Final Stroke (41 page)

Although the vehicles involved in the so-called accident had been towed away, it was not hard to find the scene. A Chicago television crew had decided to do coverage for the morning news, and their van was in the left lane with its microwave dish aimed and its lights on the commentator. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but everyone slowed down to see what was going on. Some even parked on the right shoulder, including a man in a white Lincoln who watched from his car.

The commentator walked on the left shoulder of Route 45 as he spoke. The cameraman followed and so did the news van at walking speed with its high beams on and its emergency blinkers flashing. An Illinois State Police car moved slowly behind the van with its strobe lights going, and another was parked on the same shoulder a hundred yards back, just ahead of a bridge where there was a slight hill and the
shoulders on both sides narrowed.

The commentator pointed out the skid marks coming across the road from the right lane on the downslope of the hill. He said that at this point the Prius driven by Antonio Gianetti Junior was apparently being dragged beneath the semi-trailer of the truck. The commenta
tor pointed out where the skid marks stopped on the left shoulder. He said that at this point the rear wheels of the fully-loaded double-axle trailer apparently rolled over the Prius. The commentator pointed to the side to a deep rut lit by the van’s spotlight a hundred feet or so down in the median. He said when the Prius emerged from beneath the truck’s wheels it became airborne and hit where the first rut was visible. Farther down the road the commentator pointed out a series of water-filled ruts in the mud down in the center of the wide medium where he said the Prius flipped end over end until it came to rest.

Steve watched the commentator from the Lincoln. After the com
mentator and cameraman went inside the van and the dish tilted back down to its closed position and the van moved ahead, he watched the State Police taking photographs and re-measuring the length of skid marks. Several officers searched the muddy area down in the median with flashlights, but other than that, there was nothing else to see. None of the vehicles on the list were there, and the only thing that had come in on the scanner relating to the accident was a call to State Police Headquarters that they’d soon be wrapped up at the scene and would have all the flashing lights out of the area in a couple minutes.

Because he had driven down Route 45 to the scene of the accident without stopping, Steve decided to go back north toward the shopping center and the intersection from Marjorie’s litany, U.S. 6 and 45. He drove through the parking lots of various businesses at and near the intersection. Most of the parking lots were nearly empty because it was late and the banks and stores were closed. A couple of eat-in res
taurants and a few fast-food places near the intersection had crowded lots, but none of the vehicles on the list were there.

A mile north of the intersection, the Orland Park Shopping Cen
ter parking lot was also almost empty, the stores having been closed for a while, and this frustrated him. If there had been a lot full of cars he could have driven up and down aisles and felt like he was doing something. But it didn’t take long in the shopping center. So he start
ed going through the parking lots of restaurants and fast-food places along Route 45 in the vicinity of the center, working his way from north to south until he was back at the intersection of U.S. 6 and 45.

While going through the parking lot of a fish and chips place, he saw the yellow flashing lights of a tow truck heading north on 45 and drove in behind it. It was a flatbed, and on it was a Mercedes with the Illinois license BBROWN. He followed the flatbed with the Mercedes on board because the plate BBROWN meant something. He could not think of what it was, but he was certain the plate meant something.

While he followed the flatbed, he tried to recall everything he learned before leaving Hell in the Woods. He remembered being in his room, getting ready to leave, putting on warm clothes, putting the pocket thesaurus in his pocket. He felt for the thesaurus, took it out and put it on the seat. Back at Hell in the Woods he sometimes used the thesaurus to recall a concept. But that was before he began using his computer. And what would he look up? The color brown?

Brown. It had to mean something. BBROWN. B. Brown. The boy. The shoe. The dog. Buster Brown! Tamara had said that An
tonio Gianetti Junior had been killed with another man. With his attorney whose name was William Brown, but who was known as Buster Brown.

But what now? Of course Buster Brown’s car is being towed. He’s dead and can’t drive. He and Tony Junior probably met at one of these
restaurants earlier and now his car’s been found. So what could he possibly gain by following the tow back to Chicago? Maybe he’d find out where Brown lived, or maybe he’d find out where Brown had his car serviced. And those things didn’t seem useful at all, not at all.

As he slowed the Lincoln and pulled into yet another parking lot to look for vehicles he might have reason to follow, Steve reached over and turned up the volume on the scanner resting on the seat beside him. It was already set up to stop at broadcasts on suburban and State Police and Sheriff’s Police and Chicago Police channels. While he slowly cruised through parking lots listening to the endless babble, he imagined God listening in, becoming angrier and angrier and tear
ing the entire goddamn thing called civilization down because of this babble and because of all the lights of commercialism and because of global warming and because of war and terrorism and because of the absence of anything that would help find Jan. But then, as he turned south on 45 and headed back toward the scene of the accident to have another look, he picked up a call from Frankfort headquarters to one of its cars. It was a brief back-and-forth dialogue between a female base station operator and a male officer.

She mentioned the traffic jam caused by the accident earlier that evening. He said he was glad it happened before he came on duty. She mentioned something about all the “crazies” out there this night and wondered if there was a full moon hidden by all the clouds. He asked what kind of “crazies” and she mentioned a report about cars and a van traveling at high-speed on a back road just before he came on duty. Something about a red car and a van and a couple other cars with people throwing garbage out the windows. She said a farmer called it in and called back a while ago wanting to know if it was all right to go down a certain road.

When the scanner jumped ahead to the next frequency in its se
quence, Steve cradled the steering wheel as best he could with his rot ten right arm and reached across with his left hand and picked up the scanner. He held the scanner against the steering wheel, trying to push the correct button. But he was unable to do it and quickly pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Then he punched the button to go backward in the sequence until he was back at the Frankfort fre quency, and froze the scanner there.

The frequency was silent. He sat there, staring at the scanner. He had pulled into a right-turn lane and knew he could not stay there long, so he drove ahead and turned right into the parking lot of a bank. The frequency was still silent. He adjusted the squelch until he got the hiss of FM static. Still nothing.

Then, suddenly, the male voice boomed out. “Frankfort. Where’d you say the farmer saw the speeding litterbugs?”

Then the female voice, even louder. “North to south on Parker Road just north of Thirty. Says they were throwing trash out when they turned eastbound on One-hundred-eightieth. Pavement ends there for railroad tracks. Farmer says they parked for a time, then took off, but he’s not sure if they all left. Happened a couple hours ago so could be he’s on edge.”

“Roger, Frankfort. Guess I’ll make sure. If anybody needs sleep, it’s farmers.”

After having a hell of a time finding the location because the rental agency map wasn’t detailed enough, Steve sped south on Parker road staring out into the darkness. He had the Lincoln’s brights on and could see a sign for a T a quarter mile ahead. Then he saw a squad car cross the road at the T and slowed the Lincoln to forty. There were
farms spaced out in the area, a few of the houses with lights on, but nothing else. It was after eleven-thirty.

He slowed the Lincoln to a crawl well ahead of the intersection where the squad had crossed. He paused at the T, waiting at the stop sign until the taillights of the squad were out of sight to his right. He was about to turn left when he noticed something lying in the middle of the road. It looked like a jumble of paper. The call on the scanner had said someone had been throwing trash out. As he stared at what he now could see was a magazine on the road, he remembered that be
fore he spotted the squad, and while he was driving slowly after that, there had been an abundance of paper, perhaps other magazines.

He put on the Lincoln’s brights and turned down the road the squad had come out of, already making up an excuse should the squad come back. Something about looking for U.S. 6 and 45. The Frank
fort frequency on the scanner was silent, but he figured he’d probably hear another call to the squad if the farmer who called in was still watching.

As he drove down the road he saw more magazines and thought, kids. A stash of dirty magazines that can’t be left in mom and dad’s car or can’t be brought into the house. Right, a stash of dirty magazines thrown out by kids in vehicles borrowed for a night of joy riding.

But as he drove more slowly, a shiny magazine cover blew up in the wind and he saw the familiar yellow bordered cover of a
National Geo
graphic Magazine
, then he saw another cover, its title
Time
. As if he were in therapy trying to solve a complex puzzle, he had a sudden feeling of success, but it was followed instantaneously by a feeling of dread.

He pulled far to the right on the shoulder and stopped next to a magazine. He opened the door and reached down, bracing his good leg beneath the steering wheel so he wouldn’t fall out onto the road. The magazine was cold and wet. This one was
U.S. News and World
Report
. The cover had something about The Iraq War. He looked at the date. 2003.

He threw the magazine on the passenger seat, kept the door ajar while he drove and pulled to the right again. Another
U.S. News and World Report
. The magazine had flipped open to a page showing pho
tographs of George W. Bush and Al Gore in debate. He remembered relearning about the 2000 election from Jan. Going over and over news from magazines just like this that Jan brought in to Hell in the Woods whenever she visited. Magazines she’d gotten from the librar
ian who said they were online and would be thrown away. Magazines that filled the back seat of Jan’s Audi.

He threw this wet magazine on top of the other on the seat beside him and drove ahead. He did not stop at other magazines on the road but sped toward the dead end. Now there were no more magazines and he passed a sign that said, “Pavement Ends.” The dead end was marked not by a dead end sign, but by a sign with double arrows point
ing left and right.

It was dark at the end of the paved road. Rather than an actual dead end, there was a narrow gravel road to the left and a muddy two-track to the right. He shut off the Lincoln’s lights and engine. He threw the wet magazines into the back seat and got his flashlight out of the bag on the floor. He slid to the right, reaching over to open the passenger door. The transfer to the wheelchair took only a couple minutes.

The rain had stopped completely and the only sound was the drone of traffic in the distance. He wheeled along the edge of the pavement scanning the ground with the flashlight. There wasn’t much to be seen except some broken glass and smashed beer cans. But along the edge of the pavement where the mud two-track went south, he saw what looked like fresh tire tracks. The tires had sunken deep into the
mud. Where there were puddles the tracks were simply trenches with out pattern. But between the puddles, where the ground had drained, he could see the patterns of tire treads.

He found a spot along one side of the tracks where he could roll his chair on the weed bed without sinking in. He examined the tracks, de
termining that at least two vehicles had recently turned in and backed out. He also saw footprints, most of them large, one set medium size. He knew someone had been here recently because the heavy rain from earlier in the day would certainly have washed the detail away. It had not rained for long on these tire tracks and on these footprints. But unless he were able to study the tires on Jan’s Audi and unless he knew exactly what kind of shoes she was wearing …