Читать книгу Speed Trap - Patricia Davids - Страница 8

The black skid marks on the highway ended abruptly at a shattered guardrail. There was only empty space beyond.

Sheriff Mandy Scott maneuvered her white SUV to a stop before the break and mentally prepared herself for what lay over the edge.

It wouldn’t be good.

Someone had found one of the worst spots in Morrison County to run his or her car off the road.

Mandy silenced her siren but left the light bar flashing. Grasping the radio mic, she reported in. “Dispatch, I’m on the scene.”

Donna Clareborn, the county dispatcher, replied, “Copy that, Sheriff. Was Mr. Tobin right? Is there a fatality?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The accident had been called in by an elderly local rancher. Mandy saw his green pickup truck sitting a dozen yards down the highway, but Emmett was nowhere in sight.

“Fire rescue and EMS are on the way.” A slight quiver in Donna’s normally professional voice revealed her apprehension.

Mandy felt the same way. In a small community like Timber Wells, the victim could easily be someone they knew.

Grabbing her first-aid kit and fire extinguisher, Mandy left her vehicle. The early morning wind greeted her with the fresh scent of prairie grass and spring wildflowers before the stench of burning oil overpowered it. Mandy looked over the broken railing into the ravine.

Thirty feet below, a crumpled red car rested upside down in the dry creek bed. Spirals of gray smoke rose from the mangled front end.

Emmett Tobin sat in the grass a few feet from the vehicle. His gray head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He held his sweat-stained Stetson between his hands.

Mandy sucked in a steadying breath, then made her way down the steep rocky slope.

Emmett looked up at her approach. “She’s gone, Sheriff. There weren’t nothing I could do.”

Mandy laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You stayed with her, Emmett. That’s something. I’ll take it from here.”

She didn’t doubt his findings, but she had to check for herself. Leaving him, she approached the car. The air near the vehicle reeked of gasoline, burned rubber and hot oil. She cast a worried glance at the smoke curling out of the engine block.

Moving around the car, Mandy found the driver’s side door had been flung open. A woman with short blond hair lay sprawled on her back beside it. She wore jeans and a bloodstained yellow shirt.

Kneeling beside the body, Mandy checked for a pulse and found none.

“Sheriff, you’d better get away from that car,” Emmett called out sharply.

Mandy glanced up to see the smoke from the engine had become a thick black column with flames flickering at the base. It was then she heard a whimper—a tiny cry almost lost in the wind.

Was there someone still inside?

Mandy aimed her extinguisher at the burning engine. “Emmett, I need your help!”

Hurrying to her side, Emmett accepted the red canister Mandy thrust at him. Leaving him to deal with the flames, she knelt and peered inside the crushed vehicle. All she saw was a wadded-up blanket behind the passenger’s seat, but she heard another muffled cry.

The driver’s body was blocking Mandy’s way. Slipping her hands under the woman’s arms, Mandy dragged the body a few feet away. She could hear sirens now. The fire truck was almost here.

Emmett continued aiming bursts of CO2 at the engine. The flames leaped higher. One extinguisher wouldn’t be enough. The whole car could go up any second.

Breathing a quick prayer, Mandy ducked inside and began wiggling across the ceiling of the upside-down vehicle.

“Sheriff, what are you doing?” Emmett yelled. “I looked in. I didn’t see nobody else.”

“I hear crying. It sounds like a baby.”

Broken glass covered everything. It bit into Mandy’s elbows and stomach as she crawled. She could feel the heat of the fire. Smoke stung her eyes and scorched her lungs with each breath she was forced to take.

Behind the passenger’s seat, she pushed aside a patchwork quilt and discovered a baby buckled into a car seat that had come loose. The child whimpered pitifully.

“You need to get out of there,” Emmett shouted.

Barely able to move in the tight space, Mandy worked frantically to unbuckle the remaining straps holding the child in the seat. Fear made her fingers clumsy.

Don’t think about the fire. Get this child out.

The hiss and pop of the flames grew louder. The metal in the roof supports groaned as the weight of the car compressed them. If they crumpled a few more inches she would be trapped.

Tugging again at the fastener, she wished she had a knife, anything to cut the nylon straps.

God, please let me save this child.

Finally, the reluctant buckle clicked open. As Mandy pulled the baby loose, he cried out in pain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, swaddling the blanket over him to protect him from the smoke. Cradling him close, she began to wiggle backward.

The heat of the engine fire singed her face and neck. She knew the smell of scorched cotton was coming from her uniform. With a loud metallic snap, the car settled lower.

The baby stopped crying, but she didn’t dare unwrap him to see if he was okay. They were almost out of time.

“Please, God, only a little bit more.”

She had her legs out when suddenly she felt hands grabbing her boots. An instant later, someone was pulling her free.

Emmett, having abandoned the empty extinguisher, helped her to her feet. They both turned and ran. With a deafening boom, the gas tank exploded and the flames engulfed the vehicle.

When they reached a safe distance, Mandy sank to her knees in the grass and stared at the blazing car.

“That was a near thing,” Emmett wheezed beside her, bracing his hands on his knees.

“Much too close.”

She looked down at the child she held and uncovered his face. To her relief he was still breathing. She sent a silent prayer of thanks.

The county fire department truck had arrived on the highway above followed by an ambulance and her undersheriff, Fred Lindholm. The fire crew quickly sprayed a thick layer of white foam over the burning vehicle. After a few tense minutes, the flames were beaten down.

Mandy sat rocking the baby while the EMS crew checked the driver. The men exchanged pointed looks and gave a brief shake of their heads.

Looking down at the child she held, Mandy’s heart went out to him. Poor little baby. Was the woman his mother? Where was his father? Did he have anyone in the world to care for him?

Dressed in a blue-and-white sleeper, he looked to be a little boy maybe four or five months old. She combed her fingers through the silky fine blond curls on his head. “I wish I could have saved her, too.”

Fred, a burly man in his late fifties, arrived at her side huffing with exertion. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you crawling out of that burning car. Talk about a stupid stunt!”

Fred rarely missed a chance to criticize her, but she was too emotionally spent to defend her actions.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, his tone softening slightly.

Glancing down, she saw blood on her sleeves. “I must have cut myself on the glass.”

One of the EMS crew came to check the baby. Mandy bit her lower lip, reluctant to give him up. Holding the child kept her hands from shaking.

It was hard not to think about how easily they both could have died.

At the paramedic’s gentle coaxing, she gave the child over, but noticed how empty her arms felt without his weight. She clasped her hands around her knees to disguise their trembling.

After rolling up Mandy’s sleeves, a second paramedic cleaned her cuts, wound a roll of gauze around both her elbows and secured them with tape. She listened to his instructions on keeping the wounds clean and dry without comment. When he was done, Mandy rose to her feet, happy to find her legs were steady enough to stand.

She needed to get to work. There was an accident to investigate, reports to file, next of kin to be notified. Keeping busy was the best way to keep her mind off her close call.

Turning to her undersheriff, she said, “Get started with the scene, Fred. I want to know how fast she was going when she hit that railing. I’m going to take Emmett’s statement.”

She climbed the rocky slope to where the rancher was sitting in his pickup. When she reached him, she offered her hand. “Thanks for all your help, Emmett. I need to ask you a few questions for my accident report, but it shouldn’t take long. Then you’ll be free to go.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Sheriff.”

That got her full attention. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to a hilltop off to the west of the road. “I was in the pasture, putting out protein blocks for my cows. I heard a crash, and when I looked this way, I saw a dark pickup flying down the road beside that car. Plain as day, he hit her again, and that was when she went off the road.”

“You’re saying it was deliberate? Did you get a license plate number?”

“They were too far away. The truck stopped and a fella got out. He walked back and looked down at her, then he ran to his truck and took off.”

Mandy pulled a gray notebook from her hip pocket and flipped it open. “You said a dark pickup. Was it black, blue? What model? Ford, Chevy?”

“My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. It wasn’t light enough for me to see the color clear. I think it was a black Ford, but I can’t be sure.”

“Can you describe the man you saw?”

“He was a white guy. Tallish. He had on a dark cowboy hat.”

Tallish with a cowboy hat. Emmett had just described two-thirds of the men in her county. Cowboys were as common as fleas at a dog park here in the Kansas Flint Hills where ranching was the main occupation. And ninety-nine percent of the men drove pickups.

“Which way did he go?”

“Toward town.”

Fred drew her attention with a shout. He held up a black purse. Mandy excused herself and walked over to her officer.

Fred handed her the pocketbook. “This must have been thrown out of the car. The vehicle has Sedgwick County plates. I’m having Donna run them now.”

Inside the cheap vinyl handbag, Mandy found a few cosmetics, a tan wallet and a date book. Opening the wallet, she located a driver’s license. The photo matched the dead driver. Her name was Judy Bowen, age twenty-five.

Only two years younger than I am.

The license listed a Wichita address. Mandy hoped it was a current one. It would make it easier to notify next of kin.

Also in the wallet were two pictures of the baby. Mandy turned one over. Colin, four weeks old, was written on the back. She glanced toward the ambulance. So his name was Colin. It was a good strong name.

Other than thirty-three dollars and some change, there was nothing else of interest in the wallet. Mandy pulled out the date book, opening it to today’s date.

A notation said, Meet Garrett at the ranch.

Mandy had lived in Timber Wells for the past eight months, but Fred had lived here all his life and he’d worked for the previous sheriff. She held out the book. “It appears the driver was Judy Bowen. Does the name Garrett ring a bell?”

Fred’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure. Garrett Bowen lives about ten miles on the other side of town. She’s his ex-wife. She left him about a year ago.”

An interesting bit of information. “Did you know her?”

“I picked her up for possession of meth right after she moved out of his place. She pleaded out for community service, never did any time. She left town after that. I never heard anything more about her.”

“What about the ex-husband?”

“I seem to recall they were both busted on drug charges down in Oklahoma a few years ago. I’d have to look it up. He hasn’t stepped out of line in this county—that I know of—but I never did trust him.”

“Why?”

“He’s got a funny way of looking at you. Like he’s looking through you. It ain’t right.”

“Emmett says the car was deliberately run off the road.”

Fred handed back the book. “According to those skid marks she was heading away from his ranch not toward it. Maybe her visit with her ex didn’t go so well.”

“I’m thinking the same thing. What else do you know about him?”

“Not much. He lives by himself. I see his truck and trailer going through town at least once a week.”

“He doesn’t happen to drive a dark-colored Ford, does he?”

Fred nodded. “Come to think of it, he does.

Mandy watched as the coroner’s hearse pulled up behind the squad cars. “Fred, notify the Highway Patrol. I’d like them to process the car.”

“You think I can’t do it? I’ve been working accidents since before you were born.”

Rather than take offense, she chose to mollify him. “That’s why I want you to stay and see that it gets done right. You know as well as I do we’ll get the crime scene reports back faster if we let the KHP assist us on this.”

“And what are you gonna to be doing?”

“I’m going to get cleaned up, then I’m going to pay Mr. Bowen a visit. He wouldn’t be the first ex-husband to settle a marital score with murder.”

Mandy knew that all to well.

Garrett pulled a bent nail from the pouch at his waist and laid it on top of the wooden fence post. With careful taps of his hammer, he straightened it. Using his elbow to brace the next board against the post, he hit the nail, hoping it wouldn’t bend. It went in straight and sure.

“See that, Wiley? All it takes is finesse.” He glanced at the shaggy black-and-white mutt sitting near his feet. Wiley cocked his head to one side and wagged his crooked tail.

Garrett straightened another rusty nail, but it bent like a wet noodle when he tried to hammer it in. He tossed it into a nearby bucket of similar failures. The dog dashed over to nose the contents.

“Laugh at me, Wiley, and you’ll go to bed without supper.”

The dog leaped to his hind legs and pawed the air as he turned in an excited circle and yipped. The words breakfast, lunch or supper all brought about the same reaction. Wiley had a thing about food.

“Just kidding, buddy.” Having suffered that punishment more times than he could count as a boy, Garrett would never inflict it on Wiley. He and the little stray had a lot in common. They both knew what it was to be beaten, hungry and abandoned.

“I may not have enough money for new lumber, but I reckon I can afford kibble.”

Garrett stared at his half-finished corral. For now, he had to make do with used boards and nails salvaged from an old shed, but with a little luck and hard work, next year would be different. His herd of Angus cows might be small, but they were producing some fine calves this spring and prices were good.

Careful saving and the extra money he’d started earning as a cattle buyer would let him add to his herd in the coming months, but there wouldn’t be cash left over to fix up the place.

He didn’t mind waiting.

Pushing his hat back, he paused to lean both arms on the post and survey the green rolling grassland sweeping toward the horizon. Someday, these hills would hold hundreds of fat black cows with calves at their sides, all wearing his brand.

It was the one dream he held on to.

The month before Garrett turned eighteen, his alcoholic father died of a stroke. Garrett had inherited a nearly worthless house, two hundred and fifty acres of pasture and a mountain of debt. He’d had nowhere to go and no reason to stay—except that he loved the land.

Nothing about the prairie was closed up or shut in.

He loved the wide sweep of the horizon and the way the wind sent ripples dancing through the long grass. He loved the smell of newly mown hay and the sight of cattle knee-deep in the emerald green pastures. He loved the freedom the wide sky offered. The land asked for nothing, promised nothing. It just was.

After ten years of scrimping and saving he’d been able to buy back most of the land his father had sold off. He owned almost a thousand acres now. With the right stock, Garrett knew he could build up a breeding program to be proud of. He had a good start, but there was still a lot to be done.

It was a dream Garrett hoarded carefully. Too many of his dreams had been squashed by people he’d trusted. Like his father and his mother. Like Judy.

It’s better not to wish for too much. Better not to trust at all.

Garrett pushed away from the post. Self-pity wouldn’t finish his fence. He glanced at the sun nearly straight overhead. Judy should have been here by now.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her impending visit. Why was she so adamant about seeing him? Why now?

Still pondering the question, Garrett walked to his truck. Pulling a board from the bed, he eyed it to make sure it was straight. Wiley barked twice, then raced off down the gravel lane.

In the distance, Garrett recognized the sheriff’s white SUV approaching. A feeling of unease settled like a rock in his stomach. Pulling a red kerchief from his hip pocket, he wiped the sweat from his face, then settled his hat low on his head and waited until the vehicle rolled to a stop a few yards from him.

There was no mistaking the woman behind the wheel. Miss Mandy Scott—big-city cop turned small-town sheriff—slowly opened the truck door. Garrett fought to quell the churning in his gut as old memories rose to the surface.

His mother had called the police a few times, but their visits had only made matters worse. When the cops were gone, his father made her pay dearly for her audacity. Garrett had been too young and too frightened to help her.

His mother took her husband’s abuse as long as she could. Then one day, she just left.

The slamming of the truck door yanked Garrett back to the present. He waited as Sheriff Scott approached.

She wasn’t tall, maybe five foot five or six, but the way she carried herself made her seem taller—as if she were looking down on him instead of up at a man who had a good six inches on her. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line.

Everything about her from the mannish cut of her blue uniform to the shine on her black boots seemed to shout that she was a woman in charge.

She would be pretty if she smiled. Not that she was homely—just intense.

“Afternoon, Mr. Bowen.” Her tone was all business. Pulling off her sunglasses, she let her gaze sweep over him. He forced himself to remain still, but his gaze slid to the house.

Shame clawed at his gut. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

Mandy wanted the man to take off his hat. He was a person of interest in his ex-wife’s murder. She wanted to see his eyes. The bright noon sun and the wide brim of his battered Stetson made it impossible.

“Afternoon, Sheriff.” He kept his hands at his sides.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Keeping one eye on him, she moved toward his truck.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I see you’re getting a new corral in.” She glanced at the rag-tag assortment of boards in his truck. She could see where he’d pulled down one of his outbuildings. Several more looked ready to fall down, yet his barn was in good repair.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He wasn’t much of a talker. Now that she had a face to put with his name, she remembered seeing him in town a few times. A tall, lean man with midnight-black hair and dark eyes, he was attractive in a quiet sort of way.

He wore standard ranching attire. A dark brown Stetson that had seen better days, faded jeans over scuffed cowboy boots and a blue, western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The taut muscles in his tan forearms and the sweat stains on his clothes told her he wasn’t afraid of hard work.

His record had been clean since his out-of-state arrest for marijuana three years ago, but that didn’t prove he was innocent. It might only prove that he’d gotten smarter.

He stood silently before her. The thing that struck her most was how still he was. Almost at military attention, he waited as she crossed the graveled yard toward his vehicle. The crunch of her boots on the crushed rock was the only sound except for the panting of the little dog that scampered at her feet.

She wished the man would take off his hat.

Strolling to the front of his truck, she noticed a number of deep dents and scratches. “You’ve got some damage up here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited in vain for him to explain. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle. Finally, she nodded toward the hood. “Care to tell me how this happened?”

“It’s an old truck. It gets used hard.”

Wow, two whole sentences. He’s really loosening up.

Stepping back, she cocked her head to one side. “This midnight blue looks almost black, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t say “Yes, ma’am” this time. He said, “Is there something I can do for you?”

His tone was clipped, lacking any emotion. His stillness bothered her. Was he hiding something?

Garrett wasn’t used to company—especially not the company of a pretty woman who happened to be a cop. She’d come for a reason. He wished she’d get to the point.

She gazed at him without flinching. “Do you know a woman named Judy Bowen?”

His unease flared like a grass fire. “Yes.”

“How well do you know her?” Her question sounded nonchalant, but it wasn’t.

“What’s this about, Sheriff?”

“I asked how well do you know her?”

Something was wrong, but he sensed he wouldn’t get answers from Sheriff Scott until she was ready to give them.

He forced his tense muscles to relax. “She’s my ex-wife, but I figure you already know that.”

Only the slightest lift of her eyebrows acknowledged his assumption. “When did you see her last?”

He clamped his teeth together. He didn’t like sharing details of his personal life. “Judy split about a year ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

“I heard she was here today. What time did she leave?”

How did the sheriff know Judy was coming to visit? “She hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Care to tell me why she was here?”

“I told you, I haven’t seen her yet.” He kept his face carefully blank. He’d learned as a child not to show fear or anger or anything that would trigger his father’s rage. Still, it was hard to hold back his growing concern.

“Is that so?” She clearly didn’t believe him. Her eyes locked with his, seeking something. Weakness?

Never let ’em see you’re scared. He could hear his mother’s cautiously whispered advice.

Garrett raised his chin a notch. “I’m not answering your questions until you tell me why you’re asking. What’s wrong?”

Mandy’s eyes widened. “Why would something be wrong?”

“Because you’re out here, grilling me.”

She folded her arms and leaned back slightly. “Your ex-wife is dead. What do you know about that?”