Stranger in the Lake(72)
I stare out the slice of road lit up by my headlights, the way it goes blurry between swipes of the windshield wipers. “How do you know all that?”
“The cameras on the back of the house. You mailed me the log-ins, remember? They only go back sixty days, but there were enough of them for me to see all that. The prepay cards I heard about from a couple of cashiers in town. Apparently, Paul buys ’em in bulk.”
Sam gives me a moment for the message to sink in. Paul has been in touch with Jax all these years. He’s brought him food and clothes and a cell phone. He’s looked after him. I think of Jax stepping onto the back deck in Paul’s boots, the acres and acres of land he bought up around Pitts Cove, that time he made me ring him up for an expensive prepay card I assumed he wouldn’t use—and he didn’t. He tucked it in a pair of his old boots and gave them both to Jax.
It’s not some nefarious scheme to bury old bones, Paul said when I asked him about Pitts Cove, and I wasn’t sure I believed him.
Staying silent about a crime is a crime. If Paul knew Jax was somehow responsible for Bobby’s death, then he’s spent the past twenty years helping a man stay quiet about another man’s death, which in my book can’t be explained away. Jax should have reported it the second he popped to the surface, and Paul should have the second Jax ran blubbering to him.
“Where are you?” Sam says into my ear, and I almost drop the phone. I’d forgotten he was there, waiting on the other end of the line.
“Heading to town to find Chet.”
“Okay, well, be careful, and maybe lie low for a day or two, will you? Something’s not right here, and I’m still puzzling out what it is. My gut tells me everything’s connected, and that includes Katherine’s death. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got a handle on the situation.”
We hang up, and I’m dropping the phone into the cup holder when something darts into the road. A brown blur, flying across the windshield. I stomp the brakes and give a jerk to the wheel, and the tires Chet’s been hollering at me to replace for months now lose traction on the wet asphalt. The car slides sideways, hurtling me toward an incline that will drop me ten feet, maybe more, into a creek. I overcorrect, hands slapping at the wheel, then overcorrect the other way, but it’s too much for the old Civic. The car lurches into a spin, flinging me around like a fairground ride. After five or six turns, my back fender connects with something solid, and a loud, metallic chunk slams me back into my seat, snapping my head sideways. My skull slams into tempered glass, and everything goes deathly silent.
No, not silent. There’s the steady patter of rain, the wind in the tops of the trees, another rumble of thunder. And heavy breathing—mine.
I sit very still for a moment, taking stock. My head hurts, and my chest where the seat belt tried to cut me in half. I press a hand to my lower belly, but there’s nothing. No pain, no cramping. Other than the whack to the head, I think I’m fine.
My car, however, not so much. I twist around, looking out the smashed back window on the passenger’s side. I’ve landed flush against a tree, a pine at the edge of the road. The impact folded a deep dent in the Civic and stuck a branch through the glass, letting in the sharp tang of sap and green wood and rain. I twist the keys, but nothing happens. The engine’s dead.
I look around for my phone, which in the second or third spin flew from the cup holder. I search the passenger’s seat and console, stick my hand between the seats. I’m feeling around by my feet when, suddenly, the windshield lights up. Headlights gleaming in the gushing water.
Not Paul. Please don’t let it be Paul.
I freeze, peeking over the dash.
A flash of relief at the sight of Micah’s truck, followed by trepidation. Micah is one of Paul’s best friends. How much does he know? He rolls to a stop by my front fender, throws open the door and slides out, hitting the dirt at a jog. I eye him through the cracked windshield with suspicion.
He yanks open my door. “Are you okay? Jesus. Can you move?” Already the rain has soaked his hair, his clothes, splashing from him onto me.
“I’m fine, but I can’t find my phone.” Even I hear how ridiculous it sounds, to be whining about my phone when my car is crumpled against a tree, but it’s not the phone I’m worried about. It’s Chet. I need to talk to Chet. I need him to be a sounding board, to help me sort everything out. He’s the only one I can trust.
“Come on. You need to go to the hospital. I’ll take you.” Micah wraps a hand around my bicep to help me out, but I shake him off, a violent, physical no.
“I need my phone.” I unhook my seat belt and hurl myself over the console, reaching with both hands onto the floorboards. “I need to call Chet. He’s waiting for me in town.”
He slides his cell from a pocket, flips on the flashlight. “Here. Get out. I’ll find it for you.”
I stand in the pouring rain while Micah fishes around under the seats, finally locating the thing wedged between the back door and a box of tile samples I was supposed to return days ago. He hands it to me, and I check the screen. Other than a text from Paul—Home. Where are you?—there are no messages. No missed calls.
I dial Chet again, get his voice mail, again. I hang up and look around, eyes drilling into the rain and dark woods, trying to decide what to do. I could get Micah to take me to town, but there are a million places Chet could be by the time I get there, including back at the house. What if he’s there already, his phone charging on his nightstand downstairs while he’s busy in the kitchen? How do I call the house without talking to Paul?