EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Damn. Time to go.

  Stifling a groan, Jared slid silently out of Sunny's rumpled bed and began gathering up his clothes.

  * * * *

  Roaring down the shore road in his Mercedes SL500 through a gentle snowfall, Jared set his radio on scan, listening to the momentary snippets of songs flashing past. Mostly Christmas carols or country. Finally caught a tune he liked. “Back in Black,” AC/DC. Cranking the volume, he slapped the wheel on the back beat, getting an energy surge from the music.

  Couldn't stop grinning, wondering if he could arrange a weekend getaway with Sunny. Getting hot and bothered again just thinking about it.

  He paid no attention to the rust-bucket pickup truck rumbling down the side road to his left. Until he realized the truck wasn't slowing for the stop sign. The crazy bastard was speeding up, heading straight for him!

  Stomping his brakes, Jared swerved over onto the shoulder, trying to avoid a crash. Knowing it was already too late.

  Blowing through the intersection at eighty, the pickup came howling across the centerline, sheering off at the last second to slam broadside into Jared's roadster, smashing him off the road.

  Airbags and the windshield exploded together, smothering Jared in a world of white as the Benz plowed through the massive snowdrift piled along the highway, then hurtled headlong down the steep embankment.

  Wrestling through the airbag's embrace, Jared fought the wheel, struggling to control the roadster in its downhill skid. He managed to avoid one tree, then glanced off another. For a split second he thought he might actually make it—but his rear fender clipped a towering pine, snapping the car around, sending it out of control, tumbling end over end down the slope.

  Bouncing off tree trunks like a pinball, the Benz was being hammered into scrap metal. The side windows shattered inward, spraying Jared with glass fragments. For a heart-freezing instant, he felt the car go totally airborne, then it slammed down nose-first into the bottom of the gorge with stunning force.

  A lightning strike of white-hot agony flashed up Jared's spine, driving his breath out in a shriek. Freezing him in place. Afraid to breathe, or even blink, for fear of triggering the godawful pain again.

  Christ. He couldn't feel his legs. Didn't know what was wrong with them, but knew it was serious. Total numbness meant his back might be broken or—

  "Mister?” A voice broke through Jared's terrified daze. “Can you hear me down there?"

  "Yes!” Jared gasped.

  "Hey, I saw what happened. That crazy bastard never even slowed down. Are you okay?"

  "I—can't move,” Jared managed. “I think my back may be broken. Call nine-one-one."

  "Already did. Hang on, I've got a first-aid kit in my car."

  Unable to risk turning his head, Jared could only catch glimpses in his shattered rearview mirror of a dark figure working his way down the steep, snowy slope, carrying a red plastic case. Twice, the man stumbled in the roadster's torn tracks, but managed to regain his balance and press on.

  As he drew closer, the mirror shards broke the image into distorted fragments, monstrous and alien.... Then he vanished altogether.

  "Are you there?” Jared gasped, gritting his teeth. Every word triggered a raw wave of pain.

  "Almost. Stay still.” The voice came from somewhere behind the wreck. Jared couldn't see him at all.

  "You're Jared Bannan, the real-estate lawyer, right?"

  "Do I know you?"

  No answer. Then Jared glimpsed the twisted figure in the mirror again. Climbing back up the track the way he'd come.

  "Wh—where are you going? I need help!"

  "I can't risk it.” The figure continued on without turning. “Your gas tank ruptured. Can't you smell it? Your car could go off like a bomb any second."

  "But—” Jared coughed. My God. The guy was right! The raw stench of gasoline was filling his nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

  "Wait! Come back, you sonofabitch! Don't leave me! I have money! I'll pay you!"

  At the mention of money, the climber stopped and turned around. But in the tree shadows, Jared still couldn't make out his face.

  "That's more like it,” Jared said. “I'll give you ten thousand dollars. Cash. Just get me out of this car and—"

  "Ten grand? Is that all you're worth?"

  "No! I mean, look, I'll give you whatever you want....” A flash of light revealed the climber's face for a split second. Definitely familiar. Someone Jared had met or ... His mind suddenly locked up, freezing with soul-numbing horror.

  The flash was a flame. The climber had lit a cigarette. “Oh, Jesus,” Jared murmured softly, licking his lips. “What are you doing? Wait. Please."

  "Jesus?” the climber mimicked, taking a long drag. “Wait? Please? Is that the best you can do? I thought shysters were supposed to be fast talkers."

  Jared didn't answer. Couldn't. He watched in growing terror as the smoker tapped the ashes off, bringing the tip to a cherry glow. Then he flipped the cigarette high in the air, sending it arcing through the darkness, trailing sparks as it fell.

  Jared's shriek triggered another bolt of agony from his shattered spine, but he was beyond caring. He couldn't stop screaming any more than he could stop the cigarette's fiery fall.

  * * * *

  Leaving his unmarked patrol car at the side of the highway, Doyle Stark trotted the last hundred yards along the shoulder to the accident scene. A serious one, by north-country standards. A Valhalla County fire truck was parked crossways across one lane of the highway, blocking it. Two uniformed sheriff's deputies, Hurst and VanDuzen, were directing traffic around the truck on the far shoulder. Van flipped him a quick salute and Doyle shot him with a fingertip.

  Yellow police-line tapes stretched from both bumpers of the fire truck to stakes planted in the roadside snowdrifts. The tapes outlined a savage gap in the snowy embankment, over the top and on down out of sight.

  Detective Zina Redfern was squatting at the rear of the fire truck, warming her mittened hands in the heat of its exhaust pipe. She was dressed in her usual Johnny Cash black: black nylon POLICE parka over a turtleneck and jeans, a black watch cap pulled down around her ears. The woman took the term “plainclothes officer” literally. Even her combat boots were the real deal, LawPro Pursuits with steel toes. With a Fairbairn blade clipped to her right ankle.

  "Sergeant Stark,” she nodded, straightening up to her full, squared-off five foot five, one forty. “Whoa, what happened to your eye?"

  Six foot and compactly built, with sandy hair and gray eyes, Doyle was sporting a white bandage over his left brow.

  "Reffing a Peewee pickup game,” Doyle said. “Ten-year-olds watch way too much hockey on TV. What happened here?"

  "A car crashed through the embankment, tumbled all the way to the bottom, then blew up and burned down to the frame. What's left of the driver is still inside. Beyond that, I'm not sayin’ squat. I need you to see this with fresh eyes."

  "Fair enough.” Doyle nodded, picking up the edge in her tone. Zina had worked in Flint for four years before transferring north to the Valhalla force. She was an experienced investigator, and if something was bothering her about this....

  He swiveled slowly, taking in the accident scene as a steady stream of traffic crawled past on the far shoulder. Wide-eyed gawkers, wondering what was up. Doyle knew the feeling.

  Two sets of broad black skid marks met in the center of the lane, then followed an impossible angle to the torn snowbanks at the side of the road. “Who called this in?"

  "A long-haul trucker spotted the wreckage as he crested the hill, around ten this morning. We caught a real break. The wreck's not visible from the roadside. If we'd gotten a little more snow during the night, the poor bastard might have stayed buried till spring. I marked off a separate trail away from the skid track,” she said, leading him to a rough footpath up and over the berm. “There are footprints that ... well, take a look for yourself."

  Clambering to the top of the d
rift, Doyle stopped, scanning the scene below. A ragged trail of torn snow and shattered trees led down the slope to a charred obscenity crouched at the bottom of the gorge. A burned-out hulk that had once been an expensive piece of German automotive engineering.

  The charred Mercedes Benz was encircled by a blackened ring of torn earth and melted slush, its savagery already softening beneath a gentle gauze of lightly falling snow.

  Joni Javitz, the Joint Investigative Unit's only tech, was hunched over the car, dutifully photographing the corpse. Even at this distance, Doyle could see the gaping mouth and bared teeth of the Silent Scream, a burn victim's final rictus. A few patches of skull were showing through the blackened flesh....

  Damn. He hated burn scenes. The ugly finality and the vile stench that clung to your clothing for days. In Detroit, cops called them Crispy Critters. But here in the north, no one in Doyle's unit joked about them. There's nothing funny about a death by fire. Ever.

  Working his way warily down the slope, Doyle noted the uneven footprints in the snow of the roadster's trail. “Did the trucker climb down to the car?"

  "The trucker didn't stop,” Zina said. “He spotted the wreck and a little smoke. Wasn't sure what it was, but thought somebody should take a look."

  "It was still smoking at ten o'clock? Any idea when this happened, Joni?"

  "My best guess would be around midnight, boss, give or take an hour,” Javitz said without turning. Tall and slender as a whip, she had to fold herself into a question mark to shoot the wreck's interior. “The car and the body are both cool to the touch now, but they're still ten degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. The State Police Crime Scene team is already en route from Gaylord. They should be here any time."

  "Okay...” Doyle said, swiveling slowly, taking in the scene. “We've got a hotshot in a Benz roadster who runs off the road at midnight, crashes and burns. Tough break for him. Or her?"

  "Him, definitely,” Joni said.

  "Fine. Him, then. And why exactly am I here on my day off?"

  Wordlessly, Joni stepped away from the car, revealing the charred corpse and the deep crease in the driver's-side door.

  "Wow,” Doyle said softly, lowering himself to his haunches, studying the dent more closely. “Metal on metal. Red paint traces. No tree did this. Which explains the second set of skid marks on the highway. Somebody ran this poor bastard off the road...” He broke off, eyeing a small circle of dark red droplets, scattered like a spray of blood near the trunk.

  "Plastic pellets?” Doyle said. “Any chance they're from the taillights?"

  "Nope, the taillight lenses are Lexan,” Joni said. “These pellets are definitely polypropylene, probably from a plastic gas container. A small one, a gallon or two. Like you'd use for a chainsaw or a lawnmower. The can was definitely on the ground outside the vehicle. I've already bagged up some residue to test for accelerants."

  "I didn't see any skid marks from the other vehicle until the last second, just before it struck the Benz,” Doyle mused. “From the depth of these dents, both cars must have been traveling at one hell of a clip. So car number two runs the stop sign at high speed, nails the Benz dead center, hard enough to drive it through the snowdrifts..."

  "He's damned lucky he isn't down here too,” Zina said.

  "Maybe it wasn't luck,” Doyle said, staring up the incline toward the highway. “If he hadn't hit the Benz, he definitely would have blown through the berm himself. And there's not much traffic out here at night. So, either he ran that stop sign, drunk, asleep, whatever, and the Benz had the million to one bad luck to get in his way or... ?"

  "He wasn't out of control at all.” Zina nodded, following Doyle's gaze up the hillside. “You think he drilled him deliberately?"

  "Tell you what, Detective, why don't you hoof it back up the hill and check out that side road for tire tracks or exhaust stains in the snow. See if car number two was sitting up there, waiting for the Benz to show."

  "Jesus,” Joni said softly. “You mean somebody rammed this poor bastard on purpose? Then climbed down with a gas can and lit him up?"

  "I don't like it either, but it works,” Doyle agreed grimly. “Have you identified him yet?"

  "The car's registered jointly to Jared and Lauren Bannan, Valhalla address."

  "Jared Bannan?” Doyle echoed, surprised. “Damn. I know this guy. I've played racquetball against him."

  "A friend?"

  "No, just a guy. He's an attorney, a transplant from downstate, works mostly in real estate."

  "A yuppie lawyer?” Zina said. “Should I cancel the Crime Scene team?"

  * * * *

  The door to the classroom was ajar. Doyle raised his fist to knock, then hesitated, surprised at the utter silence from within. Curious, he peered around the doorjamb. A tall, trim woman with boyishly short dark hair was addressing the class. Soundlessly. Her lips were moving, the fingers of both hands flickering, mediating an animated discussion with a dozen rapt teenagers, who were answering with equally adept sign language, their lips miming speech, but with no sound at all.

  It was like watching an Olympic fencing match, silvery signals flashing too quickly for the eye to follow.

  The woman glanced up, frowning. “Can I help you?"

  "Sorry to intrude, ma'am. If you're Dr. Bannan, we need a few minutes of your time."

  "I'm in the middle of a class."

  "This really can't wait, ma'am."

  * * * *

  "My God,” Lauren said softly, “are you absolutely sure it's Jared?"

  "The identification isn't final, but he was carrying your husband's identification and driving his car."

  "Jared wore a U of M class ring on his right hand,” she offered. “Did the driver... ?"

  Doyle nodded. They were in Dr. Bannan's office, a Spartan ten-by-ten box at Blair Center, the county magnet school for special-needs students. Floor to ceiling bookshelves on three sides, Dr. Bannan's diplomas and teaching awards neatly displayed on the fourth wall. No photographs, Doyle noted.

  "I didn't see a wedding ring,” Zina said. “Did he normally wear one?"

  "We're separated,” Lauren said. “God. I can't believe this."

  "Are you all right, Dr. Bannan?” Doyle asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?"

  "No, I'm ... just a bit shaken. Do you have any idea what happened?"

  "Your husband was apparently sideswiped on the shore road a few miles outside of town. Hit and run. His car went over a steep embankment, probably late last night. Midnight, maybe. He was pronounced dead at the scene. We're very sorry for your loss."

  Lauren's mouth narrowed as she visibly brought her emotions under control. An elegant woman, Doyle thought. Slender as a willow, with dark hair, a complexion as exquisite as a porcelain doll.

  But not fragile. She took the news of her husband's death like a prizefighter rocked by a stiff punch. Drawing within herself to camouflage the damage.

  After a moment, she took a deep breath, and carefully straightened her jacket.

  "You said someone ran Jared off the road. What happened to the other driver?"

  "We don't know yet, ma'am. Do you know why your husband might have been on that road last night?"

  "No idea. Jared and I separated last year. Except for conferences with our attorney, I rarely see him. Why?"

  Zina glanced the question at Doyle, who nodded.

  "Judging from the skid marks, the collision may not have been accidental,” Zina said. “Do you know why anyone would want to harm your husband?"

  "Whoa, back up a moment,” Lauren said, raising her hand. “Are you saying someone deliberately rammed Jared's car?"

  "We aren't certain yet, ma'am,” Doyle said. “But the evidence does lean that way. At this point we're treating it as a possible homicide."

  "For the record, would you mind telling us your whereabouts last night?” Zina asked.

  Lauren glanced up at her sharply. “I was at home all evening. Alone. What are you i
mplying?"

  "Nothing, ma'am,” Doyle put in. “It's strictly routine. We're not the enemy."

  Lauren looked away a moment. “All right then. If you have questions, let's clear them up now."

  "You said you separated last year?” Zina asked. “Have you filed for divorce?"

  "We filed right after we separated. Last spring. March, I think."

  "Do you have children?"

  Lauren hesitated. “No. No children."

  "Then help me out here, Dr. Bannan. Without children involved, you can get a no-fault divorce in sixty days, and I'm speaking from experience. Was your husband contesting the divorce?"

  "Only the property settlement. Jared earns more than I do, so he felt he was entitled to more. He kept coming up with new demands."

  "Michigan's a community-property state,” Doyle put in. “A wife's entitled to half, no matter who earns what."

  "My husband is an attorney, Sergeant, though most of his work is in real estate. Fighting him in court wouldn't be cost-effective. We had our final meeting last Tuesday. He made an offer and I took it."

  "But you weren't happy about it?” Zina said.

  "Divorce seldom makes anyone happy."

  "You're newcomers to the area, right?” Doyle asked. “When did you move north?"

  "A little over two years ago."

  "Why was that? The move, I mean?"

  "Why?” Lauren blinked, but didn't answer.

  That was a hit, Zina thought. Though she had no idea what it meant.

  "I knew your husband in passing,” Doyle offered, easing the silence. “I played racquetball against him a few times."

  "And?” Lauren said, with an odd smile.

  "And what? Why the smile?"

  "Jared was the most competitive man I've ever known. Did he beat you, Sergeant?"

  "As a matter of fact, he did. Twice."

  "And did he cheat?"

  "He didn't have to. He was quicker than I am. Why do you ask that?"

  "Jared could be a very sore loser. I beat him at tennis once and he smashed his racquet to splinters in front of a hundred spectators. I filed for divorce a week later."