Barely able to breathe, I ran to the front of the car. I didn't see any damage: The car was, as I said, an older model, one structured to withstand more impact than the cars of today. But I didn't see the body. I had a sudden premonition that I'd run over her, that I'd find her body wedged beneath the car, and as the horrible vision passed in front of my eyes, I felt my stomach muscles constrict. Now, I'll tell you that I'm not the kind of person who is easily rattled--people often comment on my self-control--but I confess that at that moment I put my hands on my knees and nearly vomited. As the feeling finally subsided, I forced myself to look beneath the car. I didn't see anything.
I ran from side to side, looking for her. I didn't see her, not right away, and I had a strange sense that maybe I'd been mistaken, that it must have been my imagination.
I started to jog then, checking one side of the road and then the other, hoping against hope that somehow I'd simply grazed her, that maybe she'd merely been knocked unconscious. I looked behind the car and still didn't find her, and I knew then where she had to be.
As my stomach started doing flip-flops again, my eyes scanned the area in front of the car. My headlights were still on. I took a few hesitant steps forward, and it was then that I spotted her in the ditch, about twenty yards away.
I debated whether I should run to the nearest house and call an ambulance or whether I should go to her. At the time, the latter seemed like the right thing to do, and as I approached, I found myself moving more and more slowly, as if slowing down would make the outcome less certain.
Her body, I noticed right off, was lying at an unnatural angle. One leg looked bent somehow, sort of crossed over the other at the thigh, the knee twisted at an impossible angle and the foot facing the wrong way. One arm was sandwiched beneath her torso, the other above her head. She was on her back.
Her eyes were open.
I remember that it didn't strike me that she was dead, at least in that first instant. But it didn't take more than a couple of seconds to realize that there was something about the glaze in her eyes that wasn't right. They didn't seem real--they were almost a caricature of the way eyes look, like the eyes of a mannequin in a department store window. But as I stared, I think it was their utter stillness that really drove the point home. In all the time I stood above her, she didn't blink at all.
It was then that I noticed the blood pooling beneath her head, and everything sort of hit at once--her eyes, the position of her body, the blood . . .
And for the first time, I knew with certainty that she was dead.
I think I collapsed then. I can't remember making the conscious decision to get close to her, but that's exactly where I found myself a moment later. I put my ear to her chest, I put my ear to her mouth, I checked for a pulse. I checked for any movement at all, any flicker of life, anything to prod me to further action.
There was nothing.
Later, the autopsy would show--and the newspapers would report--that she died instantly. I say this so that you'll know I'm telling the truth. Missy Ryan had no chance at all, no matter what I might have done later.
I don't know how long I stayed beside her, but it couldn't have been long. I do remember staggering back to my car and opening my trunk; I do remember finding the blanket and covering her body. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. Charlie suspected that I'd been trying to say that I was sorry, and looking back, I think that was part of it. But the other part was that I simply didn't want anyone to see her the way that I had. So I covered her up, as if covering my own sin.
My memories after that are hazy. The next thing I remember was that I was in my car, heading for home. I really can't explain it, other than that I wasn't thinking clearly. Had the same thing happened now, had I known the things I do now, I wouldn't have done that. I would have run to the nearest house and called the police. For some reason, that night, I didn't.
I don't think, however, that I was trying to hide what I had done. Not then, anyway. In looking back and trying to understand it now, I think I started driving home because that was where I needed to be. Like a moth drawn to a porch light, I didn't seem to have a choice. I simply reacted to a situation.
Nor did I do the right thing when I got home. All I can remember about that is that I'd never felt more exhausted in my life, and instead of making the call, I simply crawled into bed and went to sleep.
The next thing I knew, it was morning.
There is something terrible in the moments after waking up, when the subconscious knows that something terrible has happened but before all the memories flash back in their entirety. That's what I experienced as soon as my eyes fluttered open. It was as if I couldn't breathe, as if all the air had been forced out of me somehow, but as soon as I inhaled, it all came surging back.
The drive.
The impact.
The way Missy had looked when I found her.
I brought my hands to my face, not wanting to believe it. I remember that my heart started beating hard in my chest, and I prayed fervently that it had simply been a dream. I'd had dreams like that before, ones that seemed so real that it took a few moments of serious reflection before I realized my error. This time, the reality never went away. Instead, it grew steadily worse, and I felt myself sink inward, as if drowning in my own private ocean.
A few minutes later, I was reading the article in the newspaper.
And this was when my real crime occurred.
I saw the photos, I read what had happened. I saw the quotes from the police, vowing to find whoever had done this, no matter how long it took. And with that came the horrible realization that what had happened--this terrible, terrible accident--wasn't regarded as an accident. Somehow, it was regarded as a crime.
Hit-and-run, the article said. A felony.
I saw the phone sitting on the counter, as if beckoning to me.
I had run.
In their minds, I was guilty, no matter what the circumstances were.
I'll say again that despite what I had done the night before, what happened then wasn't a crime, no matter what the article said. I wasn't making a conscious decision to flee that night. I wasn't thinking clearly enough for that.
No, my crime hadn't occurred the night before.
My crime occurred in the kitchen, when I looked at the phone and didn't make the call.
Though the article had rattled me, I was thinking clearly then. I'm not making excuses for that, since there are none. I weighed my fears against what I knew was right, and my fears won out in the end.
I was terrified of going to jail for what I knew in my heart was an accident, and I began to make excuses. I think I told myself that I would call later; I didn't. I told myself that I would wait a couple of days until things settled down, then call; I didn't. Then I decided to wait until after the funeral.
And by then, I knew it was too late.
Chapter 19
In the car a few minutes later, the sirens blaring and lights flashing, Miles fishtailed around a corner, almost losing control of the car, and pressed the accelerator to the floor again.
He'd dragged Sims out of the cell and up the stairs, leading him quickly through the office without stopping to acknowledge the stares. Charlie was in his office on the phone, and the sight of Miles--his face white--made him hang up, but not soon enough to stop Miles from reaching the door with Sims. They went out at the same time, and by the time Charlie reached the sidewalk, Miles and Sims were heading in opposite directions. Charlie made an instant decision to go after Miles, and he called after him to stop. Miles ignored him and reached the squad car.
Charlie picked up his pace, reaching Miles's car just as it was pulling out on the street. He tapped the window even as the car was still moving.
"What's going on?" Charlie demanded.
Miles waved him out of the way, and Charlie froze with a look of confusion and disbelief. Instead of rolling down the window, Miles flicked on the siren, hit the gas, and tore out of the park
ing lot, his tires squealing as he turned onto the street.
A minute later, when Charlie called on the radio, demanding that Miles let him know what had happened, Miles didn't bother to respond.
From the sheriff's department, it normally took less than fifteen minutes to reach the Timson compound. With the siren blaring and the squad car speeding, it took less than eight minutes--he was already halfway there by the time Charlie had reached him by radio. On the highway, he hit ninety miles an hour, and by the time he reached the turnoff to the mobile home where Otis lived, his adrenaline was pumping. He was holding the wheel hard enough to make parts of his hands go numb, though in his state he didn't realize it. Rage was surging through him, blocking out everything else.
Otis Timson had hurt his son with a brick.
Otis Timson had killed his wife.
Otis Timson had nearly gotten away with it.
On the dirt drive, Miles's car slid from side to side as he accelerated again. The trees he flew past were a blur; he saw nothing but the road directly in front of him, and as it veered to the right, Miles finally removed his foot from the accelerator and began to slow the car. He was almost there.
For two years, Miles had waited for this moment.
For two years, he'd tortured himself, lived through the failure.
Otis.
A moment later, Miles brought the car to a skidding halt in the center of the compound and pushed his way out of the car. Standing by the open door, he surveyed the area, watching for movement, watching for anything at all. His jaw was clenched as he tried to keep control.
He unsnapped his holster and began moving for his gun.
Otis Timson had killed his wife.
He'd run her down in cold blood.
It was ominously quiet. Aside from the ticking of the engine as it cooled, there were no other sounds at all. Trees were motionless, their branches absolutely still. No birds sat chirping on fenceposts. The only sounds that Miles could hear were his own: the rustle of the gun sliding out of his holster, the harsh rhythm of his breathing.
It was cold, the air crisp and cloudless, a spring sky on a winter day.
Miles waited. In time, a screened door cracked open, squeaking like a rusty squeezebox.
"What do you want?" a voice rang out. The sound was raspy, as if ravaged by years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Clyde Timson.
Miles lowered himself, using the car door as a shield in case shots broke out.
"I'm here for Otis. Bring him out."
The hand vanished and the door slapped shut.
Miles slipped the safety off and found his hand on the trigger, his heart thumping hard. After the longest minute of his life, he saw the door creak open again, pushed by the same anonymous hand.
"What's the charge?" the voice demanded.
"Get him out here, now!"
"What for?"
"He's under arrest! Now get him out here! Hands above his head!"
The door slammed shut again, and with that, Miles suddenly realized the precarious nature of his position. In his haste, he'd put himself in danger. There were four mobile homes--two in front, one off to each side--and though he'd seen no one in the others, he knew there were people inside. There were also countless junked cars, a few on blocks, between the homes, and he couldn't help but wonder whether the Timsons were stalling for time, closing in around him.
Part of him knew he should have brought help with him; he should call for help now. He didn't.
No way. Not now.
In time, the door pushed open again and Clyde appeared on the doorstep. His hands were by his side; in one hand he held a cup of coffee, as if things like this happened every day. When he saw Miles's gun pointed at him, however, he took a small step backward.
"What the hell do you want, Ryan? Otis ain't done nothin'."
"I've got to bring him in, Clyde."
"You still ain't said what for yet."
"He'll be charged when he gets to the station."
"Where's your warrant?"
"I don't need a warrant for this! He's under arrest."
"A man's got rights! You can't come barging in here and making demands. I got rights! And if you ain't got no warrant, you get the hell out of here! We've had enough of you and your charges!"
"I'm not kidding around, Clyde. Get him out here or I'll have every sheriff in the county here in a couple of minutes and you'll all be under arrest for harboring a criminal."
It was a bluff, but somehow it worked. A moment later, Otis appeared from behind the door and nudged his father. Miles shifted the gun, taking aim at Otis. Like his father, he didn't seem particularly worried.
"Step aside, Daddy," Otis said calmly. The sight of Otis's face made Miles want to pull the trigger. Biting back the wave of choking rage, he raised himself, keeping the gun pointed at Otis. He began moving around the car, into open view.
"Out here! I want you on the ground!"
Otis moved in front of his father but stayed on the porch. He crossed his arms. "What's the charge, Deputy Ryan?"
"You know damn well what the charge is! Now put your hands in the air."
"I'm afraid I don't."
Despite the possible danger, which suddenly didn't matter at all, Miles continued to approach the house, his gun still pointing at Otis. His finger was on the trigger and he could feel it tightening.
Make a move. ... Just make a move. . . .
"Get down off the porch!"
Otis glanced at his father, who looked ready to erupt, but when he turned back to Miles, he saw an uncontrollable fury in Miles's eyes that made him step down quickly from the porch.
"All right, all right--I'm coming."
"Hands up! Let me see your hands in the air."
By now, a few others had poked their heads out of their mobile homes and were watching what was going on. Though rarely on the right side of the law, none of them considered running for his gun. They too saw the look in Miles's face, the one that made it clear that he was looking for any excuse to shoot.
"Get on your knees! Now!"
Otis did as he was told, but Miles didn't holster his gun. Instead he kept it pointed at Otis. He glanced from side to side, making sure that no one would stop him from what he was about to do, and closed the gap between them.
Otis had killed his wife.
As he approached, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. It was just the two of them now. There was fear and something else--weariness?--in Otis's eyes, but he said nothing. Miles paused as they stared at each other, then he began moving slowly around him, to the back.
He inched the gun closer to Otis's head.
Like an executioner.
He could feel the trigger under his finger. One tug, one quick pull, and this would be over.
God, he wanted to shoot him, he wanted to end this now. He owed it to Missy, he owed it to Jonah.
Jonah . . .
The sudden image of his son brought a burst of reality to what was happening.
No...
Still, he debated for a couple of breaths before finally exhaling hard. He reached for his handcuffs and slipped them from his belt. With a practiced move, he slipped one of the cuffs around the nearest of Otis's upraised wrists, then moved his hand behind Otis's back. After holstering his gun, he slipped on the other cuff, locked them both down until Otis winced, then pulled him up.
"You have the right to remain silent...," he began, and Clyde, who'd been frozen in place, suddenly exploded into activity, like an anthill that had been stepped on.
"This ain't right. I'm calling my lawyer! You've got no right coming in here like this and pointing your gun that way!"
He continued to scream long after Miles had finished with the Miranda warning, loaded Otis into the back of his car, and started toward the highway.
In the car, neither Miles nor Otis spoke until they'd reached the highway. Miles's eyes remained locked on the road. Despite the fact that he had Otis in custody, he didn't want to so
much as glance in the rearview mirror at Otis for fear of what he would do to him.
He'd wanted to shoot him.
With God as his witness, he'd wanted to do it.
And one wrong move, from anyone who'd been out there, and he would have.
But that would have been wrong.
And you were wrong in the way you handled it out there.
How many regulations had he broken? Half a dozen? Letting Sims go, failing to obtain a warrant, ignoring Charlie, not requesting help, pulling his gun straight off, putting it to Otis's head....He was going to catch hell for this, and not only from Charlie. Harvey Wellman, too. The yellow broken lines came at him, passing rhythmically from sight.
I don't care. Otis is going to jail, no matter what happens to me. Otis will rot away in prison like he made me rot for two years.
"So what are you bringing me in for this time?" Otis asked flatly.
"Shut the hell up," Miles responded.
"I have a right to know what the charge is."
Miles turned around, stifling the anger that bubbled up in him at the sound of Otis's voice. When Miles made no response, Otis continued, oddly calm.
"I'll let you in on a little secret. I knew you weren't going to shoot. You just couldn't do it."
Miles bit his lip, his face turning red. Keep control, he told himself. Keep control....
Otis, however, went on.
"Tell me, are you still seeing that girl you were with at the Tavern? I was just wondering, because--"
Miles slammed on the brakes, the wheels screeching, black scars left on the highway. Because he was unbuckled, Otis shot forward into the safety cage. Miles pressed the accelerator to the floor again, and like a yo-yo, Otis was flung back into his seat.
For the rest of the ride, Otis didn't say another word.
Chapter 20
So what the hell is going on?" Charlie demanded.
A few minutes earlier, Miles had shown up with Otis and had walked him through the station down to one of the holding cells. After locking him in, Otis asked to see his lawyer, but Miles simply headed back up the stairs to Charlie's office. Charlie closed the door behind them; other sheriffs stole quick glances through the window, trying their best to hide their curiosity.