“Elkins found a mirror that could’ve come off the judge’s Firebird,” said Deputy Carter. “About eight-tenths of a mile further on, down toward the bottom of the hill. If Barringer was trying to force her off the road, it probably happened somewhere past where the mirror was. We haven’t yet found the spot where she actually went over, but from the skid marks, we can tell she was going west toward Eagle Rest. We figure he runs her off the road, then he turns around and is heading back toward Cedar Gap and Howards Ford when he comes around the curve too fast here, sees the buck right there in front of him, and just automatically swerves to miss it.”
“Sniffing for a doe in heat,” Sheriff Horton grunted. “Damn things are all over the roads. Be glad when hunting season opens.”
Officers walked the shoulder of the desolate road from the point where Elkins had picked up the mirror all the way to where the road teed into another two miles beyond. Three houses stood at that intersection and none of the residents had seen or heard anything unusual.
“If she got this far, she’d’ve driven right into one of them yards with her horn blaring,” said Horton.
Underwood nodded. “Too bad the state won’t give us guardrails. Cars could go over anywhere and we’d never know.”
By the time the sun had fully set, the moon was rising fat and orange in the east, and they came to the reluctant conclusion that finding Deborah Knott and her car was going to be a lot harder than they’d hoped.
Sheriff Horton, who’d been through many of these searches over the years, called for a helicopter and had the dispatcher notify the various fire stations that they needed all the volunteer help they could get.
“Temperature’s supposed to go down into the mid-thirties tonight.” Even as he spoke, Underwood’s breath made little puffs of steam in the chill night air. “Maybe that’ll help the heat sensors,” he said, reaching for all the silver he could find on this black cloud.
“Damn deers are gonna screw ’em up anyhow,” Horton said pessimistically.
Underwood’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from his jacket pocket.
“Captain Underwood? This is Sunny Osborne.”
Her voice sounded drained to him, but then picking out caskets can do that, he thought.
“You left a message for me to call you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Could you hold for just one minute?”
He held a broad finger over the mike. “It’s Mrs. Osborne.”
“Ain’t nothing more you can do out here right now till the chopper comes,” Horton told him. “Might as well run on over there and get her story.”
Reluctant as he was to abandon the search even for an hour, Underwood knew that Horton was right. He moved his finger and put the phone back to his ear. “Mrs. Osborne? I was wondering if I could come by for a few minutes?”
“Has something happened?” Her listless voice quickened in sudden hope. “You’ve found who killed Norman?”
“I’d rather discuss things with you in person,” he hedged. “I can be there in about twenty minutes, if that’s all right with you?”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Let me know how it goes,” said the sheriff.
Underwood nodded and walked back to his car. Before switching on the ignition, though, he gave Judge Knott’s cell phone one final try. It rang twice, then a pleasant digital voice said, “We’re sorry. The customer you have called is currently unavailable. Please try your call again later.”
CHAPTER 29
As long as I kept sawing at the seat belt with that key, I generated enough heat to stay warm, but whenever I paused to rest, the chill burrowed a little deeper into my bones. I had a couple of layers on my upper body, and my guardian angel must have cast an eye in my direction this morning when I chose to wear slacks today instead of the short skirt I’d contemplated. Too bad it hadn’t nudged me toward wool socks instead of knee-highs and two-inch heels. Fortunately I wouldn’t have to hike out of here in those heels. Assuming I ever got out of this seat belt, I do keep a pair of sneakers in my trunk for brisk walks at lunchtime.
But jeez! Who knew seat belts were so damn sturdy? It took me a full five minutes just to fray past the edge, and even then the material didn’t want to cut. It merely fuzzed up. I had to make my aching left hand hold the tiny gap apart so that the jagged edges of my key kept in contact with new threads instead of futilely rasping against old fuzz. Over an hour later, I was barely halfway through, and a blister had formed at the second joint of my index finger where I grasped the head of the key.
Dumb of me not to have realized it sooner. I groped for those napkins in my console and wrapped one around my finger like a bandage. It helped my blister, but slowed the sawing.
By now I was tired and hungry and I’d been sparing of my sips of water for obvious reasons. I can go hours without a bathroom break, but there was no point in pushing it till I was free from this seat belt.
As I mechanically sawed the key back and forth, my mind jumped on and off a dozen trains of thought—the Barringer kid for starters. I wished I could be there to see his smartass face when he learned I wasn’t dead.
—Dwight. Who didn’t call and didn’t E, and was it going to mess up our friendship, not to mention the marriage we’d arranged, if he heard I’d kissed Lucius Burke?
—Lucius Burke. A no-fly zone.
—The twins and what Beverly and Fred were going to say or do when they realized what was going on.
—Tina Ledwig’s collapsing alibi. Her lack of grief over her husband’s death.
—The tears in Sunny Osborne’s eyes when she’d sung,
