Rough Justice

tossed her purse onto the beat-up passenger seat. The truck was cold and smelled oddly of singed hair. The front seat was littered with empty coffee cups, waxed paper from Dunkin' Donuts, and cellophane bags of withered carrots. A flashlight rolled on the floor and a large green rubber ball was wedged at the end of the seat. HORSEBALL, it said. Huh?

Marta inserted the key, pumped the gas, and twisted on the ignition. The engine made the tiniest click, but didn't turn over. Christopher had warned her this would happen.

Be patient, he'd said, the car hasn't been driven in two months. And don't flood the engine.

Marta checked her watch. 10:15. She had to get going. She turned the ignition key again, but no luck.

Give her a minute or two. Talk to her. She likes when you talk to her.

Fuck that. Talk to a truck? Christopher had way too much time on his hands. Marta forced herself to wait and scanned the garage again for Bogosian. The damn windshield was too dirty to see through and she wiped it with a cold fist. A few cars were parked on this level. Bogosian could be behind any one of them, waiting to grab her. She remembered the vise of his hands around her throat, choking the breath from her. Panicky, Marta twisted the ignition key again. The engine didn't respond.

Stay calm. Give her time.

But Marta didn't have time. She had to get this truck moving. She had to get away. She looked around. Bogosian could be anywhere. Marta forced herself to wait and tried to imagine what had happened since he'd killed the security guards. The cops had to be swarming all over Rosato & Associates. They'd see Marta's signature on the log. They'd be looking for her. The press would follow.

She just needs to warm up. Wait, then give it another try.

Marta tried the ignition again, but the engine only coughed. Fuck! Marta had to hit the road. There was no other way. If it would have gotten her anywhere, she would have surfaced and told everything she knew about the guards' murder, but she couldn't prove Bogosian was linked to Steere. She couldn't even prove Bogosian existed. Rocket Docket Rudolph was pushing the Steere case through on greased skids; Marta doubted even a murder in the office would slow him down. Steere would never permit a continuance anyway, and Marta couldn't run the risk.

Keep trying. Don't give up.

Words to live by. She twisted the key and the engine finally turned over, rheumatic but alive. Marta slammed the truck into reverse and it stalled while she was backing out. Twice. She finally got it rolling and steered it out of the garage, paying the parking bill with cash.

The truck nosed into the blizzard, which threatened to overwhelm its worn windshield wipers. She was heading north to Steere's house in New Jersey, following up on her hunch that the beach house was special to Steere and that she'd find some clue there. Some piece of evidence. Something incriminating. She was going to Long Beach Island, wherever that was. Marta needed a map.

She flipped open a messy glove compartment and searched for the maps. They fell onto the seat beside her and she rifled through them as she navigated the storm. There were wrinkled maps of Maryland and Pennsylvania. Then Bucks County, Chester County, Delaware County. Finally, New Jersey.

Marta almost drove into a telephone pole trying to open the New Jersey map and smooth it out. It was too dark to read the map. With fingertips on the wheel, she felt on the floor for a flashlight and shined it on the map. It was impossible to read in the jittery pool of light, but Marta got the general idea— over the river and through the woods. At least a three-hour trip in the snow. She had no time to spare.

She checked the rearview mirror again. There was no rear window defroster, and the scratchy plastic window was completely dark. No headlights shone through, so Marta felt reasonably sure she wasn't being followed. The roads had been plowed, but were barely passable. At least the gas tank was full. Marta accelerated and the truck hiccuped three times, then responded.

The temperature was as frigid as Maine in winter and Marta shivered in the chilly truck. She hit the button for the heat and blue smoke leaked from the vents. Marta shook her head at the sight; she'd owned a Corvair Monza that used to do that, too. Things came full circle if you lived long enough and Marta wanted to live long enough. She switched the smoke off and zipped up her coat instead. Marta had gotten the outfit at Woolworth's: a cap, a pair of long johns, a fake down coat in brown plaid, and matching plaid snowpants. She was toasty even though she looked like furniture.

Marta found the radio and turned it on. Nothing. She spun the dial. Silence. So the radio didn't work, either. Fuck. Marta wanted to find out what was happening with the cops. She checked the rearview again. No one was following her. Still she felt vulnerable. She needed protection.

Look in the tool chest, Christopher had said. There's tools you can use as weapons.

Marta glanced behind her. Where was the tool chest? It was a pigsty back there; racks of horseshoes straddled a workbench and clanged together as the truck plowed through the snow. A small forge was tucked in the back with tanks of propane sitting next to it. A leather apron lay crumpled in a heap over a blackened anvil. Then Marta saw it. In front of the anvil were two tool chests, and the larger one was full of old chisels, hammers, and files.

Look in the big tool chest. Take the pritchel.

What's a pritchel?

It looks like a big spike, ten inches long. You can use it as a knife, for protection.

Marta smiled to herself. Two months ago, she didn't know what a farrier was. Now she was tampering with one. She stretched behind the seat and yanked the chest closer, then rummaged through the tools and found a small hammer with a pointed tip.

If it has a pointy head, it's a nail set. Don't take the nail set. It's too light.

Okay, fine. No nail set. It wasn't anything Marta had learned in law school. She shoved her hand to the bottom of the toolbox. The tools clinked as they tumbled together and she came up with a knife that had a long, oddly curved blade, like a miniature scythe.

A hoof knife looks like that thing that the Grim Reaper carries. Forget about the hoof knife. You'll stab yourself. Find the forge hammer, too. That'll help.