The Accident

by Linwood Barclay

  As I turned onto Cloverdale Avenue and approached the Morton house, I could tell right away something was not right.

  A black woman had just come out the front door. Stumbled almost. She had her left hand pressed to her right shoulder and in her other hand was a gun.

  I recognized her as Milford police detective Rona Wedmore. That was probably her car parked just ahead, on my side of the street.

  About three houses beyond the Morton place, I saw a black Chrysler 300 at the curb, facing my way. It was the same kind of car Sommer had been driving when he came to the house yesterday morning, looking for the money. The driver’s door was open, but I couldn’t see anyone at the wheel.

  Then I spotted a man kneeling on the grass, between the edge of the street and the sidewalk, only a short distance ahead of the Chrysler. As I nosed the truck into the curb, my lights splashed across him, and I could see he was crouched over something. It was another person, on the ground, apparently injured.

  The kneeling man was Sommer. I couldn’t tell who the injured man was, but Sommer was searching through his pockets for something.

  I threw the transmission into park and opened the door.

  Rona Wedmore was looking my way and the moment my feet touched the pavement she shouted, “No! Get back!”

  “What’s happened?” I said, still shielded by the truck door.

  I had a better look now at Wedmore, standing under the porch light of the Morton house, and could see red oozing between the fingers of the hand she was pressing to her shoulder. She leaned up against a post, briefly, then started coming down the steps, taking her hand from her wound to use the railing.

  I could hear a chorus of sirens.

  Wedmore, now at the bottom of the steps, waved her weapon in the direction of Sommer and shouted at me. “Get out of here! He’s got a gun!”

  At that moment, Sommer raised his and pointed it at Wedmore. I barely heard the shot, but the wooden railing she’d been holding a second earlier splintered.

  Sommer went back to searching the man, grabbed something, and ran to the open door of the Chrysler.

  I glanced back into my truck. There, just sticking out from under the seat, was the paper bag. I hadn’t yet gotten rid of the gun the boys had given me.

  The smart thing to do at that moment would have been to throw myself into the truck and lie low until Sommer had driven off. But like that time I’d tried to put out the fire in the basement of the Wilson house and became lost in the smoke, I didn’t always do the smart thing.

  I grabbed the bag, ripped it open, and grabbed the weapon.

  I didn’t know a lot about this gun. I had no idea what make it was. I couldn’t have hazarded a guess when or where it was made.

  And I certainly had no idea whether it was loaded.

  Would Corey Wilkinson and his friend Rick have been dumb enough to bring a loaded gun to my house? They’d been dumb enough to take a shot at it, so I thought there was a chance the answer was yes.

  I firmed my grip on the handle as Sommer got into the car. I heard the engine turn over. The headlights came on like fiery eyes. Rona Wedmore was running, somewhat haltingly, across the Mortons’ lawn, heading for the street. Her footing was off, like maybe she was going to lose her balance. She was raising her gun hand, pointing it down the street at Sommer’s car.

  The Chrysler’s tires squealed as it started barreling up the street.

  As Wedmore came off the curb and her right foot hit the pavement, it gave out under her. She stumbled and went down on her side into the street. Sommer steered the car toward her.

  I came around my pickup’s open door and started running to where Wedmore had fallen. The black car was still approaching. I stopped, steadied myself, put both hands on the gun and raised it to shoulder level.

  Rona Wedmore shouted something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing happened.

  The car continued toward us.

  I squeezed the trigger a second time.

  The recoil forced my arms up into the air and I felt myself stumble back half a step. The windshield on the Chrysler spiderwebbed out from the passenger side. Sommer turned the wheel hard left, missing me by no more than ten feet as he screeched past. I threw myself out of the way, hitting the pavement and rolling to within a few inches of Wedmore.

  There was a loud thunk, the screech of scraping metal, and then a crash.

  By the time I’d turned around to see what had happened, the Chrysler had already bounced over the curb, driven into the middle of a yard, and slammed into a tree.

  “Stay down!” Wedmore screamed at me.

  But I was already on my feet, gun still in hand. My heart was pumping so hard, the adrenaline rushing through me with such speed, that I was immune to reason or common sense.

  I ran over to the Chrysler, coming around it cautiously from behind, the way I’d seen cops do it on TV. I noticed a length of angled gray metal sticking out from under the car, and surmised that before Sommer hit the tree, he’d mowed down a street sign. Steam billowed out from beneath the buckled hood as the engine continued to run, but instead of the usual growl, it sounded more like nails in a blender.

  As I got closer, I spotted a deployed airbag, and coming up alongside, I saw Sommer.

  There wasn’t much need to train the gun on him.

  The edge of a white metal sign reading SPEED LIMIT 25 had caught Sommer on the forehead and just about taken the top of his head clean off.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Two ambulances were dispatched to the scene. Darren Slocum, whose condition was deemed more serious than Rona Wedmore’s, was taken away first to Milford Hospital. The bullet had gone right through him, on his far left side, and while no one was able to say anything with certainty at the scene, it looked as though it had missed any vital organs. Wedmore’s shoulder had been grazed, and while she’d lost some blood, she was standing on her own before the paramedics forced her to lie down on the stretcher.

  The Mortons were more or less unharmed, although George’s head had been cut open when it was slammed into the television. For sure, they were both traumatized. Belinda told me what had happened inside the house. Wedmore had burst into the study, then dived for cover as Sommer took a shot. Sommer had grabbed the money-stuffed envelope and fled. He must have figured the detective had already called for backup and he didn’t have much time to get away.

  For the longest time, I could not stop shaking. I wasn’t actually hurt, but the paramedics wrapped me in blankets and sat me down to make sure I was okay.

  The police had plenty of questions for me. Fortunately, before she was taken away, Wedmore put in a good word for me.

  “That stupid bastard just got a guy who tried to kill two cops,” she told them as they loaded her into the ambulance.

  They wanted to know about my gun.

  “Is it yours?” they asked.

  “More or less,” I told them.

  “Is it registered?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said.

  I had a feeling I was going to get some sort of slap on the wrist for this, but nothing more. I didn’t think the police would like the optics—hassling someone who’d saved one of their own from getting run down in the middle of the street.

  But even though they took a conciliatory tone with me, the questioning at police headquarters went on until dawn. Around seven they drove me back to my truck, and I found my way home.

  And went to bed.

  I woke up around three. The phone was ringing.

  “Mr. Garber?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Mr. Garber, Rona Wedmore here.”

  I blinked a couple of times, glanced at the clock, totally discombobulated. “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay. Still at the hospital. They’re going to let me go home in a few minutes. I just called to tell you that what you did was one of the stupidest, dumbest, most moronic
things I’ve ever seen anyone do. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. What have you heard about Darren Slocum?”

  “He’s in the ICU, but it looks like he’s going to pull through okay.” She paused. “He might be sorry he made it after the department’s through with him.”

  “He’s in a lot of trouble,” I said.

  “He came with Sommer to the Mortons’. He may face accessory charges and God knows what else.”

  “What else do you know? Anything about my wife? Or Darren’s wife?”

  “There’s still a lot we don’t know, Mr. Garber. Sommer’s dead, so we’re not going to learn anything from him. But we’re talking about one very nasty son of a bitch here. We can’t assume anything, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he somehow arranged the deaths of both your wife and Mrs. Slocum. And early indications are he killed a private investigator named Arthur Twain, as well, at the Just Inn Time hotel.”

  I sat up in the bed and threw off the covers. “Arthur Twain?”

  “That’s right.”

  I felt numbed by the news.

  “I don’t know how, exactly, Sommer might have done it,” I said, “but given the kind of person he was, it’s possible he killed Sheila. Somehow got her drunk, set her up in that car, knowing someone would run into it sooner or later.”

  Wedmore was quiet.

  “Detective?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You don’t buy that?”

  “Sommer shot people,” Wedmore said. “That’s what he did with anyone who got in his way. He’d never have gone to the kind of trouble you’re talking about to kill someone.” She paused. “Maybe, Mr. Garber, and I mean no disrespect when I say this to you, you’re going to have to accept that, in your wife’s case, things are exactly as they appear. I know that can’t be easy, but sometimes the truth is a very difficult thing to accept.”

  Now it was my turn to be quiet.

  I stared out the window, at the large elm tree in our front yard. Only a handful of leaves still clung to it. In another few weeks there’d be snow out there.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you,” Rona Wedmore said, and ended the call.

  I sat there on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. Maybe this was how it ended. People died, and their secrets died with them. I’d get the answers to some of my questions, but not all.

  Maybe this was as far as I could go. Maybe it was over.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  I phoned Kelly.

  “I’m going to come get you today.”

  “When? When are you coming?”

  “This evening. I’ve got a few things to get out of the way first.”

  “So it’s all safe to come home?”

  I paused. Sommer was dead. Slocum was in the hospital. And I knew who was responsible for the shot window. If there was anyone else out there to be worried about, I couldn’t think who it was.

  “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s safe to come home. But there’s something I have to tell you about.”

  “What?”

  I could hear the worry in her voice. So much had already happened to her, she must have been getting to the point where she was expecting bad things to happen.

  “It’s about Emily’s dad. He got hurt.”

  “What happened?”

  “A very bad man shot him. I think he’s going to be okay, but he’s going to be in the hospital for a while.”

  “Did somebody get the bad man who shot him?”

  Kelly would probably hear the whole story at some point, if not from me, then someone else. But I didn’t see the need to get into the details now. So I said, “Yes.”

  “Did he die?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot of people are dying lately,” Kelly said.

  “I think things are going to calm down now,” I said.

  “I know why Emily’s dad didn’t die.”

  That caught me off guard. “Why’s that, sweetheart?”

  “Because God wouldn’t let a girl lose her mom and her dad. Because then there wouldn’t be anybody to look after her.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Nothing will happen to you, right? That couldn’t happen, could it?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I said. “It can’t, because you’re my number one priority.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I stumbled around the house for a little while. Made some coffee, poured some cereal into a bowl. Brought in the newspaper that had been on the stoop for hours. There was nothing in it about what had happened last night. It was probably too late to get into a morning newspaper. The story was probably online, but I didn’t have the energy to check it.

  I made a couple of calls. One to Ken Wang, to tell him he was still in charge. Another to Sally, but she wasn’t answering her cell or home phone. I left a message. “Sally, we should talk. Please.”

  When the phone rang shortly after, I thought it might be her, but it was Wedmore again. “A quick heads-up,” she said. “They’re putting out a detailed press release on what happened. Your name’s in it. You’re a hero.”

  “Super,” I said.

  “I’m just saying, there’s a good chance the media’s about to descend on you like a plague of locusts. If you’re okay with that, enjoy.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  It made sense to get out of the house as soon as possible. I went upstairs and had a shower. As I was stepping out of the stall, the phone rang. I tiptoed across the tiled floor, careful not to slip with wet feet, and into the bedroom. The ID was blocked. Not a good sign.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Glen Garber?” A woman.

  “Can I take a message?”

  “It’s Cecilia Harmer, at the Register. Do you know when he’ll be in, or where I might be able to reach him?”

  “He’s not here and I’m afraid I don’t have any way to reach him.”

  I dried off and put on some fresh clothes. The phone rang again and this time I didn’t even bother. I thought of something I should have told Ken, but didn’t have the energy to talk to him. If I sent him an email, he’d get it right away on his BlackBerry.

  I went down to my basement office, checked to see that the piece of paneling hiding my money was still in place. It was. I turned on the computer and, when it was ready to go, opened up my mail program.

  There wasn’t all that much there, aside from a few spam messages. One thing caught my eye, however.

  It was from Kelly.

  I’d forgotten that I’d asked her to email me the video she’d shot from her phone when she was hiding in the closet in the Slocums’ bedroom. I’d never gotten around to taking a closer look at it, and while there didn’t seem to be much point now, I was curious.

  After all, it was that sleepover that had kick-started the nightmare of these last few days. Of course, the real nightmare had begun the night Sheila died, but just when I’d hoped we might be able to get our lives back to normal, there’d been that incident with Ann Slocum.

  I clicked on the message and opened the video.

  I put the cursor over the “play” icon and clicked.

  “Hey. Can you talk? Yeah, I’m alone … okay, so I hope your wrists are okay … yeah, wear long sleeves until the marks go away … you were wondering about next time … can do Wednesday, maybe, if that works for you? But I have to tell you, I’ve got to get more for … expenses and—hang on, I’ve got another call, okay, later—Hello?”

  I clicked the “stop” icon. I was pretty sure I knew now what this was all about. Ann was talking to George about the handcuffs. I dragged the “play” indicator back to the beginning and started the video again, but this time I let it go past “Hello?”

  Ann Slocum said, “Why are you calling this … my cell’s off … not a good time … kid’s got someone sleeping … Yeah, he is … but look, you know the arrangement. You pay and … something in return … mark us … down
for a new deal if you’ve got something else to offer.”

  And then, abruptly, the image blurred and went dark. It was at this point that Kelly evidently had put away her phone.

  I went back to the beginning to play it again, thinking, I should send this on to Detective Wedmore, for what it’s worth, and that didn’t seem to be much. Maybe, if Kelly had recorded the entire call, where Ann talked about putting a bullet in someone’s brain, it might have provided some useful information.

  But I was still intrigued by what little there was, particularly when Ann took the other call. Was this the person who’d asked Ann for a meeting? Was this why she had gone out that night?

  I listened.

  “Why are you calling this … my cell’s off … not a good time.”

  Ann was saying things in the gaps that weren’t audible. I turned up the volume on the computer, then blew up the image full-screen, thinking maybe I could read Ann’s lips.

  “Why are you calling this … my cell’s off—”

  Stopped, went back. I was pretty sure, in that first gap, Ann said “phone” and another word or two.

  Played it again. Listened, watched Ann’s mouth. It was there. “Phone.” And I thought I could make out the other words. She was saying, “Why are you calling this phone, oh yeah my cell’s off.”

  I grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote down what I believed the conversation to be.

  Listening over and over again to small snippets, I started filling in the gaps.

  “Why are you calling this phone? Oh yeah, my cell’s off. This is not a good time. My kid’s got someone sleeping …”

  I couldn’t get the next word, but assumed it was “over.” Went back, started again.

  “Why are you calling this phone? Oh yeah, my cell’s off. This is not a good time. My kid’s got someone sleeping over.” And then there was a six- or seven-second gap here where Ann said nothing, was listening to her caller. Then, “Yeah, he is, in the kitchen. No, but look, you know the arrangement. You pay and get something in return.”

  It must have taken me the better part of twenty minutes to piece that much together. I continued on.