The Ridge

He’d been looking for parallels, the same as Wyatt ostensibly had. For connective tissue between the names, and coming up empty.

Except for one thing. They’d all taken place at night. Without exception. Every fatality Wyatt had recorded from Blade Ridge’s lengthy history had occurred when it was…

“Dark,” Roy said aloud.

12

KIMBLE WANTED TO FOCUS ON Wyatt French, but the sheriff interrupted him in midmorning by entering with Nathan Shipley and saying they needed to have a talk about the accident.

Shipley’s cruiser was beyond any hope, so far gone that they just had it towed directly to the salvage yard where the sensitive equipment could be removed, not even bothering with a body shop. Shipley himself, however, had emerged from the terrible wreck with a few minor abrasions and bruises.

“Sore,” he told Kimble and the sheriff when he sat down. “I’m sore as hell, but considering… well, it really could have been bad.”

“I saw the car, son,” Sheriff Troy Black said. “Bad isn’t the word. Damn good thing I always see that this department has quality insurance.”

The implication being that they might operate without insurance if not for his savvy management. Kimble rolled his eyes, and Shipley saw it and cracked a small smile. The department was of a unanimous opinion on “Sheriff Troy,” as he insisted on being called. He excelled at politicking, handled the department’s public face well enough, but when it came to actual casework he’d gone past the point of being a broad-assed desk jockey and become an almost laughable figurehead. He insisted on wearing custom-made, chocolate-brown cowboy hats with his badge affixed to the crown, he was a partner in a horse farm that had yet to produce anything better than a dead-last finisher in a small-time race, he talked like he’d just fallen off a hay wagon, and everyone in the department knew damn well that when it came to investigative work, Kimble ran the show. That was fine by Kimble—he had autonomy within the department, and he also had Troy out there doing all the work that Kimble would never have been any good at. Kimble didn’t have to deal with the mayor’s office or the county council or campaigns or oversee the jail. The system in place in Sawyer County worked well; Troy glad-handed his way around town, keeping the public satisfied, and Kimble and his team got the policing done.

“Yes, son, it was a mighty bad wreck,” Troy continued. “That cruiser is totaled, you know. Less than a year old.”

“Like you said, it’s a good thing we have quality insurance,” Nathan agreed, and now it was Kimble’s turn to hide a grin.

“It surely is. My understanding is that you were well aware that the ten-zero was a probable suicide, that there was no shootin’ or stabbin’ in progress. My understanding is also that you were driving like Barney Oldfield when you flipped that car.”

Kimble had not the faintest idea who Barney Oldfield was, and it was clear that Shipley didn’t either, but they both kept quiet. Troy let his young deputy muse on things for a moment and then said, “Just need you to get the lead out of that foot, kid. But we also need to talk about your report.”

“My report.”

“That’s right. I just read through it. Seems to me we could have had one hell of a problem on our hands. You say you almost hit someone out there?”

Shipley’s face went uncertain. He parted his lips, closed them again, then tilted his head and said, “I thought there was someone in the road, sir. I was positive that there was a man in the road. I was running lights and siren and coming fast, as you said, maybe too fast, but I saw this guy in the rain and I swerved and…” He spread his hands. “That’s all. A mistake, I guess. Thought I saw something in the road. Tried to swerve to adjust.”

Troy looked puzzled. “So there wasn’t anyone? I was of the impression that you damn near killed a man.”

“So was I,” Shipley said. “But everyone else seems to disagree.”

Troy turned to Kimble. “You were out there.”

“Quite a bit later, but yes.”

“Is he right? Were the witnesses in agreement that he just plowed the car into the trees?”

“There was only one witness, a young guy who works out there. I think he heard more than he actually saw, though. It’s quite certain that Shipley didn’t hit anybody, and as for the circumstances of the wreck, there’s nobody to say what happened except him.”

“Well, that’s a load off. I looked at that report and was thinking lawsuit. You remember that college professor asshole who sued us two years ago?”

The college professor asshole had been T-boned by a deputy doing eighty miles per hour through a residential neighborhood in response to a possible burglary in progress that turned out to be a man trying to get into his own home after locking the keys inside. Kimble found it a fair enough complaint, but it would hardly do to share that sentiment with the sheriff. He just nodded.

“I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about.”

“That’s good to hear. Tell you what, Shipley. You take a day off, all right?”

“I’m good to work.”

“Not until tomorrow. Make sure there are no lingering effects. With the pictures I saw of that cruiser, there sure as hell might be.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry about the car.”

Troy nodded, then stood and looked at Kimble. “You got that suicide report wrapped yet?”

“Clearing up the details.”

“Good man. I’m not disappointed that we can shut that frigging lighthouse down for good. Had enough of a hassle over it when the cat people started to complain. Tell you what, crazy runs in the water out there. You got a lighthouse in the woods, and sixty damn lions right across the street? Would have been nice if they’d all crossed the river and ended up in Jasper County, you ask me.”

The sheriff left, and Shipley started to follow, but Kimble called him back.

“Hey—they check you out fully at the hospital?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Concussion tests?”

“Passed them, yes. Why do you ask?” Shipley had a way of discerning extra motivation, one of the things that made him good police. His understanding of the gap between what someone said and why they said it was well honed.

“The story you tell, it’s a strange one. Seems like the old brain stem might have gotten a pretty good whack.”

Shipley frowned.

“What?” Kimble said.

“I didn’t see a flash of something in the road,” Shipley said. “It wasn’t a deer, or a coyote. I saw a man. I locked up the brakes and swerved, and he ran the wrong way. Ran toward my swerve. Nothing I could do but hit him.”

Kimble said, as gently as possible, “Son, you didn’t hit anyone. Stop worrying about mistakes you didn’t make.”

“I saw it, though.”

“You remember seeing it. Big difference. Particularly after getting knocked around the way you did.”

“And when I came back around, when I could see again, there was a light,” Shipley continued, not content to dismiss his irrational memory.

“That lighthouse was right above,” Kimble said. “Would have been flashing like crazy.”

Except it wouldn’t have been, he realized. Because Shipley responded to the call from Darmus, and Darmus broke the light before he called. So it would have been darkness.

“Not the lighthouse,” Shipley said. “This was like a blue torch. That’s exactly what it was like.”