I don’t run every morning. For one thing, running’s boring. For another, Jenny’s not too fond of the idea. But sometimes, when my brain is too thick, the only thing that clears my head is running. Pounding it out through my feet-down and out, step, breath, step, breath-somewhere along the way, the picture in my head focuses and I can see again.
I’d spent half the night on the computer researching everything I could find about the Amish and my new hometown. I’d filtered out a list of local experts I could interview about the Amish culture, relevant local history and once again re-read the stuff Melton gave us on Jost’s time in foster care. I was missing something.
Around eight minutes past six, I threw on a sweat suit and slipped out into the pre-dawn dark to run the story loose.
So far, I had a suicide that could have been an accident, a firefighter who would have been an Amish guy, and a girl who should have been a bride. Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. I’m on to something all right. It’s the road to hell.
Right on schedule, some underworld hound comes roaring up on my heels, driving a silver SUV.
“Son of a bitch!”
The car roared up alongside me, riding the shoulder and spitting gravel. I jerked right and misjudged the slope into the drainage ditch. My ankle buckled. My knee popped. My ass went down.
The guy slammed on his brakes, skidding to a stop twenty feet ahead of me. I scrambled upright, favoring the knee and flipping him the bird with every finger I’ve got available-not to mention providing plenty of audio-when the jerk-off guns it, fishtails gravel all over me and takes off. I got the first letter of the license before the dust hit my eyes.
Six months ago I was one of the toughest videographers in the business. Now, I’m the Joe Atlas wimp getting sand kicked in my face.
What the hell has happened here?
Jenny was of the same opinion. She stood there in the kitchen doorway, fists on her bony hips.
I slid down onto the cold ceramic floor and braced my back against the sink cabinet. I could tell it was going to be a few minutes before I could even make a call; my teeth were chattering too hard to speak clearly. Typical aftereffects of adrenaline: chills, shivering, light-headedness. All completely normal.
Eyes narrowed, Jenny peeked around the corner cabinet.
“I’m not dead, Jen. I’m just sitting on the floor.” The words set off another bout of chills.
Jenny remained skeptical. “Why?” she asked.
“Felt like it.”
With a huffy snort, she came over to sit beside me and check out my leg. I must of hit a rock when I went down. There was a gash near my knee about four inches long. I’d used my sock to slow the bleeding, but it was still seeping down my calf. I’m fine with other people’s blood; mine bothers me.
“I bet you need stitches.”
“Probably.”
“I got stitches once.”
“Yeah?”
“It hurt.”
“Your mom pinch you for those, too?”
“No. She had to hold me down.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll be right back.” Jenny patted me on the head, once, and scrambled out.
Inside, my muscles registered full of juice, ready to fly. Outside, I was crusting over with drying sweat and dust. A wobbly drip of bright red blood clung to the rivulet that streaked my calf. I flexed my toes inside my running shoe and watched the drop release-
Everything tunneled down to breathing. Slow, in through the nose. Out through the mouth.
A few months ago my sister had a car roar up behind her. But she didn’t slide down a ravine to safety. I opened my mouth and gulped air, trying to settle my stomach.
Do not think. Do not puke.
No way could I tell Jenny a car was involved. Neither of us would survive the resulting panic loop.
Work. Work was the way out of this, away from this feeling. Work brought calm.
Calm would help Jenny.
I hit the auto-dialer. Ainsley picked it up in one ring.
“You got the morning off, College.” I’d made arrangements for Ainsley and me to go in and rough cut with the engineer. “Call Mick and ask him if he can meet us tonight for a few hours, instead of this morning.”
“Sweet. Why?”
I checked for Jenny before I answered. “Some asshole in a SUV didn’t want to share the road.”
“No way.”
“Way. I’m headed over to the emergency room.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Add insult to injury, College. Ask me another stupid question.”
“Geez, how bad? You need a hand?”
I slumped lower against the kitchen cabinet, closed my eyes and pictured my choices of worst-case scenarios: totaling the Subaru as I lost consciousness and spun out of control, versus Ainsley holding me down for stitches in the emergency room.
“No thanks. I’ve got it under control,” I told him.
“This stuff might help.” Jenny appeared carrying her mother’s Rubbermaid tub of all-purpose medical repair. My sister had been an emergency-room nurse. If anyone was prepared for trouble, it was her. “Worst case scenario, first case scenario,” I used to tease.
Too bad, I was right.
“Where’d you find that?”
“The little one stays in the linen closet. The big one was in the garage. Mom kept it in the car for emergencies.”
Hunkered down beside me, Jenny started digging through the tubs, passing right by the latex gloves, bottles of pain relief and piles of unlabeled foil-blister packets. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant as the supplies appeared: one box of princess band-aids, rubbing alcohol, three ace bandages, a stethoscope and a rubber tourniquet.
“Make sure we have an engineer tonight, College.” I spoke very deliberately into the phone. “And I’ve got a new list of pick-ups we should go after. I want to go back to Jost’s apartment and try his partner Pat again. See if we can catch him off-duty.”
“You got it, boss.” I could hear him fluffing his pillow in preparation for another few hours of sleep. “I’m yours to command.”
Jenny took a rubber strap between both hands.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“This will stop the bleeding by cutting off your circulation.”
“Anything else?” Ainsley asked.
“These are for pain.” Jenny held out the giant bottle of acetaminophen and a foil-blister pack. “Or maybe it’s these?”
The only words stamped on the back read: SAMPLE NOT FOR RESALE.
“I’ll stick with the usual.” I tossed the packet back into the bucket. Jenny shook out two tablets. “Get me some water would you, kiddo?”
“I’ll meet you at the station tonight,” Ainsley said. “What time?”
“I need you earlier, but don’t panic. It involves food. How’d you like to go picnic with the sheriff today?”
“Uh…”
“Great. Pick us up at noon.”
Socializing at a garden party after stitches in the emergency room is like eating brussels sprouts after army-
