Deceit

My car slid toward him.

I whipped the steering wheel left. The figure jumped backward.

Too late.

I heard a sickening bump on my right fender. In peripheral vision I glimpsed the body knocked aside. My Toyota kicked into a spiral over slickened asphalt. The world dizzied as I spun, my widened eyes taking in a dancing fence on the road’s left side…the curve I’d already traveled…a gnarled oak straight ahead…a crumpled figure on the ground. My wet tires sang and sizzled, the smell of my own sweat acrid in my nostrils.

A hysterical thought flashed in my brain: I hit the Grim Reaper.

With a final nauseating jolt my SUV carved to a stop in the middle of the dark and rain-pelted road.

TWO

Sounds hit first—the beating rain, the squall of my heart. I slumped forward, unable to move. Breath shuddered down my throat, my fingers glued hooks on the steering wheel.

An eternal moment passed…two.

The hard fist of reality punched me in the face. I’d hit a man. What if I killed him?

I lifted my head. Where was the man’s body? I could barely see the pavement, much less the field beyond it. My car hulked astride both lanes, canted toward the left side of the road.

I straightened. My shaking left hand found the door handle, wrapped around it. The door opened with a sodden click. With a grunt I shoved open the door and half fell from the car. Despite my coat, snarling rain soaked me within seconds. It dripped into my eyes, trailed corpselike fingers down the back of my shirt. I swung my pounding head right, left, seeking my bearings.

During the spin I’d glimpsed the man on the right.

Hunched over, I fought my way to the front of the car, around its hood. Squinting, I searched the road’s edge for the man. My car’s headlights, pointed in the opposite direction, were no help.

There. Not far from the oak tree. He lay on one side, his back to me, unmoving. No Grim Reaper after all. He wore not a cloak, but black jeans and sneakers, a black hooded jacket. He looked average in build and height.

I surged over to the man and sank down on one knee. With tentative hands I reached out and brushed the back of his slick jacket hood. I couldn’t see his face. Should I turn him over, check for a pulse? What if he was alive and the forced movement made his injuries worse?

I placed my fingers on the man’s shoulder. He groaned. Startled, I snatched my hand away.

Only then did I think of my cell phone. I should have called 911 before leaving my car. Time was ticking and every second may be valuable to the man’s life. Yet a voice deep within me whispered a vague warning. Something about this whole thing was off. Besides, I hadn’t been going fast at all.

“C-can you hear me?” I forced the words out, loud enough to survive the hammer of the rain.

The man rolled away from me onto his stomach.

“Sir? Let me help you.”

“No.”

The word came raw and muffled. Had I heard it at all?

“Are you hurt? Do you want me to call for help?”

“No. Just listen to me.”

“But—”

“Listen.”

Nonplused, I watched the man gather both arms close to his chest, pull his legs up. Palms flat to ground, he pushed himself to a trembling crouch and hung there, head down. Rain streamed off the tip of his hood. I could see nothing of his face.

“Please let me help you up. I can take you to the hospital. Or call 911.”

His body tensed, shoulders arching like a wounded animal rising. “I’m just shaken.” His voice growled, menacing enough to make me draw away. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I’m fine.” Fury pulsed in his tone. He pushed up further on his haunches, face still hidden, then unfolded his body until he stood. I jumped up and took two steps back. For a moment the man wavered. He stepped one foot forward, found his balance.

The rain sizzled and bounced and pounded. I would go mad with it. “At least let me take you somewhere. Where’s your car? Where did you come fr—?”

“You want Baxter Jackson?”

My mouth snapped shut.

Slowly the hooded head turned toward me until one eye glared in my direction. The cheek below it looked waxen, the blood thick.

A mask. He was wearing a mask.

What kind of man was this?

Intensity vibrated from his blackened stare. I tried to turn, flee, but my legs rooted to the road.

“Do you?”

“Who are you?”

“Joanne, do you want to see Baxter Jackson pay for Linda’s death?”

My eyes widened. “I—yes.”

“Find Melissa. She knows what happened.”

Melissa.

Understanding leapt into my head, dark and gleaming. My knees nearly gave way. I was right. I’d been right all along.

“You’re telling me Baxter killed Linda.”

“Melissa saw it.”

The words stunned me. Fierce questions crowded my tongue. “Does she have proof?”

“She knows where the body is.”

A body. Grief singed my lungs. I’d known Linda was dead. The courts had ruled she was. But without remains, a stubborn ray of hope for life always shines.

Hooded Man seemed to swell in size. The rain and darkness beat down on me, drowning out rational thought. My mind screamed to escape this surreal and throbbing scene. I backed away—and a steely hand clamped on my arm.

“Wait.”

I froze, gaze fastened upon my still-running car, its windshield wipers in frantic swipe. The SUV sang of warmth and safety. Suddenly it seemed so far away, as if I’d fallen into a Stygian painting and looked back upon my world, eternally lost.

The fingers tightened around my arm. “Don’t tell the police.”

A shudder racked between my shoulder blades. “I won’t.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Okay.”

“Jackson will kill you if he finds out. Understand?”

“Yes.”

The cold fingers fell away. “Go.”

Without a backward glance I ran to my car, around the hood. Flung open the driver’s door. I fell inside and slammed the door shut. Dry air closed in, the pounding now in stereo upon every inch of the roof. I pulled the SUV’s gearshift from Park to Drive, turned the wheel right to straighten out the car.

My headlights stabbed the road. I threw a glance toward where the man had stood.

He was gone, swallowed into darkness.