Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (23 page)

Pete fluttered pressure on the accelerator, nudging the trailer — as gentle as those kinds of bumps could be. The hood developed wrinkles, the sound of glass breaking and metal crunches. I pressed my other foot on the dashboard beside the first and pushed my back deep into the seat. My toes curled inside my shoes. I dug my fingernails into the seat upholstery. I needed all the grip I could get.

“Come on,” Pete grunted. “Hit the brakes. Come on.” He gave the trailer another shove with the front end of my pretty pickup.

The trailer teetered, a long second of wavering, then it snapped sideways, sliding down the steep cant of the highway, dragging the semi-tractor with it at a crazy right angle. It hurtled toward the low side of the highway, careening, leaving black tire streaks across the pavement.

The little blue Ford broke free and shot the other direction, up over the edge of the embankment nose first.

Pete lifted his foot off the gas, and we coasted. My breath stuck, my eyelids stuck, every part of my body wallowed in slow motion as the scene unfolded before us.

The road leveled out in front of the tunnel, but it was too late for the semi — the trailer hit the tunnel entrance first, sideways, with a gut-wrenching, crumpling, grating sound, completely blocking the narrow opening. The trailer stopped against the concrete arch, but the tractor kept going, angled backwards now, and crunched into the front end of the trailer like a joint broken back on itself, grotesque and immobilized.

I sat there shuddering, staring past my toes through the windshield at a mess of twisted white metal.

“Babe?” Pete said, rubbing my leg. “Meredith?”

“You did that,” I breathed.

“I couldn’t let him go through the tunnel. The people in the blue Escort—”

“I know.” I unlatched my seatbelt and threw myself into his arms. “I know, I know,” I whispered into his neck. “Thank you.”

Pete held me, breathing slow and steady against my cheek until I stopped shaking.

Archie loped past us, heading for the semi.

Pete opened his door and helped me out. He held me by my shoulders. “You okay?”

I nodded. “I’ll check the people in the car.”

CHAPTER 23

Pete hurried to assist Archie, and I trotted toward the spot where the blue car had swept a bare swath through the gravel shoulder.

When I crested the embankment, I found the car resting right side up in a patch of tall weeds at the bottom of the little ravine between the highway and the railroad tracks as though someone had parked it years ago and let the vegetation grow up around it. No sign of movement inside.

I half slid, half stumbled down the steep berm and thudded against the driver’s door. I leaned into the open window. The dazed hazel eyes in the sickly white-under-a-tan face belonged to Blaine. Across from him, Rhonda, with a bloody gash on her forehead, was moaning.

“I’m gonna be sick,”
Blaine announced, lunging for the door handle.

I jumped out of the way and climbed across the hood to reach Rhonda’s side. If
Blaine could form a coherent sentence, then he could take care of himself. Especially since he reeked of stale beer. Maybe his lubricated condition had spared him serious injury. Maybe that’s why he’d unwisely pulled out in front of the semi — when was it — ten, fifteen minutes ago? It felt like eons.

Rhonda didn’t look good. Her window was open too, and I reached through to release the door. Her hair was tangled across her face, clumps stuck in the blood oozing from the gash.

I could only get the door open part way, but I squatted beside her. At least she’d had her seatbelt on. I unlatched it and carefully slid it up over her shoulder and behind her head. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, and I doubted she knew where she was.

“Rhonda,” I shouted.

A throaty hissing answered from the backseat.

The hairball cat was imprisoned in a plastic carrier which had become jammed on its side behind
Blaine’s seat. Two gold eyes glared up at me through the wire mesh door. I’d have felt safer if it was the cat who’d gotten the concussion. But the carrier functioned like a little jail at the moment, which was just fine with me.

Rhonda groaned louder and lifted her hands toward her head. I grabbed them just in time.

“Just a little blood,” I murmured. “You’re going to be okay.” I felt around the base of the seat and found the lever to recline her so she was more comfortable. I had no idea how long it would take an ambulance to arrive, and she needed to be kept calm, so I blurted the first conversational thing I could think of. “Where were you going? Is your cat sick?”

“
Quincy,” Rhonda slurred.

“Is it
Quincy’s cat?” I asked.

She squinted at me, a confused look on her face. “
Quincy hated Fiona.”

Ahh, one thing on which Quincy and I would have agreed. So he’d had some sense. And Rhonda was starting to process mentally. “Why was
Blaine driving?” I asked.

“I’m grieving,” Rhonda muttered. “My husband.” And her gaze drifted away, past my shoulder.

But her eyes were clear now, flicking from side to side. She was thinking. She just wasn’t sharing her thoughts with me. What else was going on in there? I wanted to shake her, but that probably wouldn’t be helpful for her head injury. Grieving isn’t adequate insulation from the consequences of dumb decisions.

A khaki-bundled form slid down the embankment, followed by a man in a dark blue uniform and a black streak with a tail. The man had a Portland Fire Department patch on his shoulder and his last name – Zeller – emblazoned over his shirt pocket. He nodded to me and took my place beside Rhonda, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

The black streak turned out to be a black Labrador, a friendly, floppy sort of dog who bumped everyone with her nose as a form of greeting then ambled off to flush out other interesting scents.

Confident Rhonda was in better hands, I stepped away from the car. Sheriff Marge hooked my elbow and said in a low voice, “Ambulance was on a call on the other side of the tunnel, same as we were. They’re having to take the long way around. Is it bad?”

I shook my head. “Nowhere near as bad as it should have been. How’d you get here?”

“Set up a roadblock so no one can try to drive through the tunnel, then climbed under the semi-trailer.” Sheriff Marge shook her head. “Gonna take hours to clear that mess.”

I glanced down at the scrapes and dirt smudges on the knees of her pants and dinged-up cast. I doubted her doctor thought she’d be crawling through a traffic wreck in his tidy handiwork or he’d have given the cast a Teflon outer coating. “Is it Jack Roscoe’s truck?” I asked.

Sheriff Marge grunted. “Plates are wrong, but the VINs match. Those two guys have been busy trying to look innocent. The FBI will be here in a few minutes to take them into custody.”

“Does anyone know who they work for?”

“We will soon,” Sheriff Marge stated, her mouth set in a grim line. When she used that tone, it was a promise, not just hopeful optimism.

Blaine staggered back from barfing in the cattails, wiping his mouth with the hem of his dirty t-shirt. At least he’d had the decency to put one on before taking his newly widowed friend for a drunk drive. Classy.

The black Lab’s head popped up, and she trotted straight toward him. I would have thought she was ready to greet him – to make up for not having done so earlier — but her tail hung straight down. When Tuppence does that I know she has strictly business, not sociability, on her mind.

The dog’s nose immediately tagged the sole of Blaine’s right boot. Then she went into the strangest gyrations. The closest thing I could think of was a Canada goose mating dance. She lowered her head and nose to Blaine’s boot then stretched her head up, then back down – an odd sort of bobbing and weaving, up and down, up and down.

Blaine
aimed an off-balance kick at her. “Get away from me, you crazy dog.”

“Hey,” Sheriff Marge barked. She bustled around me and straight up to him. “What do you have on your shoes?”

“I don’t know. Puke.” He leered down at her, swaying slightly, and gave an ugly laugh.

“Lieutenant?” Sheriff Marge called.

Zeller hurried over to them and gave the Lab some hand commands. She continued the head waggling, eager and emphatic.

“Let’s have a look at your trunk,” Zeller said.

“Wait. What is this?” Blaine blurted. “Stupid dog.”

But if you’re visibly intoxicated and have been involved in a collision, the police get to check your trunk, and anything else they please. You’ve given them permission with your actions, however much you might holler your displeasure, which
Blaine set about doing. Zeller skirted around to the driver’s side of the car and popped the trunk.

The dog went nuts. Paws on the bumper, her nose over every square inch, excitedly nodding the way toddlers do when they first learn that head motions can express their sentiments. They usually start with ‘no’, but the dog was doing ‘yes’ over and over again. I almost laughed out loud. Now there’s a dog I could have a conversation with.

Blaine continued hurling grammatically incorrect invectives at Zeller and the dog. At some point, his fuzzy brain realized words weren’t going to accomplish his purpose, and he lurched forward.

But he was no match for Sheriff Marge’s quick wrist grip and yank, and she had cuffs on him in a blur. He pitched face-first into the tall grass where he half-heartedly flailed for a minute. Sheriff Marge stood over him and hitched up her heavy, tool-laden belt with a derogatory harrumph.

Behind me, I heard a soft rustle. Rhonda was almost at the top of the embankment on the railroad side. She stared over her shoulder with huge eyes, then continued scrambling, grabbing handfuls of sturdy weed stems and pulling herself up.

Rhonda — who I’d assumed had a concussion and had been practically incoherent just a few minutes ago, who’d received medical attention from a fire department lieutenant, whose husband had just been killed, who had a car trunk an arson dog was going nuts over.

None of those were good reasons to run, unless— 

I shouted and started after her.

There was nothing wrong with her physical mobility. She was quick and slithery, and she crested the berm well ahead of me. A cute skirt and trim leather flats are not the best climbing clothes. I slipped, slid, heaved, dug pointy toeholds, wrecked my wedding manicure and skinned my knees, but I made it to the top.

Rhonda had nowhere to go, but she was moving fast, legs pumping from one railroad tie to the next. There’s a train every eighteen minutes, on average, along the northern shore of the
Columbia River — BNSF freight trains plus the daily Amtrak Empire Builder and other miscellaneous runs of both the scenic and commercial varieties. For now, the tunnel was dark — no whistle or glaring headlight. If I was standing still, I’d be able feel a train coming long before I heard or saw it. But while I was running would be a different story. I took a deep breath and launched after her.

I am not built for speed. But I have hiking muscles and the endurance that comes from long rambles with Tuppence.

As soon as I saw that Rhonda was distracted by glancing over her shoulder at me then checking her sandaled footing on the ties, head swiveling back and forth, I knew I could catch her. I settled into a long stride, the idea of an oncoming train propelling me.

Maybe we’d be lucky — maybe we were in one of the longer gaps between trains that created the average. Maybe not. No matter what, I had to catch her before the tunnel.

Running in shoes that have thongs between your toes has to be painful. Rhonda’s steps shortened into flat slaps on the creosote-coated ties. She might even have been sticking in the black goo. She definitely slowed down.

She cast one more look over her shoulder when I was within a couple paces. “Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered.

Are you kidding? I dove into her backside, wrapped my arms around her waist and catapulted the two of us toward the river. The last place I wanted to end up was sprawled in the middle of the tracks.

We tumbled down the berm, hitting plenty of boulders on our descent. Rhonda wasn’t exactly a string bean, and a couple of times she landed on top of me. Of course, I bounced off her a few times too.

When I stopped moving and cracked my eyes open, I was half submerged in green slimy ooze. An indignant frog ribbitted — a deep, throaty belch — right next to my ear, and I had a blaring headache.

Everything was vibrating — not just me, but the ground beneath me. Then a whistle blast obliterated every other sensation.

Four engines. Four orange engines with giant, yellow BNSF letters painted on their sides led the charge on the rails above.

I rolled over and found Rhonda lying a few yards away. An ugly purple bruise was already rising on her right cheek and her forehead gash was bleeding again. Her hair was stringy wet and stank.