Veering onto the shoulder, I cut the motor, draped my arms around the steering wheel, and rested my forehead on them, my temporary lift in spirits replaced by a sense of despondency and anxiety.
Was this ordinary car trouble, or had someone tampered with my engine?
Boyd laid his chin on my shoulder, indicating that he, too, found it a disturbing question, and not entirely paranoid.
We'd been like that a few minutes when Boyd growled without raising his head. I ignored this, assuming he'd spotted a squirrel or a Chevy. Then he shot to his feet and gave three sharp woofs, an impressive sound inside a Mazda.
I looked up to see a man approaching my car from the highway side. He was small, maybe five foot three, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore a black suit, perfectly fitted, but probably new in the early sixties.
Drawing close, the man raised knuckles to tap the glass, but pulled back as Boyd erupted again.
“Easy, boy.”
I could see an old pickup angled onto the shoulder across the road, the driver's door open. The truck looked empty.
“Let's see what the gentleman has to say.”
I cracked my window.
“Are you ill, ma'am?” The voice was rich and resonant, seeming to come from deeper inside than the small stature allowed. The man had a hooked nose and intense dark eyes, and reminded me of someone, though I couldn't recall whom. From his tone I could tell Boyd was thinking Caligula.
“I may have thrown a rod.” I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed like an engine noise sort of thing to say.
“May I offer assistance?”
Boyd growled suspiciously.
“I'm on my way into town. It would be no trouble to drop you at a repair shop, ma'am.”
Sudden synapse. The man looked and sounded like a miniature Johnny Cash.
“If there's a garage you can recommend, I'll call ahead and ask for a tow.”
“Yes, of course. There's one right up the road. I have the number in my glove compartment.”
Boyd was having none of it.
“Shh.” I reached back and stroked his head.
The man crossed to his truck, rummaged, then returned with a slip of thin yellow paper. Holding my cell phone in clear view, I lowered the window another few inches and accepted it.
The form looked like the carbon copy of a repair bill. The writing was almost illegible, but a header identified the garage as P & T Auto Repair, and gave an address and phone number in Bryson City. I tried to make out the customer signature, but the ink was too smeary.
When I turned on my cell, the screen told me I had missed eleven calls. Scrolling through, I recognized none of the numbers. I dialed the auto repair shop.
When the phone was answered I explained my situation and asked for towing.
How would I be paying?
Visa.
Where are you?
I gave the location.
Can you find transportation?
Yes.
Come on in and leave the car. They'd send a truck within the hour.
I told the voice at the other end that P & T had been recommended by a passerby, and that I would be riding to the garage with this man. Then I read off the bill number, hoping that P or T was writing it down.
With that call completed, I lowered the window, smiled at Johnny Cash, and dialed again. Speaking loudly, I left Lieutenant-Detective Ryan a message, detailing my intended whereabouts. Then I looked at Boyd. He was looking at the man in the dark suit.
Closing the window, I grabbed my purse and the grocery bag.
“How could things possibly get worse?”
Boyd did the eyebrow thing but said nothing.
* * *
Dropping the bag behind the seat, I took the middle position and gave Boyd the window. When our Samaritan slammed the door, the dog stuck his head out and tracked his movement to the driver's side. Then a pickup truck whizzed by with a pair of weimaraners in the bed, and Boyd's interest shifted. When he tried to rise, I pushed down on his haunches.
“That's a fine dog, ma'am.”
“Yes.”
