Burke.
“How did you route her out there?” he asked when Johnson answered.
Within thirty minutes he had retrieved her license plate number from Motor Vehicles, and as the sun sank low in the west he had three units prowling the roads Johnson had specified.
There might be a dozen reasons why she was late, but how many reasons could there be for not answering her cell phone? And maybe he was jumping the gun, but if it was Annie, he’d sure want to know.
With a sigh, he pulled out his wallet and found the number he’d scribbled on the back of a card three days ago, then picked up his phone and dialed the area code for Colleton County.
Deputy Ray Elkins was only twenty-one. He had joined the sheriff’s department in July, shortly after finishing a two-year criminal justice course at the local community college, and he was very much aware of being the new kid with something to prove. Accordingly, he drove fast down the stretch of road he’d been assigned, looking for a black Firebird in obvious trouble—maybe something as simple as a flat tire or broken radiator belt.
Along the way, the young deputy stopped to examine a set of fresh skid marks on the outer lane at the bottom of the second long hill. There were shards of silvered glass on the pavement and he found a smashed side mirror that had been recently torn off a black vehicle and bounced over to the base of the mountain wall; but after walking fifty feet in either direction from the skid marks, he saw no sign that a vehicle had gone over the side.
He wasn’t real sure if this mirror came off a Firebird, but he stuck it in the trunk of his unit anyhow and drove on.
When the quick and dirty failed, Elkins turned around at the end of his assigned stretch and drove back more slowly. As he came up the same hill and rounded a sharp curve, there, about fifty feet past the crest, he saw a short set of skid marks. They continued off the pavement and on across the narrow, leaf-strewn shoulder.
He got out of the car and looked down, taking care not to step on the torn-up weeds and dirt. The tire tracks were so fresh, the exposed dirt had barely begun to dry. If a vehicle had gone off here, though, into this thicket of head-high mountain laurels and hardwoods, it wasn’t immediately apparent. Nevertheless, he climbed down to make sure, holding on to young saplings and laurel branches. Just as he was ready to turn back, a breeze parted the leaves and sunlight gleamed off black metal another twenty feet down.
A crumpled form lay in the bushes beyond the vehicle, and Elkins hesitated. The only dead bodies he’d seen in his short life were properly laid out in caskets in Sunday clothes. For a long moment, he stood there cussing the stupidity of people who don’t buckle up automatically, before his training kicked in and he forced himself to walk over to the body, to squat down and feel for a pulse.
Nothing.
He located the victim’s wallet and driver’s license, then climbed back up to the road, where he thumbed his mike and radioed for help.
CHAPTER 27
My alarm clock was ringing—ringing with such infuriating loudness that I fumbled for it on my nightstand, ready to slap it across the room, anything to make it stop. I seemed to be lying on my left arm and it was half numb as if I’d slept on it wrong. My head throbbed like the worst hangover of my entire life and the front of my neck was so sore I could barely turn it.
And still the alarm shrilled, sending daggers through my pounding head. I cracked one eye and groaned. It wasn’t even full daylight yet. The sky was the gray of predawn without a single rosy-fingered sign of sunrise. Why the hell had I set the alarm for such an early hour? And where was the stupid thing anyhow?
Abruptly it stopped.
Good.
Now I could turn over and grab another hour of sleep. Get rid of this headache.
Except that I seemed to be all tangled up in the covers.
I struggled to free myself, every part of my body hurting as I clawed at the constricting sheets—
Sheets?
I opened my eyes and looked down. Not sheets.
Seat belt.
I was hanging almost upside down against the left door of my car. No wonder my arm had gone numb. The deflated air bag hung like a limp balloon from its space on the steering wheel and there seemed to be a white powder all over my jacket. I twisted around, and as I shifted my weight, the car gave a sickening lurch, then slowly rolled over, crashing through the undergrowth. My head socked against the window and I blacked out again.
When next I came to, it was even darker. Remembering what happened the last time I moved, I slowly lifted my head and looked around. The car seemed to be slightly canted on its right side now so that I still hung in the seat belt like a trussed calf. The front end pointed down the side of the mountain at what felt like a forty-five- degree angle. To my infinite relief, though, it appeared to be blocked from further slippage by the sturdy trunks of two large maples, not to mention that I was jammed in by so many laurel bushes that I could barely see the sky through all the thick leaves and the shattered windows.
At first I couldn’t understand where I was or how I had gotten myself in such a fix, then, as my head cleared, I remembered the tattooed kid from court, the black Ranger, the whole terrifying incident.
I tried to push myself upright and discovered that the car roof was now several inches lower, almost even with the top of my headrest. Dwight’s always complaining about the cramped interior. He’d go ape boxed in here now.
I strained to reach the cell phone that had been thrown into the well on the passenger side, but my seat belt kept me too far away. Between the jackhammer that pounded through my head and the pins and needles in my arm, it was difficult to concentrate, yet I did realize that my first order of business was to get out of this seat belt.
Easier said than done. Even pushing against the floor with my feet to take a bit of the tension off, nothing happened when I pressed the release. I tried again and again, moaning with frustration at each failure.
