I roll it back to when the SUV comes into view. “Tell them to watch from there,” I say. “Thank you. You’re doing a real good thing, sir. Guard this with your life. It’s important.”
He nods. He seems unsure and pale, but steady enough.
I call the TBI on my way out of the truck stop and tell them what I’ve found. The agent who takes my call sounds impatient at first, then intrigued, then downright eager.
I make sure the manager collects the trash, and then I head over to the car. Boot’s fallen asleep in the back, but he wakes as soon as I open the door. “Hey, boy,” I tell him, and he licks my face. “Stop that. We’re fine. It’s fine.”
I’m putting the car in drive when I see it.
A pristine black SUV. Dirty plates. It’s idling at the edge of the parking lot.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “Can’t be.” I seriously have to think about my sanity for a second, because I have to be seeing things. Or it has to be a completely different vehicle. SUVs out here are a dime a hundred, never mind a dozen. Odds ninety to one that it’s some suburban family headed out on vacation, and not . . . not what I think.
I roll the sedan slowly toward the SUV.
It backs up and speeds away.
“Goddamn.”
I hit the gas, fumbling for my phone as I take the curve and accelerate. He’s already hitting the on-ramp to the freeway. Hell of an engine in that thing, and my detective’s sedan isn’t built for high-speed pursuit. I voice-dial TBI again. I tell the agent I’m in pursuit of a black SUV suspected in the Lansdowne case. I try to catch up to get part of the plate, but he slips away before I can make it out; he’s put some kind of blurring filter over it. Illegal, but few probably even notice under the mud.
There’s enough traffic on the road that I have to concentrate hard on the driving; I flip on the bumper flashers and hit the siren for good measure, and most people give way. A semitruck blocks my view of the SUV for a few critical seconds, and when I blast past it, I see the vehicle just ahead, already on an off-ramp. No way I can slow and make that turn. I yell the exit number into the phone and put my foot to the floor, heading for the next exit a mile away. I make a U-turn, and head back as fast as my car will go.
He’s picked the wrong damn off-ramp, I think. A fierce hunter’s instinct hammers my heart faster. I know this area; nothing out here but roads and fields and trees, and no real turnoffs to speak of for miles. The road goes two ways from the freeway—north and south. I turn north because I see fresh black tire marks that direction; he left rubber. The road takes me into trees fast, and I tell the TBI agent what road I’m on when the sign flashes past, a barely readable blur. I can’t see the SUV. The road’s empty, but it turns sharply just up ahead. I can’t let him slip me.
I’m in the middle of the sharp curve when shit goes wrong. I don’t see the spike strip, but I feel it when I hit it, when the car lurches and the wheel whips hard in my hands, hard enough to burn, and the world spins, glass cracking, metal crunching. Boot yelping.
I manage to keep us from turning over, but the sedan spins off the road and hits a tree in the left quarter panel with the force of a pile driver. Airbags flash, and I snort blood and taste acrid powder.
I’m trying to blink back stars and get it together. Boot is barking, a raw and constant sound of alarm, and I hear his claws tearing at upholstery as he tries to reach me. I drag in a shockingly painful breath—something stabbing deep, probably a rib—and I manage to say, “Hey, boy, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.” In the next second, I panic. My baby. No no no, not like this, no . . . I’m shaking. Gasping. Horrified and scared to death, not for me but for the child I’ve barely begun to meet. Oh God, God no.
Boot tries to stick his head between the seats—the gap is narrow, the frame’s bent—and frantically licks the only part of me he can reach. My hand. I look down and see the blood drops on it shimmering like rubies. Can feel the bloody nose now, aching like a day-long sunburn. I caught a good one from the airbags, but they kept me—us—from getting slammed around too badly. Maybe I’m okay. Maybe the baby’s fine.
I don’t think I’m okay. I need help.
The windshield is an opaque mess of cracks. Can’t see a thing. Somehow, the car landed on its tires, but it’s tilting badly to the right.
I fumble around for my phone, then remember I slotted it into the cradle on the dash. The whole cradle’s gone. I try to bend across to grab it when I spot it wedged half-under the passenger seat, and have to pause and gasp against the pain, and once again, terror jolts through me. Stay with me, baby. Stay with me. My fingers graze plastic, and I manage to hook the cradle and get it onto the seat. My phone’s screen is cracked, but it lights up when I tap it. Thank you, Lord. I dial 911.
My head is hurting, and when I reach up to touch the left side, I find blood. That explains some of the mist that keeps fogging up my brain. I grab the phone and push my door open—it’s cranky, but not jammed—and fresh, cool air floods over me and helps me focus. I experiment with standing up, one hand gripping the frame of the door. It hurts, but I manage. I look through the back window. Boot seems all right—he’s barking and whining and scratching at the door. “Just a minute,” I whisper to him. “Hang on.” I don’t know if I’m really talking to him, or myself, or the baby. Maybe all of us.
That’s when I see the black SUV.
It’s idling near the next curve, maybe a quarter mile out. Just sitting there. I try to get a picture of it, but it’s already in motion when I snap the shutter; I don’t know if I got anything useful. Dammit. I’m suddenly shaking with fury, and for a half a second I even think about chasing it down on goddamn foot, but then sense comes back. Fear. The baby, helpless and dependent on me not being stupid. I just cling to the door and try to stay upright. I’m tired. So tired.
I’ve forgotten that I dialed the phone, so it’s a little surprise to hear a scratchy voice coming from somewhere near my right hand. I lift it, stare at the active call in confusion, then lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“This is the 911 operator. What is your emergency?” She sounds cool and calm as the fresh air. I scramble to get my thoughts together.
“This is Detective Kezia Claremont,” I say. At least I remember my damn name. “I’ve been in a serious accident.” I sound pretty good, I think. Until suddenly my knees give way without any warning, and thank God I have hold of that door, because it slows my fall into more of a kneel. It hurts. Everything hurts. “I need help. I’m pregnant. Please send somebody. Leaving phone on.” That’s all I can manage to say. I put my arms on the driver’s seat, rest my head on them, and slide away into the dark with only Boot’s frantic whines for company, and the voice of the 911 operator as distant as the stars as they whirl me away.
15
GWEN
I’m boiling with frustration on the ride home, and the letter from MalusNavis burns in my pocket like an ember. I call Kez but get her voice mail, and I leave her a message to call me. I find myself reading the letter again. You have a chance to save the lives of the people you love, but that’s going to be your choice, not mine.