largely unscathed. She stared up the hill to see how far she had rolled. It was impossible to tell. The hillside was dotted with trees and shrubs that blocked her view of the road.
Sula shook her head. She could have so easily crashed into a giant tree with a three-foot wide trunk. This area had been selectively logged and the vegetation was not as thick as it might have been. That had probably saved her. The sound of a car climbing the hill sent a wave of relief through her. It couldn’t be that far to the road.
With a deep breath, on wobbly legs, she started to climb.
Rudker headed straight for where his jeep was parked on 8th Avenue. His body hummed with adrenaline. He had to breathe deeply to keep his foot off the gas and his driving civil. Fortunately, traffic was light. Attracting the attention of a cop while still in the rental car would be tragic.
He left the Taurus sitting at the corner of 8th and Garfield. He would come back later, after the Enterprise office had closed and drive the car into the lot. Or not. If the cyclists coming up McBeth had seen his plate number and turned it in, and if the cops spotted the car, they might watch it to see who surfaced. It might be best to just leave it.
While traveling out West 11th, Rudker called Enterprise-still using the stolen phone and stolen ID-and explained that he’d caught an early flight that morning before the rental office opened and gate opened, so he’d left the car across the street. He reminded the young man that he’d paid for three days and reassured him the keys were in the mail. The clerk seemed to take it well. At least, he didn’t ask too many questions.
Rudker was too keyed up to go home. Instead of relieving the pressure building inside him, running Sula off the road tweaked his tension even higher. He needed an aggressive game of racketball to settle him down, but he didn’t want to face anyone just yet. Making idle, social conversation would be impossible at the moment. Other people’s lives and problems seemed so trivial in comparison to what he was going through.
The best thing he could do with his energy was work. First, he had to eat. He stopped at Padres, a new classy bar on Commercial Street. There was a dearth of decent restaurants in west Eugene, and Padres served excellent sandwiches without all the background chatter of a family restaurant.
Rudker sat at the end of the bar near the television. An attractive female bartender took his order for a club sandwich and a Miller Lite. He had to take the edge off, somehow. She brought the beer with a seductive smile. On another day, he would have flirted with her, but today he didn’t trust his social instincts.
While waiting for his sandwich, he watched television. In a minute, KRSL’s noon news report came on with Trina Waterman and her fruity sidekick, Martin Tau. After a brief rundown on a local bank robbery, Trina reported: “Today’s breaking news involves a city counselor, a hefty bribe, and a local company on the brink of disaster. We’ll have that story for you when we come back.”
Rudker almost sprayed beer out his mouth. Jesus. Did she mean Prolabs? He looked around. The bar was nearly empty. A young couple sat in a corner booth, intent on each other, and an older gentleman sat at the other end of the bar. No one seemed to have heard the news-or cared. Ruder took another long swallow of beer. Neil Barstow, his chief financial officer, had offered to handle the Walter Krumble situation. Had he fucked it up?
Rudker willed himself to relax, to wait until he heard the broadcast. Why? the voice taunted. You know you’re screwed. You have been since the day you moved to this inane little town.
Rudker watched the bartender make his sandwich just to keep his mind busy for a moment. She had a nice ass, but she didn’t wear gloves when she handled his food. That bothered him. Then he heard Trina’s voice again and his eyes cut back to the TV. The young blond reporter had a glint in her eye he hadn’t seen before. She charged right into her story: “Walter Krumble, Eugene’s longest serving city council member, came forward today and admitted taking a bribe for his yes vote on Prolabs’ building plans.”
Ah shit. This was the last fucking thing he needed right now.
The camera cut to Krumble, sitting at a small table in a room Rudker didn’t recognize. The old man looked as if he’d spent the last two days in an airport terminal. Where was he now? In the police station? Would the DA file charges against Barstow? Would Barstow implicate him?
Shut up and listen!
On the screen, Krumble started talking: “A Prolabs’ executive, Neil Barstow, approached me late last month and offered me fifteen thousand dollars to vote yes on the zoning change.” The old man’s voice was unsteady. He stopped and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want it at first, but I’ve been broke and depressed since my wife got sick. So I called him back and said okay. I had intended to vote for the permit anyway. Now I regret taking the money, and I plan to give it back.”
The camera cut back to the newscaster. “Police brought Barstow, Prolabs’ chief financial officer, in for questioning this afternoon. As yet, no official charges have been filed, but a police department spokesperson said the case was still being investigated and that charges would be filed soon.”
The camera cut away to a riverside scene.
What the hell had gone wrong? Krumble had contacted them. He had seemed so stoic, the last guy on earth who would ever go public with dirty laundry. Rudker did not believe the old man had come forward on his own.
Next the newswoman started talking about Diane Warner’s death, as if the two stories were somehow connected. The bitch. She had probably gone after the story, dug up the information somewhere, somehow. Trying to fill some holes on yet another slow news day in Eugene. Christ, this would be a setback. The building permit would be revoked, the expansion plans would be put on hold, and JB Pharma would blame Rudker.
Maybe you should teach Trina a lesson too.
He let that thought go. One bitch at a time. For a moment, his career, his life as he knew it, seemed to be slipping away from him. The voice mocked him. Don’t be such a pussy. It’s not over until you say it’s over. Goddamn it, take charge.
He reached for his cell phone to call Barstow. Rudker intended to let his partner know he would make it worth his while to keep quiet. Barstow was likely to lose his job when the merger went through anyway. Rudker planned to offer him a nice retirement package and find him an excellent white-collar defense lawyer. This was minor, he told himself. As long Nexapra stayed on track and the merger went through, his career would soon soar.
On the ride to the hospital, Sula floated in and out of consciousness. The climb to the road and the wait for the ambulance had used up all her reserves. The cyclists had called for help, and once she knew she was being taken care of, her mind and body let go.
By the time she was reached the emergency room, she was alert enough to be semi aware of the proceedings. First, she was wheeled into a small room separated from other small rooms by only a retractable curtain. The space consisted of a bed, medical supplies, and two-feet of walkway.
There, a nurse assessed her injuries. He was a soft-spoken middle-aged man who introduced himself as Ron. Blond and boyish, he reminded Sula of a math teacher she’d had. Ron gave her an icepack for her head and told her he’d be back. Long after, a doctor, also in his forties but Ron’s physical opposite, came in to stitch her head.
“I’m Mike Rathburn,” he said with a quick smile. “I’m going to get you numb, then cut a little of the hair around this wound so I can stitch it.”
Sula didn’t relish having a bald spot, but she was feeling pretty lucky to be alive. It took almost forty minutes for the doctor to finish his sewing job and Sula was glad she was lying down. The doctor stepped back and announced with a touch of pride. “Ten stitches. You’ll probably have a bit of scar, but your hair will cover most of it.”
Sula reached up and felt the gash. It ran along her temple, away from her face. She knew it could have been much worse. Most of the glass in her truck cab had broken out.
The doctor left and she was alone for about ten minutes, then Ron came back and said he was taking her to X-ray. He smiled sweetly, his boyish face contrasting with his gray hair and serious nature. “The doctor said you could have pain medication. Would you like some?”
“Please.” She hurt all over, and her shoulder felt like it had taken a few blows with a baseball bat.
Ron handed her a white pill and a paper cup with water. “It’s Vicodin.”
“Thanks.”
Sula woke with a start when the doctor came in with her X-rays. She had been moved to a regular room with another patient, a middle-aged woman who slept.
“You have a broken collar bone, two cracked ribs, a skull contusion, and some abdominal bruising.” Mike tapped the folder containing the slides. “Your abdomen will probably hurt much more tomorrow than it does now.
