Fatal (16 page)

In the truck, Cassie braced herself for impact. Black tried to steer away at the last second, managing to get over to the right a few inches but not nearly enough to avoid the collision. Bumpers bent and folded as the two vehicles met, a long drawn out screech ringing out in the rain. The truck bed lifted as the front brakes held on the wet pavement for a split second before breaking loose. Black closed his eyes. The hood crumpled in front of him. Cassie felt the back end of the truck trying to come over the top. There was a boom of thunder over the crunch of bending metal and the screaming of the tires on pavement. Momentum carried them down the road, the sound of grinding metal and the smell of smoking tires pouring out into the air. A hundred feet down the road, the whole thundering heap went off the side and into the ditch.

*****

Beuhl left Gina’s in a considerably better frame of mind. He could still smell her perfume. Maybe it was time to get a load of fresh hay for the barn. He smiled at the thought. He was getting a little too old to be rolling around in a hayloft. There was ample space in his bed for rolling around and it was a lot neater. Still, though, the idea of recreating one of the highlights of his youth had a certain attraction. What the hell, he thought, and turned his truck around. Two miles down the road was Beecher Feeds, a local entity that had managed to stay in business for two generations. Kyle Beecher wasn’t the brightest guy around, or the skinniest, but he’d taken over his father’s feed store and was still making a go of it despite competition from some of the bigger distributors in the area.

Beecher Feeds was in a long plank building set back from the highway with a gravel lot for parking. Dust rose and settled when Beuhl pulled in, shut off the engine, and opened his door. Kyle Beecher was in his usual place on the porch that ran the length of the building. Beuhl could remember many an evening passing the place and seeing Kyle’s father sitting in the exact same place. Apparently, Kyle thought it was a tradition worth keeping. He said almost the same thing Karen had said when he saw Beuhl get out the truck.

“I’ll be damned. Look who drug hisself out into the world. How’s it going there, Clay? Want some iced tea?” He gestured to the pitcher on the plank floor next to his seat. “I can probably scrounge up a clean glass.”

“No thanks, Kyle. I just came from Gina’s and I’m stuffed,” Beuhl said. “You look about the same. Maybe gained a pound or two along the way.”

“Or maybe twenty,” Kyle grunted. “Anyway, sit down. What can I do for you?”

Beuhl settled himself into a matching rocker next to Kyle. Across the road, a tilling machine was working its way back and forth in neat rows, the fresh-turned earth standing out in the sun. By morning, it would return to a dull brown, ready for whatever crop was up next in the rotation. At one time Beuhl mused, he would have known what crop that was. He had been away too long to remember now.

Kyle seemed to read his mind. “That piece of ground is about used up right now,” he said. “My guess is they’re going to fill it full of clover and then plow it under next spring. At least they will if they have any sense.”

“Ain’t that Grady’s place?” Beuhl asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t said “ain’t” in ten years and was surprised how easily it rolled off his lips.

“Used to be. Old man Grady sold it off five or six years ago when his boy died. He moved to Florida. Said he might as well with nobody left to pass the place on to.”

“Hell, Little Grady is dead?” Beuhl asked. “I didn’t know that. What the hell happened?” Jason Grady had been a year ahead of him in school. The last time Beuhl had seen him had been eighth grade graduation, when Grady had thrown his cap down, stomped on his gown, and refused to pick it up.

“Well, you know how Little Grady was. He got impatient and tried to pass a fuel truck about three miles up the road. The pickup he was driving rolled into the ditch and he broke his neck.”

“Well … shit,” Beuhl said.

“Yep, that about sums it up,” Kyle said. “He was a good guy. Anyway, the old man lost interest after that, and with his wife being dead already he just sold out, packed up and left.” Kyle looked at Beuhl out of the corner of his eye. “Now, what brings you here? I know it ain’t the iced tea, since you already turned that down.”

“I need some hay in that barn of mine,” Beuhl said. “Can you get me some out there in the next few days?”

“Yep, no problem. You thinking about gettin’ some horses or something? I don’t recall you having any livestock out at your place. Gonna be a gentleman farmer now?”

Beuhl laughed. “No. I went out there the other day and it looked empty without any hay or anything in it. It just struck me that a barn should have some hay hanging around. You know, just in case.”

Kyle shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get it sent out sometime tomorrow with a couple of boys to pack it away for you. We wouldn’t want the richest man in town breaking a sweat.”

“If I’m not there, just give the bill to my girl. She’ll be up at the house cleaning or cooking or whatever it is she does for me. I’ll see you get paid.”

Kyle waved him off. “I ain’t worried about that. I’ll send you a bill in the mail. Hell, them shoes you got on cost more than a few bales of hay.”

Kyle Beecher was still sitting on the porch when Beuhl got back in his truck and headed for home. The afternoon sun was settling by the time he pulled into his driveway and parked. As he was climbing the steps to his porch, he turned in time to see two black Lincolns pass his house. He paused, went inside, and let the screen door slam behind him.

*****

There were four inches of water in the bottom of the ditch, and Cassie dropped the pistol in the water as she was dragging herself out the passenger side window. She dropped to her knees and scrabbled around, feeling for it. The windshield of the Lincoln was shattered but still held together in a milky blur, and she couldn’t see the driver behind it. Water was still running off the highway, mixed with road dirt and blades of grass torn up by the vehicles as they went over the edge. She felt around her feet, left and right in a broadening circle. Finally, she felt hard metal under her fingers and snatched it up.

There was no movement from the car. Cassie shook the pistol free of what water she could. The side window was shattered on the passenger side. She scrambled up the embankment and made her way back, holding the pistol in front of her, till she could see inside the car. Blank was still behind the wheel, leaning against the door, his face a bloody mess. Cassie kept the pistol pointed at his head as she made her way back down the embankment. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain began to slack off some, and in the distance, the sky was beginning to clear. She shivered as the adrenaline began to drain out of her system, the muzzle of the pistol wavering.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice came out croaked and strangling. She swallowed and tried again, a little louder. “Hey!” Finally, she kicked the door. No reaction. She waited, counting to fifty slowly. She could see him breathing, his chest rising and falling. She counted to fifty again. When there was still no movement, she crossed to the back of the car, making her way up to the driver’s door. With the pistol in her right hand, she reached with her left, found the handle and pulled. Blank spilled out into the muddy water onto his side, his legs still stuck in the wheel well of the car. He moaned once and lay still again. Cassie put the gun against his temple, hesitated. She pulled the gun back and kicked him in the side as hard as she could. Another moan. Finally, she put the gun in her back pocket and went back to the truck, gathering whatever she could carry. She made sure she had her money, double-checked the pistol, climbed back up the embankment, and started walking north.

*****

Ronnie held the photograph of Vit in his right hand. The room was gone. Virginia was gone. He could see snowcapped mountains in the distance. A thin ribbon of road ran down the side of them, dipping into a valley before climbing again and passing to the rear. He was standing in front of a brick house. Smoke curled out the chimney before scattering in the slight breeze. Remnants of dirty snow tucked against the base of the bricks and in the hollows of the yard. Overhead, grey clouds pushed against a silver sun. There was a single bare tree in front of the house, and someone had long ago nailed a piece of wood into the trunk. On the wood they had written the number five, the paint now faded into the cracks, but still visible up close.

Ronnie made his way across the yard. He could almost, but not quite, feel the snow crunch under his feet and, as always, felt half in and half out of the world. It was always that way when he travelled. Sensations seemed just under the surface. He knew the cold was there and biting, and he shivered though he couldn’t feel it. He knew he was actually in a warm bed in Virginia, but somehow the cold found its way into him and his mind reacted accordingly. Set into the stone wall of the house was a sturdy wooden door, four-paned windows on either side. Snow dusted the sills, and the glass was heavy with frost on the edges. A light burned inside. Ronnie made his way to the window. For a moment, he almost used his sleeve to wipe the frost away, then he realized the futility. He could pass through the wall, but couldn’t affect the frost on the window. He could see but not touch, witness but not change.

The center of the window was clear of frost. Ronnie could see into the room enough to make out a table against the far wall, a chair on either end. An open notebook with a clear glass beside it, cradled in a silver stand of some type, sat on the one end of the table. The glass was half full of a light brown liquid. As Ronnie watched, a man came from somewhere in the back and refilled the glass from an old-fashioned teapot. It was Vit. Ronnie recognized the eyebrows and the square chin from the photo Wesling had given him. Where else would he have ended up? His talent brought him to the target, but he had no idea where he was. There were no street signs or recognizable landmarks. Only a stone house in a wet field. Wesling would want more than that, and his time was limited. He could already feel himself beginning to break free. Ronnie turned to the wall, ready to push through, when Vit stepped out the front door.

A gust of wind came blowing off the side of the mountains. Vit stopped a few feet from the door to allow it to pass. He adjusted his coat, pulling it tighter around him, before setting off in a trudge toward the road. Ronnie followed as best he could. He could feel his hold on this place ebbing away. He watched as Vit reached the road, his vision fading with every step, blackness swirling in. Vit reached the road. Ronnie fought to hold on, but lost. As the rushing whirl of his return began to draw him in, his last sight was Vit standing by the road.

He returned to his bed in Virginia, another remote viewing trip behind him. Wesling was waiting beside his bed. Ronnie passed his hands over his eyes.

“I have to go back,” he said.

*****

Carson Black woke up on a hospital gurney with a broken nose, three broken ribs, and a very pissed off Kyle Barrow hovering above him. He tried to feign unconsciousness, but Barrow was having none of it.

“What the hell happened, Black?” Barrow leaned in close with his hand on the mattress, and just the movement of the bed made Black wince. Black had been discovered on the side of the road by a farmer on his way to a machine shop, still in the water and still unconscious. The old man spent five minutes looking for the other driver before finally giving up and calling the police from a payphone down the road. His trip to the hospital was still a vague memory. Barrow caught the call when the license number of the truck came across the wire. He got the story from the local police and drove two hours to the hospital. His ID got him past the police and hospital staff and granted him five minutes with the patient. He intended to make the most of it whether Black was in pain or not.

“Where’s the girl?” Barrow asked, leaning in harder. “Which way did she head after the accident?” Black shook his head, trying to get past the throbbing in his nose and the crushing pain in his chest.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. She was heading north up 29 when we went into the ditch. That’s the last I saw of her.”

Barrow put his hand on Black’s chest and pushed. Black screamed. “Listen to me. Was there anyone with her?” Black shook his head, trying to catch his breath. “No, no, it was just her in the truck. I tried to pull her over, but she rammed the truck into me.” Barrow pushed again, harder, and Black started to cry. The door swung open, a nurse carrying a tray behind it. Barrow flashed his ID again, said, “Not now,” and the door closed again.

“You screwed up somehow,” Barrow said. “I don’t know what you did, but I know you screwed up. Finding that truck was the best chance we had of finding this girl. For Christ’s sake, she’s eighteen years old and you couldn’t bring her in without almost getting killed?”

Black had nothing to say. Barrow spent a few minutes with the police investigating the accident. They had no idea who was in the truck. In the cab, they found a rifle, some leftover junk food, and some clothes. A tow truck pulled both vehicles out of the ditch. Patrols up and down the road turned up nothing. The driver of the truck had vanished into thin air, or into the storm. One of the troopers, a tall black-haired sergeant, asked Barrow what his interest was in the case. The appearance of a federal ID card into a traffic accident, along with a missing driver, stirred up plenty of interest in the local force.