Thriller (45 page)

impolite to talk with a full mouth—never mind that during her

brief and rare lapses into motherhood she constantly preached

it was also impolite to point. Maggie didn’t budge, ignoring her,

which was also silly if she thought it would in any way punish

her mother for her earlier insensitivity. Besides it had only resulted in a more significant poke at the air from her mother’s fork.

“That guy’s a total ass,” she was finally able to whisper.

Maggie hadn’t been able to resist. She stole a glance, needing

to see the total ass she was about to defend.

He had seemed too ordinary to need Maggie’s defense. Ever

the profiler, she had found herself immediately assessing him.

She saw a tall middle-aged man with a receding hairline, weak

chin and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white oxford shirt, a

size too large and sagging, even though he had tried to tuck it

neatly into the waistband of wrinkled trousers—trousers that

were belted below the beginning paunch of a man who spent too

much time behind a desk.

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He had slid into one of the corner booths and grabbed one of

the laminated menus from behind the table’s condiments holder.

Immediately, he unfolded the menu and hunched over it, searching for his selection while he pulled silverware from the bundled

napkin. Again, all very ordinary—an ordinary guy taking a break

from work to get a bite to eat. But then Maggie had seen the old

woman, shuffling to the table, holding on to the backs of the

other booths along the way, her cane not enough to steady her.

That’s when Maggie realized her mother’s pronouncement had

little to do with the man’s appearance and everything to do with

the fact that he had left this poor woman to shuffle and fumble

her way to their table. He hadn’t even looked up at her as she

struggled to lower herself between the table and the bench, dropping her small, fragile frame onto the seat and then scooting inch

by inch across the vinyl while her cane
thump-thumped
its way

in behind her.

Maggie had turned away, not wanting to watch any longer. She

hated to agree with her mother. She hated even more the
“tsk,

tsk”
sound her mother had made, loud enough for others at the

diner to hear, perhaps even the total ass. Funny how things

worked.

Maggie would give anything to hear that
“tsk, tsk”
from her

mother now rather than the high-pitched scream she belted out

from the passenger’s seat. But, had she not been distracted by her

mother’s scream she may have noticed the blur of black steel sliding alongside her car much sooner. Certainly she would have noticed before the monster pickup rammed into her Toyota Corolla

a second time, shoving her off the side of the road, all the while

ripping and tearing metal.

Was that her front bumper dragging from the pickup’s grille,

looking as though the hulking truck had taken a bite out of her

poor car? What the hell was this guy doing?

“I can’t believe you didn’t see him!” her mother scolded, the

previous screams leaving her usual raspy voice high-pitched and

almost comical. “Where the hell did he come from?” she added,

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already contradicting her first comment. She strained against her

seat belt, reaching and grabbing for the Skittles candies she had

been eating, now scattered across the seat and plopping to the

floor mat like precious rainbow beads from a broken necklace.

“I didn’t see him,” Maggie confessed, gaining control of her

car and bringing it to a stop on the dirt shoulder of the two-lane

highway. God! Her hands were shaking. She gripped the steering wheel harder to make them stop. When that didn’t work she

dropped them into her lap. She felt sweat trickle down her back.

How could she not have seen him?

The pickup had pulled off the road more than three car lengths

ahead, the taillights winking at them through a cloud of dust.

Between the two vehicles lay the Toyota’s mangled front bumper,

twisted and discarded like roadside debris.

“Don’t go telling him that,” her mother whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t go admitting to him that you didn’t see him. You don’t

want your car insurance skyrocketing.”

“Are you suggesting I lie?”

“I’m suggesting you keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m a federal law officer.”

“No, you said you left your badge and gun at home. Today

you’re a plain ol’ citizen, minding your own business.” Kathleen

O’Dell popped several of the Skittles into her mouth, and Maggie couldn’t help thinking how much the bright-colored candy

reminded her of the nerve pills her mother used to take, oftentimes washing them down with vodka or scotch. How could she

eat at a time like this, especially when it had only been less than

an hour since they had left the diner? But Maggie knew she

should be grateful for the recent exchange of addictions.

“I haven’t been in a car accident since college,” Maggie said,riffling through her wallet for proof of insurance and driver’s license.

“Whatever you do don’t ask for the cops to be called,” she

whispered again, leaning toward Maggie as though they were

coconspirators.

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She and her mother had never been on the same side of any

issue. Suddenly a black pickup rams into the side of their car and

they’re instant friends. Okay, maybe not friends. Coconspirators

did seem more appropriate.

“He sideswiped me.” Maggie defended herself anyway, despite

her mother being on her side.

“Doesn’t matter. Calling the cops only makes it worse.”

Maggie glanced at her mother, who was still popping the candies like they were antacids. People often remarked on their resemblance to each other—the auburn hair, fair complexion and

dark brown eyes. And yet, much of the time they spent together

Maggie felt like a stranger to this woman who couldn’t even remember that her daughter hated apple pie.

“I
am
the cops,” Maggie said, frustrated that she needed to remind her mother.

“No, you’re not, sweetie. FBI’s not the same thing. Oh, Jesus.

It’s him. That ass from the diner.”

He had gotten out of the pickup but was surveying the damage on his own vehicle.

“Just go,” her mother said, grabbing Maggie’s arm and giving

it a shove to start the car.

“Leave the scene of an accident?”

“It was his fault anyway. He’s not going to report you.”

“Too late,” Maggie said, catching in her rearview mirror the

flashing lights of a state trooper pulling off the road and coming

up behind her. Her mother noticed the glance and twisted around

in her seat.

“Oh fuck!”

“Mom!” For all her faults, Kathleen O’Dell rarely swore.

“This has not been a good trip.”

Maggie stared at her, dumbfounded that her mother thought

the trip had been as miserable an outing for her as it had been

for Maggie.

“Promise me you won’t play hero.” Kathleen O’Dell grabbed

Maggie’s arm again. “Don’t go telling them you’re a federal officer.”

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“It’ll actually be easier,” Maggie told her. “There’s a bond between law enforcement officers.”

To this her mother let out a hysterical laugh. “Oh, sweetie, if

you really think a state trooper will appreciate advice or help

from the feds, and a woman at that…”

God, she hated to agree with her mother for a second time in

the same day. But she was right. Maggie had experienced it almost every time she went into a rural community: small-town

cops defensive and intimidated by her. Sometimes state troopers fit into that category, too.

She opened her car door and felt her mother still tugging at

her arm.

“Promise me,” Kathleen O’Dell said in a tone that reminded

Maggie of when she was a little girl and her mother would insist Maggie promise not to divulge one of a variety of her indiscretions.

“You don’t have to worry,” Maggie said, pulling her arm away.

“My, my, what a mess,” the state trooper called out, his hands

on his belt buckle as he approached Maggie’s car, then continued to the front bumper where he came to a stop. He looked from

one vehicle to another, then back, shaking his head, his mirrored

sunglasses giving Maggie a view of the wreckage he saw.

He was young. Even without seeing his eyes she could tell. A

bit short, though she didn’t think the Virginia State Police had a

height requirement any longer, but he was in good shape and he

knew it. Maggie realized his hands on his belt buckle wasn’t in

case he needed to get at his weapon quickly but rather to emphasize his flat stomach, probably perfect six-pack abs under the

gray, neatly tucked shirt.

“Let me guess,” he said, addressing Maggie even as he watched

the owner of the pickup stomping around his vehicle. “You lost

control. Maybe touching up your makeup?”

“Excuse me?” Maggie was sure she must have heard him wrong.

“Cell phone, maybe?” He grinned at her. “It’s okay. I know you

ladies love to talk and drive at the same time.”

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“This wasn’t my fault.” She wanted to get her badge from the

glove compartment. She glanced back just in time to see her

mother shoot her a cautionary look and she knew exactly what

she was saying with her eyes,
“See, it’s always worse when the cops

get involved.”

“Sure, it wasn’t your fault,” he said, not even attempting to disguise his sarcasm.

“He was the one driving erratically.” Maggie knew it sounded

lame as soon as it left her mouth. The boy trooper had already

accomplished what he had set out to do—he had succeeded in

making her defensive.

“Hey, sir,” he called out to the pickup owner who finally came

over and joined them, standing over Maggie’s mangled bumper,

looking at it as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. “Sir,

were you driving erratically?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Maggie said, then held her breath before

she said anything more. She wanted to hit this cocky son of a

bitch, and it had been a long time since she had wanted to hit

somebody she didn’t know.

“I was trying to pass, and she shoved right into me.”

“That’s a lie,” Maggie’s mother yelled over the top of the car.

Both men stared at her, as though only now realizing she was there.

“Oh, good,” the boy trooper said. “We have a witness.”

“My mom’s in the pickup,” the guy said, pointing a thumb

back behind him. They all turned to see a skinny, white leg sticking out from the passenger door. But that was as far as the old

woman had gotten. Her cane hung on the inside door handle.

Her foot, encased in what looked like a thin bedroom slipper,

dangled about eight inches from the running board of the pickup.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to just take a look and see what happened.

See whose story’s most
accurate,
” he said with yet another grin.

Maggie couldn’t help wondering where he had trained. No

academy she knew of taught that smug, arrogant grin. Someone

must have told him the look gave him an edge, disarmed his potential opponents; after all, it was tough to argue with someone

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who’d already made up his mind and was willing to humiliate

you if you didn’t agree. It was a tactic of a much older, mature

lawman, one who could afford to be cocky because he knew more

than he ever cared to know about human nature, one who could

back up that attitude if challenged or threatened. This boy

trooper, in Maggie’s opinion, wasn’t deserving of such a tactic.

As soon as she was close enough to see his badge and read his

name tag, Maggie decided she knew a few tactics of her own. Three

stripes to his patch meant he hadn’t even made first sergeant.

“The skid marks should tell an accurate enough story, Sergeant

Blake,” Maggie said, getting his attention with a sharp look and

no grin this time. It was one thing to know his name, quite another

to address him by his rank. Most people didn’t have a clue whether

state troopers were officers or deputies, patrolmen or sergeants.

“Sure, sure. That’s possible.” He nodded. “I need to see both

your driver’s licenses before I check out skid marks.” And he put

his hand out.

Maggie resisted the urge to smile at what seemed a transparent attempt to gain control, to keep his edge. No problem. She

already had her license ready and handed it to him. The pickup

driver started digging in his shirt pocket then twisted and patted his back pants pockets, when suddenly there came a

screech—something between a wail and a holler—from inside

his vehicle. “Harold? Harrrold?”

They stopped and turned, but nothing more had emerged

from the pickup, nothing besides the white leg still dangling.

Then Maggie, her mother and Sergeant Blake all stared at Harold,

watching as a crimson tide washed up his neck, coloring his entire face, his ears such a brilliant red Maggie wondered if they

actually burned. But just as he had paid her no attention in the

diner, Harold made no attempt to acknowledge the old woman

now. Instead, he pulled out a thick, bulging wad of leather that

was his wallet and began to rummage through it.

Maggie wasn’t sure when her mother had wandered away. She