knock, knock.” Graham Gill stood there, in jeans and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “I’m glad somebody’s hard at work,” he said, flashing the blinding smile. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the rugged look suited him. “Getting it all sorted out?”
“More or less,” said Abby. She forced a smile. “I ought to be able to make it through the first class session.”
Gill took a step into the office. “Wow, don’t stand up too fast. You’ll knock yourself out.”
“Yeah, it’s a little cramped. The new kid gets the office nobody else wants, I guess.”
“The new kid needs a couple of plants and a picture or two on the walls.”
“I haven’t had time to acquire any frills. I think this empty Coke can brightens the place up a bit, though.”
Gill laughed. “Give it time. Soon your office will be filled with junk, like mine. Hey, you have plans for this evening?”
Abby remembered Gill eyeing her from across the room at the faculty reception. She wasn’t in the mood to be courted but she had a feeling she was going to need all the company she could get for a while. “My plan was to see if I can get Netflix on my computer in my apartment. I’m open to suggestions.�
�
“Well, some of us younger faculty members are gathering for dinner and possibly some adult beverages. We thought you might like to join us.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
“I think the plan was pizza at Alberto’s, and then for the true degenerates maybe drinks afterwards at one of the two bars in town where college people can drink without being hassled.”
“Pizza I can probably handle. We’ll see about the drinks afterward. I don’t know if I’m a true degenerate.”
“Well, the second half of the program is optional. You want me to pick you up?”
“That would be great. You know where Hickory Lane is?”
“Who doesn’t? That’s where the rich folks live.”
Abby had to smile. “And me.”
Alberto’s was a pizza joint that appeared to have been converted from a gas station, built of white enameled brick with a canopy jutting out over the entrance, the pumps long gone. Inside it was bright and loud and full of families. The pizza was, in Abby’s estimation, not up to much. The company was more interesting; besides Graham Gill there was Adam Linseth, a physicist, somewhere between thirty-five and forty, built like a fireplug with a shock of brown hair, rimless glasses and a mordant sense of humor. “Alfred North Whitehead said that ultimately matter itself was an abstraction. I found that a tremendous comfort when that great big abstraction rear-ended me at that stoplight last year.” He was, apparently, a bachelor like Graham. The party was rounded out by Tina and Steven Stanley, a couple in their early thirties who were both in the biology department. They had a one-year-old at home but had finagled a babysitter for the evening.
“You’ll like it here,” said Tina. She was petite and doe-eyed, illuminated by contentment, happy to be who she was. “We thought, oh my God, it’s so small, how can we go to a place like that, but the people are great. We met at UCLA, which is enormous, and to be somewhere where you know just about everyone on campus is amazing. And it’s so easygoing, so small-town.”
