“Shit. Shit.” Hoping the car doesn’t roll again, I look around, try to get my bearings. The windshield is a shattered slab of ice crystals. A green canopy overhead. Through the passenger-side window beneath me, I see leaves and grass and dirt.
The top half of my body has come out of the shoulder harness. The seat belt burrows uncomfortably into my pelvis. I’m so shaken, it takes me several seconds to process what happened. I hang suspended, try to settle. My hands shake violently when I set them on the wheel. The smell of something burning tells me I don’t have time to waste.
Holding the wheel with my left hand, I use my right to unbuckle the harness. Gravity slams me to the passenger-side door. I land on my knees. Bracing against the interior roof, I use my right foot to punch out what’s left of the windshield, and I slip through.
I’m on a steep incline, branches tangling in my hair and clutching at my clothes. I look up the hill, realize my vehicle rolled about thirty feet, crushing dozens of saplings, landing against a tree on the passenger side. The hood is unlatched. A thin veil of smoke wafts out. I smell burning oil and radiator fluid.
I look around for my cell, go back to the car, peel back the windshield, and spot it on the ground. Reaching through, I snatch it up and get out. My hand is shaking so violently, I can barely punch in 911.
“Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department,” comes a female voice on the other end.
“I’ve been in a vehicle accident.” Even as I say the words, it occurs to me that this was no accident. Someone ran me off the road. I look up the hill, but there’s no one there. I look down the hill, assess its pitch, and I realize that if it hadn’t been for one tree, the car would have continued rolling for another thirty or forty yards, picking up speed, ejecting or crushing me on its way down.
* * *
By the time the sheriff’s department cruiser and rescue truck for the Belleville Fire Company arrive on scene, I’ve climbed up the hill and I’m standing on the shoulder of the road. I’m still shaking when the paramedic takes me to the rear of the rescue truck, sits me down on a pull-out bumper, and performs a cursory physical assessment. He’s blinding me with a pen-size flashlight when a Mifflin County deputy sheriff saunters over.
“You’re kind of popular around here, Chief Burkholder,” he says.
He’s a middle-aged guy with a wrestler’s physique, a too-tight belt, and trousers creased with ruler perfection. I don’t recall his name, but remember seeing him at the Bowman house the day the search warrant for the water well was executed.
“Tough on vehicles, too, evidently.” He walks over to the road’s white line and looks down the hill. “Rental car folks aren’t going to be too happy with you.”
I wince when the paramedic prods my knee. I look down to see that my jeans are ripped and blood has soaked through.
The deputy walks over to me and I’m able to read his name tag. Deputy Trombley. “You in a hurry today? Take one of those curves a little too fast?”
“No, but I suspect the guy who hit me did,” I tell him.
His expression falls. “There was another vehicle involved?”
“A pickup truck.” I motion toward the pullover from which the truck emerged. “Rammed my vehicle on the passenger side and proceeded to push me off the road.”
The paramedic raises his gaze to the cop, looking concerned.
“Did you get a look at the vehicle?” Trombley slips a notebook from his pocket. “Make? Model? Color?”
Annoyed with myself for not noticing the things I’ve been trained to notice, I shake my head. “Dark. Blue or black.” In the back of my mind, I recall the pickup truck I’d seen at Roman Miller’s place and add, “I caught a glimpse of the grille when he came at me.”
Tilting his head, the deputy speaks into his lapel mike. “Ten-fifty-seven,” he says, using the ten code for hit-and-run. He crosses to the gravel pullover, pulls out his cell phone, and snaps a few shots of the skid marks on the asphalt.
The paramedic rises. “You’re kind of banged up, Chief Burkholder. What do you say we get you down to Geisinger Hospital over in Lewistown?” he says. “Get that knee checked out. Make sure you’re not concussed.”
“I’m okay.” To prove my point, I get to my feet. “I’ll stop by the hospital later.”
He glances over his shoulder at the deputy and lowers his voice. “If you don’t ride with me, you’ll likely have to ride with that guy.”
It’s not that funny, but I laugh. “I’ll take my chances, but thanks.”
He snaps his equipment bag closed and gets to his feet. “You be sure and ice the knee tonight. Tylenol for pain. Get yourself checked out as soon as you can.”
As the rescue truck pulls away, I approach the deputy, who’s walking along the shoulder near the pullover, snapping pics with his cell, looking down at the gravel. “There was definitely someone here.” He motions to the place where the tires dug into the gravel. “Looks like he tore out pretty quick.”
“He shot out fast. Came at me from the side.” I look at the place on the road where the truck struck my vehicle, notice the two-foot-long skid mark. “I didn’t see him until I was right in front of him.”
“We get some drinking and driving up in these hills,” the deputy drawls. “Workers on their lunch hour. Stop to have a beer.”
“I don’t believe that’s what happened,” I tell him.
He stops what he’s doing and throws me a puzzled look. “You want to explain that?”
“This was deliberate,” I tell him.
He chokes out a sound that’s part laugh, part incredulity, but sobers quickly. “To what end?”
“I’ve been looking into the Ananias Stoltzfus case,” I tell him. “After the incident at the Kish Valley Motel, I’d say this individual doesn’t want me asking questions.”
“Look, I’m not discounting what you’re telling me, but I don’t think we have any proof of that.”
I look down at the skid mark. “I guess that depends on your perspective.”
Frowning, he slants his head and speaks into his shoulder mike. “Ten-fifty-one,” he says, requesting a tow truck.
* * *
It takes the rest of the morning to get the rental car uprighted and winched out. Sure enough, there’s substantial damage where the truck’s bumper or brush guard plowed into the passenger-side door. As the deputy and I worked to re-create what happened, he warmed to the notion that someone ran me off the road. When we finished and the car was towed, he offered to drive me to Lewistown and I accepted. I called the repair shop where the Explorer was and the manager assured me it would be ready in a couple of hours. It’s a good thing, because I’m pretty sure the car rental agency wouldn’t be thrilled to rent another vehicle to me.
It’s almost four o’clock by the time the Explorer is ready. I’ve just pulled onto the street when a call comes in from Minnesota.
“Chief, this is Deputy Leonard with the Fillmore County Sheriff’s Office.”
It’s the female deputy I talked to yesterday. I feel a quick jump of hope in my chest; I’d all but given up on any information coming from the Amish community in Harmony.