Jake steered past the Chetwynd Springs sign at the grandiose entrance/exit of the development and flipped on the radio. It was tuned to the local news channel from last night, but it was weather on the nines. He didn’t need a meteorologist to tell him it was a crummy day, under a sky opaque with thick gray clouds.
Fog is a cloud on the ground.
Jake hit the open road and joined the line of sparse traffic, his thoughts shifting into gear at the task that lay ahead. He had a plan and he knew where he was going. He knew what he had to do and what he had to say. He had done the research he needed on the computer. He told himself to stay calm, and that he had to see his plan through, as dreadful as his purpose was, it was the only way to protect Ryan. He drove on autopilot, listening to the radio and waiting for the news as traffic got heavier, with people getting the jump on the day, ready to check off items on their things-to-do list. They’d run to Acme and Whole Foods in pre-snowstorm panic, stocking up on salt.
Suddenly, he heard the announcer change on the radio, and the news began, “In headline news, the victim of a hit-and-run driver in Concord Chase last night has been identified as sixteen-year-old Kathleen Lindstrom. A junior at Concord Chase High School, she was struck while jogging. Police are asking anyone with information regarding this incident to please call the main tipline, at number…”
Oh my God, no.
Jake gasped aloud, in horror. His fingers clenched the steering wheel. He almost ran into the maroon Subaru in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, setting his ABS system shuddering.
No, no.
Jake shook his head, shocked. He clung to the wheel as if it were a life raft and he a drowning man. His heart thundered. He broke a sweat under his shirt. He couldn’t believe it was possible. The revelation stunned him.
I killed a kid. Kathleen Lindstrom.
Jake didn’t recognize the name, but now it was a part of his DNA. It would echo in his head for the rest of his life. New tears brimmed in his eyes. He couldn’t fathom that she was so young. He’d thought she was petite but she was just a girl. A teenager, only sixteen years old. Her life was just beginning, and now she was gone.
God, forgive me.
Jake flashed on her face, covered with blood. She had been somebody’s daughter. She had parents, waiting for her to come home from her run. They would wait and wait, until they got the call that every parent dreads. They would never see her alive again. Their daughter, their child. His heart broke for them.
Jake felt shaken to his very foundations. Kathleen was the same age as Ryan. She was a student at the same high school. Jake realized, aghast, that Ryan probably knew her. Concord Chase High wasn’t that large, only about a thousand students.
He killed his classmate.
Jake found himself reeling, stopped at a red light. This news would kill Ryan. His son wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt; it would be unsupportable. He didn’t know how Ryan could go to school, ever again. Ryan’s classmates, and all of the faculty and staff would be mourning a girl that he knew he had killed. It would be impossible, untenable. Ryan was too sensitive a kid to get past this, ever. Jake feared for his son’s sanity, maybe even his very life.
The horn of a car behind him blared, startling Jake out of his reverie. The traffic light had turned green, and he fed the car some gas, following the Subaru mechanically. He felt sick to his stomach and fought the impulse to call Ryan, but it was too risky, with Pam at home. Then he had another, darker thought. What if the news would send Ryan to Pam, to spill his guts?
Dad, I swear, I won’t tell Mom. I won’t tell anybody.
Jake couldn’t process the information. He wanted to pull over but there wasn’t time. He felt his gorge rising, but swallowed hard. He had to stay on plan. He blinked his tears away and tried vainly to ignore the pain in his chest. He drove ahead, past clapboard Cape Cods, new brick split levels, and a Dutch Colonial with white stucco, wondering if Kathleen Lindstrom lived with her family in a house like one of these. Pike Road was only ten minutes away.
Jake gritted his teeth, trying to recover. The stretch of road he was looking for lay just ahead, a two-lane street lined with houses, trees, and a strip mall that held a Chinese restaurant, a Wawa convenience market where he always stopped for coffee on the way to work, and the auto body shop he’d used for years. He’d given plenty of free financial advice to its owner Mike Ayanna, and Mike owed him a favor, but Jake wasn’t about to depend on Mike, favor or no. The police would undoubtedly be investigating the local body shops, and Mike would be compelled to turn over his records.
Jake put on his right blinker when he spotted the Wawa sign, glowing a corporate red, and slowed as he approached its parking lot. It was the side entrance to the store, with a line of parking spaces under a white sign, NO IDLING—DIESEL POWERED VEHICLES OVER FIVE TONS. The parking spaces ended next to a bundle of cardboard recycling, a stack of flat boxes, and a green metal Dumpster. The side lot was completely empty, which is what Jake would’ve expected this early in the morning.
He turned into the parking lot and aimed at the Dumpster. He hit the gas, steering slightly to the right, knowing that the damage would obliterate the dents from last night. The Dumpster raced forward to meet him.
Jake braced himself for impact, feeling that if anything went wrong, he deserved to die.
Kathleen, I am so very sorry.
Chapter Seven
The Audi slammed into the Dumpster, and Jake jolted forward, caught by his shoulder harness. His airbag exploded, hit him in the face, and pushed him backwards. The odor of plastic and a chemical powder filled his nostrils.
Abruptly the airbag deflated, imploding in a pile on his lap and draping over the steering wheel. The engine was still running, and the windshield was cracked but intact. The hood had buckled and his right front bumper crumpled into the Dumpster. No one would ever see the dent again.
Jake realized he’d succeeded, but he still felt sick to his stomach. The collision reminded him of last night, a memory embedded in his very body. He moved the airbag from his lap, his muscles stiff from shock, not of the accident, but of the revelation.
I killed a kid and left her dead. To save my own kid.
Jake was alive, but he didn’t deserve to be.
“Jake, Jake!” someone called out, near the car. It was Christopher, a Wawa clerk, hurrying toward him. They knew each other because Jake always stopped here on the way to work. Christopher appeared at the driver’s-side window, his young face creased with concern. “Jake! Are you okay?”
Jake nodded, collected his phone and jacket, opened the door, and got out of the car, his knees suddenly wobbly. “Christopher, My God—”
“You look white as a ghost, Jake. Stay still, I’ll call 911. My phone’s in my locker, ’cause we have to lock it up during work.” Christopher turned to hurry off, but Jake touched his arm.
“No, no, stay. I’m fine.”
“For real?”
“Yes.” Jake tried to recover. “I’m just a little … upset is all. I surprised myself. It’s kind of a shock.”
“Sure, I get it. You gonna toss ’em? You look it.”
“No, I’m fine. Don’t call.”
“You sure you don’t wanna go to a hospital? My manager might want you to.” Christopher frowned, scanning him with worried eyes.
“Nah. I’m fine, thanks.”
“Coulda been worse, I guess, huh?”
“Right.” Jake dusted the airbag powder off his clothes. “I thought I hit the brake, but I must’ve hit the gas instead.”
Christopher shrugged sympathetically. “You didn’t have your coffee yet.”
“Right.” Jake walked to the front of the car, leaned on the hood, and surveyed the damage. He was thinking of Kathleen, her body broken in her running gear. It was too awful to comprehend. There was so much death and destruction, all of a sudden. He shuddered to his very bones, eyeing the car. “Damn, I really messed up, didn’t I?”
“You never kno
w. Mike next door can fix it.”
“I’ll let him take it, it’s not drivable with that windshield anyway. My wife will pick me up.” Jake slipped into his jacket, put his cell phone in his pocket, and gestured at the Dumpster, which had a large dent in its middle. “It looks like I did a number on your Dumpster, too. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, forget about it.” Christopher waved him off, but that was the wrong answer for Jake. He felt bad manipulating the kid, but it couldn’t be helped. That was why he’d damaged their property. They would be required to make a police report for liability purposes, and he needed everything to be documented, so there would be no questions later.
“No, make a report, so my insurance will pay.”
“But it’s just a trash can. Who cares?”
“The store doesn’t own the Dumpster, the hauling company does. See?” Jake gestured at the Waste Control logo on its lid. “The store will have to pay for the damage, and you shouldn’t be in that position. I’ll put in a claim, but we’ll have to call the police.”
“Let’s see what Donna says. She’s my manager.” Christopher turned toward the store just as a ponytailed employee came hustling around the corner. She was heavyset and wore wire-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of worry.
“What happened? Are you hurt, sir?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Jake had seen her before but he didn’t know her, and he could tell from her expression that she was thinking the same thing about him. “I’m Jake Buckman, I always stop in here before work. I hit the gas instead of the brake and crashed into the Dumpster.”
Beside him, Christopher nodded. “He says he doesn’t need to go to the hospital.”
“That’s lucky. The police will be here any minute, I already called them.” Donna’s forehead relaxed, and she eyed the car and Dumpster. “Any accidents on our property need to be reported. I hope you understand, sir.”
“Yes, of course, please call me Jake.”
“Jake, are you sure you weren’t injured in any way?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Okay then. I’ll have you sign some paperwork, if that’s okay. Come with me. I have the file in the office.” Donna started walking to the front of the store, and Jake and Christopher fell into step beside her.
Christopher looked over with a smile. “How about we treat you to a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks,” Jake answered, with a twinge. Donna went to the door, yanked it open, and led them inside the store.
Christopher split off. “Okay, Jake, see you later. I gotta get back to the register. Let me know what Mike says about the car.”
“Will do, Christopher. Thanks for the assist. I owe you one.” Jake followed Donna past stacks of bound newspapers, shelves of blue antifreeze jugs, and a refrigerated case of prepared salads and hard-boiled eggs. A customer in a down jacket and sweatpants stood at the lineup of bronze plastic coffee canisters, where the air smelled of hazelnut flavoring and Lysol.
“This way,” Donna called over her shoulder, leading him around the hoagie counter, down a short hallway, and into a cramped office that contained a box of paper towels, a cluttered gray desk, and a cheap black chair. A bulletin board held shift schedules, OSHA notices, and a cluster of kids’ school pictures, next to a black metal shelf with a trio of security monitors, one of which had a red Phillies cap sitting on top.
“Go Phils,” Jake said, nervous. He hadn’t counted on the security monitors, and he could see that the one in the middle overlooked the side parking lot.
“Are you a baseball fan?” Donna fetched a manila folder from a tan file cabinet against the wall.
“Who isn’t?” Jake couldn’t stop looking at the security monitor. Its resolution was remarkably good, in full color, and he could clearly see the Audi’s far side embedded in the Dumpster. He’d caught a lucky break in that the view of the camera was on the driver’s side of the car, so it wouldn’t have picked up the dent on the passenger side when he’d pulled in. Still, he wondered if Donna had seen the accident as it occurred or if there was a digital copy or videotape.
“Here we go.” Donna set a few forms in front of him. “These say that you had an accident here and that you declined to go to the hospital. Would you sign them? We have to have it for the lawyers.”
“I understand.” Jake picked up a pen and started signing the forms, preoccupied with the security camera. He gestured to the monitor. “Look at that. My God, it looks like the car is growing out of the Dumpster.”
“It kinda does, doesn’t it?” Donna eyed the screen. “I’m sorry for you. That’s a really sweet car.”
“Thanks.” Jake flipped to the next page of forms. “That monitor is good quality. Do you get a lot of detail?”
“Yes. We have it in case we get held up, but that hasn’t happened yet. Knock wood.” Donna rapped her knuckles on her head. “I tell my mom, it’s Concord Chase. The worst thing that happens here is minors trying to buy cigarettes. Still, she hates my working the night shift. She worries.”
“That’s what parents are for, to worry about their kids.” Jake cringed inwardly. He finished signing the forms and pushed them across the desk to her. “Here we go. Do you ever watch the monitor?”
“Mostly I’m busy on the floor.”
“So you didn’t see my accident?”
“No, sorry. I just heard the noise and covered the floor while Christopher ran out.”
“Of course.” Jake let it go. He didn’t want to arouse her suspicion or provoke her into playing the video. “When do you think the police will get here? I should call my wife and give her the heads-up that I’ll need a ride later.”
“They said they had a car nearby.”
Suddenly the door opened, and Christopher stuck his head inside the office. A tall, middle-aged police officer stood behind him, and Jake’s mouth went dry. Christopher said, “Donna, look who’s here, Officer John!”
“Yo, Officer John!” Donna burst into a grin, went to the door, and threw her arms around the policeman, who hugged her back.
“Hey, good to see you, girl!” he boomed, releasing her. He had a broad smile and friendly blue eyes under a black CTPD knit cap. A silver badge gleamed from his black nylon jacket, and embroidered white block letters over his right breast, which read MCMULLEN.
“You, too! When did you get back?”
“Yesterday.” Officer McMullen grinned back at Donna. “I’m back in the pink and all healed up. I have rehab for a coupla weeks, but I’m good. How have you been?”
“Fine, thanks.” Donna’s gaze shifted to Jake. “Mr. Buckman, Officer John just recovered from hip replacement. Don’t think it was anything cool like a gunshot wound.”
“Oh.” Jake managed a smile.
“Donna, I got a metal hip, I’m Robocop!” Officer McMullen shot back, and the others laughed, then the policeman faced Jake and extended a hand. “Sir, are you the gentleman who had the accident?”
“Yes. Jake Buckman.” Jake prayed his palm wasn’t sweaty and shook the officer’s hand. “Thanks for coming out.”
“It’s no bother, sir. First things first. I understand you declined medical treatment?”
“Yes, I’m fine, really. I want to do whatever needs to be done for you and for the insurance company, then my wife will come pick me up.”
“I’ll need to take a statement and I won’t keep you too long. Where do you live?”
“The Chetwynd development.”
“Sure, I know it, about fifteen minutes away. I’ll give you a lift home.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll call her, I hate to put you out.” Jake hid his alarm. The last thing he wanted was to ride home with a cop, and God forbid that Ryan saw him pull up in a police cruiser.
“It’s no trouble. I’m happy to do it.”
Donna burst into laughter. “Of course he’s happy to do it! Officer John gets lonely tooling around in his copmobile, since his partner got reassigned. He’ll talk your ear off. The siren’s the only
thing that shuts him up.”
“Ha! Very funny, Donna.” Officer McMullen laughed again, then motioned Jake forward in a way that was suddenly authoritative. “Come with me, sir. I’ll make an incident report, then I’ll give you a lift home. I insist.”
Chapter Eight
Jake followed Officer McMullen to his cruiser, a black-and-white muscle car with a massive chrome grille and a sleek modern lightbar on the roof. CHETWYND POLICE, read gold reflective letters on its jet-black door. Jake had managed not to be nervous when he’d given Officer McMullen his statement about the Dumpster accident because Donna had stayed with them, interrupting with chatter. But now that Jake was alone with the cop, he felt anxious about the ride home. He could have handled it before the news about Kathleen Lindstrom, but not now. It was as if he had too many emotions to hide.
“Mr. Buckman, there is no room for you up front. Don’t take it personally. My duty bag takes up the whole damn passenger seat. See?” Officer McMullen motioned to the front seat of the cruiser, where a gray nylon messenger bag filled the passenger seat next to a laptop mounted over the console, tilted toward the driver’s seat. A large black AK-47 was mounted upright between the two front seats, its butt down and its lethal muzzle facing up.
“I see,” Jake said, trying to get his act together.
“There’s not much room in this car, that’s the problem. We got these new Dodge Chargers with a hemi. We love ’em because they’re so fast. But they’re not that comfortable and the seats are small. Sometimes I miss the old Crown Vics.” Officer McMullen opened the back door. “Here you go, sir.”