Marta tossed back the hoof knife. Never take a hoof knife when a forge hammer will do. She thrust her hand back into the tool chest. There were several hammers, but one was especially large and heavy with rounded ends and a bowed wooden handle. The forge hammer! One down, one to go. Marta put it in her lap, but couldn't find the pritchel and gave up before she crashed the truck.
The traffic was sparse as Marta headed out of the city and reached a blue bridge that spanned the Delaware River. It was being plowed, and she drove behind a Port Authority snowplow like she belonged there. Marta didn't need a radio to tell her it was illegal for a civilian to be driving in these conditions, but once she'd tampered with a jury, the rest was downhill. She zoomed over the bridge a safe distance behind the snowplow and churned through the toll bridge into New Jersey.
She motored by a sign for Cherry Hill, then a series of strip joints; a seamy place called The Admiral Lounge, which she'd bet had never been patronized by an admiral, and the Liquor Ranch. Yee-hah. The truck rattled along, giving Marta time to consider her next move. She was hoping she'd find something in the beach house, but what if she didn't? She'd have wasted half the night. How much time did she have before Bogosian found her, or the cops did? The jury would reconvene first thing in the morning.
Marta kept an eye on the rearview mirror. Still no one behind her, but there were a few cars ahead. She drove for over an hour on Route 70 to 72 east and went round and round a rotary at Olga's Diner, which had a crowd despite the storm. Marta was relieved to see that the blizzard was lessening and the accumulation less in Jersey than it had been in Philly. The bare windshield wipers had a fighting chance. Marta sped up and passed a sign that said MEDFORD, then fields covered with only a thin blanket of snow.
Suddenly a green minivan appeared out of nowhere, and cut her off. Marta shouted in alarm. A loud
Marta felt dazed, dizzy. Her ribs ached again and soreness returned to her head. She unclenched the wheel and regained focus in time to see the minivan reversing in front of her. She caught a flash of the minivan's driver, a woman. The woman steered the minivan away and raced down the highway. Affixed to the back window was a sticker: WORKING PRESS. Fuck! It was a hit-and-run. The driver didn't even stop. A reporter, it figured.
Marta sat still and waited for the pain to subside. When it didn't, she suppressed it and assessed the damage to the truck. The minivan had hit her on the driver's side, but the windshield was still intact. The hood looked okay, even if the front was crunchier than before. Marta hoped that the engine still worked. She had no time to spare. Her watch said 12:35. She brushed the hair from her eyes and twisted on the ignition.
'Start, goddamn you,' she ordered, and it did. Like a charm. On a dime. It was improved, if anything. About time she got a break. She threw the truck into reverse, spun the wheels futilely, then rocked the fucking thing back and forth until she'd worked her way out of the snowdrift and was heading the right way, down the same road the minivan had taken. Its red taillights glowed in the distance as Marta rattled behind. She passed strip malls and fast-food joints, and stopped for traffic lights at regular intervals. The minivan didn't stop for a single red light.
'You after the big story, you jerk?' Marta called after the minivan, though it hurt her jaw to shout. 'It's snowing, is that the story? It's white? It's cold? It falls out of the sky?'
Another traffic light turned red, but the mini-van tore past it. If Marta had time, she'd stop the van and take the reporter's name. She flashed on the face behind the wheel. A face framed by dark hair, with conventionally pretty features. Large eyes, upturned nose. Who did she think she was? Then Marta realized she knew the woman.
It was Alix Locke, the reporter who'd covered the Steere trial. Alix had been all over Marta and reported about her every day in the newspaper. Alix was the one giving the mayor a hard time at his press conference. Why would Alix be rushing to the Jersey shore? She covered only the major news stories, like Elliot Steere and City Hall. Was there news that important at a beach resort? In winter?
Marta turned the knob on the car radio again, but it was still dead. Maybe there was major flooding or a boardwalk washed away in the storm. But that wasn't Alix's type of story. She didn't do weather or features, only hard news. What was going on?
Marta ignored the traffic light and kept the mini-van in sight. A rotary was coming up fast. The mini-van chose the first exit without slowing down, even though snow covered the sign. Marta had to check the map but it was dark. She didn't want to lose the mini-van, but she didn't want to take the wrong turn. She fumbled for the flashlight as the truck approached the rotary and groped a cylinder rolling back and forth in the seat. She held it up. A stick of Old Spice deodorant. She threw it down. The rotary was coming up.
Marta went fishing again and came up with the flashlight. By then, the minivan had disappeared into the snow flurries. Marta couldn't read the sign even up close and was forced to come to a full stop to see the damn map. She rested the map on her lap and aimed the flashlight's beam on the coastline to Long Beach Island. Surrounding it were the Pine Barrens, acres of them. The road Alix had taken led to Long Beach Island.
Marta flicked off the flashlight, hit the gas, and followed down the highway. There was no one on the dark snowy road until Marta spotted Alix way ahead. Marta thought as quickly as whiplash allowed. Why was Alix going to Long Beach Island? Why had she been so certain of where she was going, even with the sign obscured? Alix had evidently been to Long Beach Island many times before.
Marta accelerated, hoping to catch the minivan. What did she know about Alix? That she was young, sexy, and pretty. That she was single, because she'd mentioned that to Marta once, trying to find some common ground to get the exclusive. No doubt about it, Alix was an aggressive reporter. A star.
Marta tested her theory. Alix Locke and Elliot Steere; the two were a perfect match. Good-looking, driven, and successful. And Alix appeared to be heading for Long Beach Island, where Steere owned a beach house. It couldn't be just a coincidence, could it? Was Alix Locke Elliot Steere's lover?
Marta hit the gas. It was certainly consistent. Alix had featured Steere's defense in her articles and had even been criticized for favoring the defense. Marta had assumed the good press was because of her, but maybe it was because of Steere. He was the main beneficiary.
It was a trial lawyer's hunch, but Marta sensed her theory was right. Alix was a thorn in the mayor's side, and the mayor was Steere's nemesis. Marta remembered the press conference on TV, at which Alix had badgered the mayor. Maybe that was to further Steere's goals. And Alix and Steere would have to keep their affair a secret for fear of compromising Alix's job and jeopardizing her reporting on Steere.
Marta sputtered past sugar-frosted maple, pine, and scrub oak trees. She felt certain she was heading in the right direction. Alix was going to lead her to Steere's beach house and maybe to the clues she was looking for. At the very least, Marta could confront Alix. Demand the truth. Demand justice.
