It was either that, or someone had run Missy down on purpose.
Some sociopath who killed for the thrill of it. He'd heard of such people.
Or killed to get back at Miles Ryan?
He was a sheriff; he'd made enemies. He'd arrested people and testified against them. He'd helped send scores of people to prison.
One of them?
The list was endless, an exercise in paranoia.
He sighed, finally opening the file, finding himself drawn to the pages.
There was one detail about the accident that didn't seem to fit, and over the years Miles had scribbled half a dozen question marks around it. He had learned of it when he'd been taken to the scene of the accident.
Strangely, whoever had been driving the car had covered Missy's body with a blanket.
This fact had never made the papers.
For a while, there were hopes that the blanket would provide some clues to the identity of the driver. It hadn't. It was a blanket typically found in emergency kits, the kind sold in a standard package with other assorted items at nearly every auto supply or department store across the country. There'd been no way to trace it.
But... why?
This was the part that continued to nag at Miles.
Why cover up the body, then run? It made no sense. When he'd raised the matter with Charlie, Charlie had said something that haunted Miles to this day: "It's like the driver was trying to apologize."
Or throw us off the track?
Miles didn't know what to believe.
But he would find the driver, no matter how unlikely it seemed, simply because he wouldn't give up. Then, and only then, could he imagine himself moving on.
Chapter 6
On Friday evening, three days after meeting Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was alone in her living room, nursing her second glass of wine, feeling about as rotten as a person could feel. Even though she knew the wine wouldn't help, she knew that she'd nonetheless pour herself a third glass just as soon as this one was finished. She'd never been a big drinker, but it had been that kind of day.
Right now, she just wanted to escape.
Strangely, it hadn't started off badly. She'd felt pretty good first thing in the morning and even during breakfast, but after that, the day had nose-dived rapidly. Sometime during the night before, the hot-water heater in her apartment had stopped working and she'd had to take a cold shower before heading off to school. When she got there, three of the four students in the front of the class had colds and spent the day coughing and sneezing in her direction when they weren't acting up. The rest of the class seemed to follow their lead, and she hadn't accomplished half of what she'd wanted to. After school, she'd stayed to catch up on some of her work, but when she was finally ready to head home, one of the tires on her car was flat. She'd had to call AAA and ended up waiting nearly an hour until they showed up; and by the time she got back to her apartment, the streets had been roped off for the Flower Festival that weekend and she'd had to park three blocks away. Then, to top it all off, no more than ten minutes after she'd walked in the door, an acquaintance had called from Baltimore, to let her know that Michael was getting married again in December.
That was when she'd opened the wine.
Now, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol, Sarah found herself wishing that AAA had taken a little longer with her tire, so she wouldn't have been home to answer the phone when it rang. She wasn't a close friend of the woman's--she'd socialized with Sarah casually, since she'd originally been friends with Michael's family--and had no idea why the woman felt the urge to let Sarah know what was going on. And even though she had passed on the information with the proper mix of sympathy and disbelief, Sarah couldn't help suspecting that the woman would hang up the phone and immediately report back to Michael how Sarah had responded. Thank God she'd kept her composure.
But that was two glasses of wine ago, and now it wasn't so easy. She didn't want to hear about Michael. They were divorced, separated by law and choice, and unlike some divorced couples, they hadn't talked since their last meeting in the lawyer's office almost a year earlier. By that point, she'd considered herself lucky to be rid of him and had simply signed the papers without a word. The pain and anger had been replaced with a kind of apathy, rooted in the numbing realization that she'd never really known him at all. After that, he didn't call or write, nor did she. She lost contact with his family and friends, he showed no interest in hers. In many ways, it almost seemed as if they'd never been married at all. At least, that's what she told herself.
And now he was getting married again.
It shouldn't bother her. She shouldn't care one way or the other.
But she did, and that bothered her, too. If anything, she was more upset by the fact that his impending marriage upset her than by the upcoming marriage itself. She'd known all along that Michael would marry again; he'd told her as much.
That was the first time she'd ever really hated someone.
But real hate, the kind that made the stomach roil, wasn't possible without an emotional bond. She wouldn't have hated Michael nearly as much unless she'd loved him first. Perhaps naively, she had imagined that they would be a couple forever. They'd made their vows and promised to love each other forever, after all, and she'd descended from a long line of families that had done just that. Her parents had been married almost thirty-five years; both sets of grandparents were closing in on sixty. Even after their problems arose, Sarah believed that she and Michael would follow in their footsteps. She knew it wouldn't be easy, but when he'd chosen the views of his family over his promise to her, she'd never felt so insignificant in her entire life.
But she wouldn't be upset now, if she was really over him. . . .
Sarah finished her glass and rose from the couch, not wanting to believe that, refusing to believe it. She was over him. If he came crawling back to her right now and begged for forgiveness, she wouldn't take him back. There was nothing he could say or do to ever make her love him again. He could marry whoever the hell he wanted, and it would make no difference to her.
In the kitchen, she poured her third glass of wine.
Michael was getting married again.
Despite herself, Sarah felt the tears coming. She didn't want to cry anymore, but old dreams died hard. When she put her glass down, trying to compose herself, she set the glass too close to the sink and it toppled into the basin, shattering instantly. She reached in to pick up the shards of glass, pricked her finger, and it began to bleed.
One more thing on an already terrible day.
She exhaled sharply and pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
With crowds pressing in around them, the words seemed to fade in and out, as if Sarah were trying to listen to something from a distance.
"For the third time, I'm fine, Mom. Really."
Maureen reached up and brushed the hair from Sarah's face. "It's just that you look a little pale, like you might be coming down with something."
"I'm a little tired, that's all. I was up late working."
Though she didn't like lying to her mother, Sarah had no desire to tell her about the bottle of wine the night before. Her mother barely understood why people drank at all, especially women, and if Sarah explained that she'd been alone as well, her mother would only bite her lip in worry before launching into a series of questions that Sarah was in no mood to answer.
It was a glorious Saturday, and the downtown area was thronged with people. The Flower Festival was in full swing, and Maureen had wanted to spend the day browsing among the booths and in the antique stores along Middle Street. Since Larry wanted to watch the football game between North Carolina and Michigan State, Sarah had offered to keep her company. She'd thought it might be fun, and it probably would have been, if it hadn't been for the raging headache that even aspirin couldn't ease. As they talked, Sarah inspected an antique picture frame that ha
d been restored with care, though not enough care to justify the price.
"On a Friday?" her mother asked.
"I'd been putting it off for a while and last night seemed as good as any."
Her mother leaned closer, pretending to admire the picture frame. "You were in all night?"
"Uh-huh. Why?"
"Because I called you a couple of times and the phone just rang and rang."
"I unplugged the phone."
"Oh. For a while there, I thought you might be out with someone."
"Who?"
Maureen shrugged. "I don't know ... someone."
Sarah eyed her over the top of her sunglasses. "Mom, let's not go into that again."
"I'm not going into anything," she answered defensively. Then, lowering her voice as if conversing with herself, she went on. "I just assumed you'd decided to go out. You used to do that a lot, you know...."
In addition to wallowing in a bottomless pit of concern, Sarah's mother could also play to perfection the part of a guilt-ridden parent. There were times when Sarah needed it--a little pity never hurt anyone--but now wasn't one of them. Sarah frowned slightly as she set the frame back down. The proprietor of the booth, an elderly woman who sat in a chair beneath a large umbrella, raised her eyebrows, clearly enjoying the little scene. Sarah's frown deepened. She backed away from the booth as her mom went on, and after a moment, Maureen trailed after her.
"What's wrong?"
Her tone made Sarah stop and face her mother. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just not in the mood to hear how worried you are about me. It gets old after a while."
Maureen's mouth opened slightly and stayed that way. At the sight of her mother's injured expression, Sarah regretted her words, but she couldn't help it. Not today, anyway.
"Look, I'm sorry, Mom. I shouldn't have snapped at you."
Maureen reached out and took her daughter by the hand. "What's going on, Sarah? And tell me the truth, this time--I know you too well. Something happened, didn't it?"
She squeezed Sarah's hand gently and Sarah looked away. All around them, strangers were going about their business, lost in their own conversations.
"Michael's getting married again," she said quietly.
After making sure she had heard correctly, Maureen slowly enveloped her daughter in a firm embrace. "Oh, Sarah...I'm sorry," she whispered.
There wasn't anything else to say.
A few minutes later, they were seated on a park bench that overlooked the marina, down the street from where the crowds were still congregated. They'd moved that way unconsciously; they'd simply walked until they could go no farther, then found a place to sit.
There, they talked for a long time, or rather Sarah talked. Maureen mainly listened, unable to mask the concern she felt. Her eyes widened and occasionally filled with tears; she squeezed Sarah's hand a dozen times.
"Oh... that's just terrible," she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "What a terrible day."
"I thought so."
"Well... would it help if I told you to try to look on the bright side?"
"There is no bright side, Mom."
"Sure there is."
Sarah raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Well, you can be certain that they won't live here after they get married. Your father would have them tarred and feathered."
Despite her mood, Sarah laughed. "Thanks a lot. If I ever see him again, I'll be sure to let him know."
Maureen paused. "You're not planning on that, are you? Seeing him, I mean."
Sarah shook her head. "No, not unless I can't help it."
"Good. After what he did to you, you shouldn't."
Sarah simply nodded before leaning back against the bench.
"So, have you heard from Brian lately?" she asked, changing the subject. "He's never in when I call."
Maureen followed Sarah's lead without complaint. "I talked to him a couple of days ago, but you know how it is. Sometimes, the last thing you want to do is talk to your parents. He doesn't stay on the phone long."
"Is he making friends?"
"I'm sure he is."
Sarah stared out over the water, thinking about her brother for a moment. Then: "How's Daddy?"
"The same. He had a checkup earlier this week and he seems to be doing fine. And he's not as tired as he used to be."
"Is he still exercising?"
"Not as much as he should, but he keeps promising me that he's going to get serious about it."
"Tell him that I said he has to."
"I will. But he's stubborn, you know. It would be better if you told him. If I tell him, he thinks I'm nagging."
"Are you?"
"Of course not," she said quickly. "I just worry about him." Out in the marina, a large sailboat was heading slowly toward the Neuse River, and they both sat in silence, watching. In a minute, the bridge would swivel open to allow it passage and traffic on either side would begin to back up. Sarah had learned that if she was ever running late for an appointment, she could claim that she "got caught on the bridge." Everyone in town from doctors to judges would accept the excuse without question, simply because they had used it themselves.
"It's good to hear you laugh again," Maureen murmured after a moment.
Sarah glanced sideways at her.
"Don't look so surprised. There was a while there when you didn't. A long while." Maureen touched Sarah's knee gently. "Don't let Michael hurt you anymore, okay? You've moved on-- remember that."
Sarah nodded almost imperceptibly, and Maureen pressed on with the monologue that Sarah had practically memorized by now.
"And you'll keep moving on, too. One day you'll find someone who'll love you as you are--"
"Mom . . ." Sarah interrupted, stretching out the word and shaking her head. Their conversations these days seemed always to come back to this.
For once, her mother caught herself. She reached for Sarah's hand again, and even though Sarah pulled it away at first, she persisted until Sarah relented.
"I can't help it if I want you to be happy," she said. "Can you understand that?"
Sarah forced a smile, hoping it would satisfy her mother.
"Yeah, Mom, I understand."
Chapter 7
On Monday, Jonah began the process of settling into the routine that would come to dominate much of his life over the next few months. When the bell rang, officially ending the school day, Jonah walked out with his friends but left his backpack in the classroom. Sarah, like all the other teachers, went outside to make sure kids got in the proper cars and onto the right buses. Once everyone was on the buses and the cars were pulling out, Sarah wandered over to where Jonah was standing. He stared wistfully at his departing friends.
"I bet you wish you didn't have to stay, huh?"
Jonah nodded.
"It won't be so bad. I brought some cookies from home to make it a little easier."
He thought about that. "What kind of cookies?" he asked skeptically.
"Oreos. When I was going to school, my mom always used to let me have a couple when I got home. She said it was my reward for doing such a good job."
"Mrs. Knowlson likes to give me apple slices."
"Would you rather have those tomorrow?"
"No way," he said seriously. "Oreos are way better."
She motioned in the direction of the school. "C'mon. You ready to get started?"
"I guess so," he mumbled. Sarah reached out, offering her hand.
Jonah looked up at her. "Wait--do you have any milk?"
"I can get some from the cafeteria, if you want."
With that, Jonah took her hand and smiled up at her for a moment before they headed back inside.
While Sarah and Jonah were holding hands, heading toward the classroom, Miles Ryan was ducking behind his car and reaching for his gun, even before the echo from the last shot had died. And he intended to stay there until he figured out what was going on.
There was nothing like gunfire t
o get the old ticker pumping--the instinct for self-preservation always surprised Miles with both its intensity and its rapidity. The adrenaline seemed to enter his system as if he were hooked to a giant, invisible IV. He could feel his heart hammering, and his palms were slick with sweat.
If he needed to, he could put out a call saying he was in trouble, and in less than a few minutes the place would be surrounded by every law enforcement officer in the county. But for the time being, he held off. For one thing, he didn't think the gunfire was directed at him. That he'd heard it wasn't in question, but it had sounded muffled, as if it had originated from somewhere deep in the house.
Had he been standing outside someone's home, he would have made the call, figuring that some sort of domestic issue had gotten out of hand. But he was at the Gregory place, a teetering wood structure blanketed in kudzu on the outskirts of New Bern. It had decayed over the years and was completely abandoned, as it had been since Miles was a kid. Most of the time, no one bothered with the place. The floors were so old and rotten that they could give way any second, and rain poured in through the gaping holes in the roof. The structure also tilted slightly, as if a strong gust of wind would topple it someday. Though New Bern didn't have a big problem with vagrants, even the ones who were around knew enough to avoid the place for the danger it presented.
But now, in broad daylight no less, he heard the gunfire start up again--not a large-caliber gun, most likely a twenty-two--and he suspected there was a simple explanation, one that didn't pose much of a threat to him.
Still, he wasn't stupid enough to take any chances. Opening his door, he slid forward on the seat and flicked a switch on the radio, so that his voice would be amplified, loud enough for the people inside the house to hear him.
"This is the sheriff," he said calmly, slowly. "If you boys are about finished, I'd like y'all to come out so I can talk to you. And I'd appreciate it if you set your guns off to the side."
With that, the gunfire stopped completely. After a few minutes, Miles saw a head poke out from one of the front windows. The boy was no older than twelve.