15 Seconds

driving into hell. A mile farther along, I passed 557. Mostly woods and fields now.

I felt myself starting to grow nervous. Let’s say Fellows was the guy. How would I know? What would I even do? Take a picture of the famous blue car? I didn’t have a weapon, but it was likely he did! It dawned on me, a guy could get killed out here and no one would even know he’d disappeared.

Finally I saw a red house ahead on the right. On the mailbox was a hand-scratched number, 669. I blew out my cheeks. This was it! There was a beat-up, black pickup in the driveway. More like a rutted clearing in front of the house. There was a two-car garage, open, with tools everywhere, and another vehicle in it up on blocks.

I pulled in. Dogs started barking, and I saw three Dobermans jumping against the wire in a dog cage. Something told me, Henry get out of here… A huge elm shaded the front of the house. Laundry strung on an outside line.

I heard hammering.

A guy who was working on the front porch stood up when he noticed me approaching. He didn’t come toward me; he didn’t avoid me either. What he did do was give me a look like he wasn’t into visitors.

“Help you?” he said, putting down his hammer.

“Mr. Fellows?” I asked, opening the car door and walking toward the porch.

He nodded. Barely. He had on denim overalls, a sweaty white T-shirt, and a blue cap. He had a gaunt, angular face, a scrabbly looking, gray growth of whiskers, sharp, distrusting eyes, and as I got closer, a gap in his teeth.

He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty.

“My name’s Dawson, Mr. Fellows. I’m tracking down a license plate for an insurance company. It appears it was part of an accident.” Nervously, I checked my sheet. “South Carolina ADJ-dash-four-three-nine-two. It’s registered here to you at this address.”

“Accident, you say?”

I felt my heart start to gallop. Fellows surely didn’t look like the guy I’d seen through my mirror. And I didn’t see any blue car around the house. No surprise there. But what if it was him. If he had killed Mike, he would surely recognize me.

And here I was.

“In Georgia,” I said, though if he was connected he surely knew this was a lie.

“Georgia?” he said, as if surprised. He spit a wad of tobacco into a paper cup. “You say this plate belonged to me?”

“According to the South Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles,” I replied. “But they’ve expired.”

It crossed my mind that the guy could just take out a shotgun and shoot me right here. Instead, he scratched his beard, nodding. “C’mon with me.” He took me into the garage. More like an open shed, a car on blocks with the hood open. Tools, cans of oil, tires, hubcaps everywhere. “Sounds familiar. You say expired?”

“August. 2010. You a Gamecocks fan, Mr. Fellows?”

“Gamecocks? Sure.” He looked back with a gap-toothed smile. “They’re my team. Why…?”

I felt a surge of optimism mixed with fear. He led me around the raised-up car to the back of the garage, where, against the wall, I saw a cardboard box. He kicked it.

Maybe a dozen license plates clattered inside.

“I know maybe I should turn ’em in,” he said. “Some do go back a ways. But the DMV’s all the way up in Chambersburg. And now and then my wife sells ’em at tag sales and such. Every penny helps these days…”

I bent down and leafed through the box. He read the disappointment all over my face. ADJ-4392 wasn’t among them.

Fellows shrugged. “I could check inside, but I’m pretty sure you’re right about the plate number. Could be anywhere by now…” He grinned again. “You’re welcome to any of the others if you like.”

“No.” I forced myself to make a thin smile. “Won’t be necessary.”

“So this was an accident, you say?” Fellows asked again, walking me back outside.

I nodded in frustration.

“In Georgia, huh?” Fellows asked, his eyes suddenly turning dubious. “So you mind if I ask you… you a cop as well?”

“As well?”

“ ’Cause if you are, that’s exactly what I told the one who came by a while back. That someone must’ve took ’em. Could be anywhere.”

I looked at him. “A cop came by here earlier. About this?” I wasn’t sure whether to be excited or alarmed.

Fellows nodded. “Hour, hour and a half ago… Looking for that same plate. ’Course, she said it was Florida, not Georgia, and that it was a criminal thing.” His gaze seemed almost amused. “Whichever-sure seems a popular one for one day…”

“You said she… ? It was a woman?”

“Pretty little thing… Here, even left me this card…” Fellows dug into his overalls. “Said if I recalled anything, I should…”

He brought it out and handed it to me.

It was excitement. A tsunami of excitement. And no matter how I tried to stop myself, I broke into a wide-eyed smile.

The card read, Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Director, Community Outreach.

Carolyn Rose Holmes.

Chapter Forty-Five

I stepped into the Azalea Diner, a roadside truck stop next to the Motel 6 a mile or so out of Orangeburg.

There were a couple of locals around the counter; a young family at one of the tables; a large trucker type in a booth draining a cup of coffee.

Then-

I saw her! Or I was sure it had to be her. Strawberry-blond hair. Pretty little thing, Fellows had said. And that she was staying the night in case anything else came up. The kid at the front desk of the Motel 6 where Fellows said he had sent her confirmed that she was there, and that she’d gone out around half an hour ago to get something to eat. And where else was there to go? I didn’t know what I should do. Go right up to her? Fancy running into you here… The last thing I wanted was to alarm her. Or draw unwanted attention to myself. She had no idea I was anywhere nearby.

But as I stared at her, in the end booth by the window, alone, a cute button nose, freckles maybe, in jeans and a hooded gray sweatshirt that I thought read, U.S. Marines, texting on her phone, two things became clear.

One was that Carrie Holmes believed me. Why else would she be here?

And two-which lifted me even higher-she had the plate numbers! And if she was here, they must have belonged to Fellows.

And I had found him too!

Looking at her, I realized that I had never felt as much gratitude toward another person as I was feeling toward her. I realized just how much she had to be risking just to be here. Who, back home, would have even believed her? And then there was the kind of courage it took for her to follow through.

I almost felt the tears sting in my eyes. It was as if I was connected to her in a way I couldn’t describe.

I took a table at the other end of the restaurant. I grabbed a menu from the holder and held it in front of my face.

I was petrified that if I just walked right up to her, she might scream-I was still a wanted murder suspect. So I took out the cell number she had written down for Fellows and dialed it.

My heart jumped with excitement. I saw her look at her phone and, curious at the number-it probably read,