Night Terrors (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

I knew, as I pulled onto the highway, that the drive down to Wheeling, West Virginia—which usually took about an hour and change—was going to last a lot longer.

During the night, the weather had turned angry. Fierce winds, hurtling snow, low visibility. Another winter storm thrashing the city, gathering strength as it rolled east.

It was just past nine in the morning, and I was on my way to see Wes Currim.

Fueled by three cups of black coffee, wearing my other Thinsulate coat and gloves, and with the dash heater on high, I drove slowly and deliberately through the blur of the storm. Heavy traffic made the slog from downtown to I-70 East even more ponderous than the radio had warned, so I was glad now, at last, to be out of the city.

The highway itself was barely discernable, merely thin lanes of powdered white, cinder-block snowdrifts forming tunnel walls on either side. I drove in a kind of concentrated silence, hands at ten and two on the wheel, the only sound the metronome-steady squeak of the wipers. Though they fought a losing battle with the frost caking the windshield, testament to the numbing cold outside.

As I crossed the state line, traffic thinned in both directions, though the storm's intensity had increased. By the time I'd register the high beams of an approaching car or truck, emerging out of the swirling cloud of snow, our two vehicles would just about pass each other.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, peering with renewed focus on the road ahead.

So naturally my cell rang. It was in its dash holder, and I could see the caller's number. Eleanor Lowrey. I pushed the button for the hands-free app.

“Where are you, Danny?”

“On my way to see Wes Currim. In Wheeling.”

“I heard about that case. Should I even ask why you're visiting a confessed murderer?”

“I wouldn't bother. Long story.”

“Can't wait to hear it. Meanwhile, the
real
news is that Harry's fine.”

“That's great, Eleanor.”

“I just left his room. He's still groggy, high as a kite on pain meds. But Doctor Yu says he'll definitely make a complete recovery.”

“Do they know how long he'll be out of commission?”

“You know docs, they never want to make promises they can't keep. But looks like Harry's gonna need at least a month to recuperate.”

“Which means he'll give himself a week, right?”

“Not if
I
have anything to say about it. He's gonna get the rest he needs, even if I gotta tie him to his bed. Though Biegler's bummed as hell about it, since the department's stretched pretty thin at the moment. With the shooter still out there and the FBI detailing every spare cop to help look for that Barnes guy, losing a veteran like Harry is a real blow.”

“Speaking of which, how's the investigation going?”

“It isn't. We're fielding every tip we get, chasing every lead, but coming up empty. It's gotten so bad, we're recanvassing all the crime scenes again. Cranshaw, the judge, and Claire Cobb. And the warehouse where Vincent Beck was killed.”

“Maybe you'll get lucky.”

Her reply was a wry chuckle. If there was one thing this investigation was lacking so far, it was luck.

“Listen, Danny—”

Just then, a quartet of blazing lights appeared up ahead, glazing my windshield. A huge semi, heading west, rumbled past me. The wind shear made my Mustang's chassis shudder, doors rattling in their hinges.

I heard Eleanor gasp over the cell's tiny speaker.

“What the hell was that?”

“Semi. Big sucker.”

“I assume you have tire chains.”

“Put 'em on myself this morning.”

“Good, 'cause I want you back in town in one piece. See, I remembered what I wanted to ask you the last time I called. Once I knew Harry was okay, it came back to me.”

“What's on your mind?”

“Remember when we talked about working out together? Us two quasi-jocks? Last summer?”

“If I recall, it was more like a challenge. So?”

“Well, we never got around to it. We've both been busy, plus I had all that grief with my family…”

A long pause from her end. My turn, I guessed.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Detective?”

“Don't flatter yourself. I just figured…I mean, I was planning to hit the gym later this afternoon, anyway. Helps me think. Clears the cobwebs. I thought you might want to meet up there. If you're free.”

“I don't know…sounds suspiciously like a date to me.”

“Jesus, Rinaldi. How tough you gonna make this?”

I laughed. “I'm just screwing with you, Eleanor. Time and place?”

“The precinct gym, near the Old County Building. They just renovated the place. It's pretty nice. How's four?”

“Four o'clock it is. I should be down and back long before then.”

“Good. Machines and free weights. And, Danny..?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't worry, I won't show you up too badly.”

Her laugh was as warm and inviting as any man could want. A sound that stayed in my mind for more than a few moments after we hung up.

I took a long breath, brought my attention back to the road. Eleanor Lowrey and I had been dancing around each other's lives since last year, though duty, family, and circumstance seemed to conspire against us. Not to mention the fact that she was a cop, and I consulted with the department, which made us colleagues. Sort of.

Great
, I thought. If there's a way to complicate things, I'd find it. Maybe it was the therapist in me. Though I sure as hell hoped not.

A road sign appeared out of the storm on my right.

Wheeling, fifteen miles.

I smiled to myself. Between my intense focus on driving and the conversation with Eleanor, I hadn't even noticed I'd crossed the state line into West Virginia.

Feeling more settled, I reached into my CD stack and took out a—Suddenly, a dark shape filled my rear view mirror. Large, metallic. High beams blazing.

The grille of a truck. Coming up fast behind me.

Even with my windows sealed tight and the heater blasting, I heard its ominous roar.

Gutteral. Insistent.

I tore my gaze from the rear view, risked craning around to see.

It was a junkyard pickup, battered, salt-pitted. License plate held by one screw, twisting in the wind, unreadable. Headlights flashing on and off.

I couldn't see the driver behind the cracked, ice-caked windshield. Just the massive front of the truck getting closer and closer, bearing down on me.

My temples pounding in my ears, I turned back to the road ahead. Nothing but a grey, nightmarish billow, from which came an unending rush of snow. Swirling, cascading.

Without a thought, I sped up. Racing blindly into the maw of the storm.

A glance at the rear view. He was accelerating, too.

Gaining on me. Faster and faster.

Fucking lunatic!
Was he going to—?

The sickening sound of metal against metal as he rear-ended me. The Mustang lurching forward.

I felt the powerful jolt, pain spider-webbing up my back. Panic rising, I gripped the wheel tighter, struggling to maintain control as he rammed me again from behind.

This time, my car's chains spun uselessly and I careened into the oncoming lane. Taking every ounce of strength to right myself again. Pumping the brakes.

Just as another quartet of high, nova-bright lights emerged from the storm. Another semi, barreling toward me. I was in his lane, struggling to slow down. Regain control.

He wouldn't even see me until it was too late.

A cry I didn't recognize tore from my throat as I swung the wheel with all my might, angling back toward my own lane. Swerving to avoid those twenty relentless tons of steel and rubber.

The semi roared past on my left, missing me by the width of a hand. Wind shear was twice as potent as I'd felt before. My car shaking, as though it might come apart.

Not even daring to breathe, I focused on steadying myself in my lane. Then slowly accelerating. Pulling away.

I didn't make it.

The pickup filled my rear view again. Engine whining louder than the storm's wail, it rammed me again.

The impact lifted me half out of my seat, steering wheel spinning under my fingers. I managed to grab it, hold it steady. A death grip.

Too late. I was fishtailing on the icy asphalt. Skidding. Chained tires screaming in protest, I tried to turn in the direction of the skid.

No luck. As though caught in a vortex, I went into a 360-degree spin. The world outside my windows rushing in a formless, circular whirl.

The air pushed out from my lungs. Time became fluid, unreal. There was only the feeling of directionless motion. Unstoppable. Going faster and faster.

By the time the car righted itself, coming out of the spin, it was hurtling in a diagonal across the oncoming lane. And then I was bumping off the side of the road, plowing through the banked snow at full speed. Tilting and rattling as I hit the white-blanketed woods beyond. Ice-glazed branches scraping the windows, clawing the sides of the car. Loud, hawk-like screeches.

Until, finally, the Mustang's nose buried itself in a shallow ditch full of snow and frozen mud. And shuddered to a stop.

Gasping, head thudding painfully, I scrambled from behind the wheel. Stumbled out into the ceaseless cold, the buffeting wind. Ice cracking beneath my boots.

Clutching the door frame, I peered out onto the snow-shrouded road, just in time to see the rear lights of the pickup as it roared by.

Vanishing into the belly of the storm.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-five

“Meth freaks. Hadda be.”

Chief Avery Block, Wheeling PD, came around his desk holding two steaming mugs of black coffee. Behind him, the carafe burbled noisily, sharing shelf space with a photo of some lakeside cabin, a small plastic replica of City Hall, and a bronzed bowling trophy.

I gratefully took a mug between my two chafed hands.

“I heard there're a lot of meth labs in the area.” I swear my teeth were still chattering. Post-impact stress.

Chief Block snorted, then sat on the corner of his desk. Weary gaze angling down at me, sitting in the room's only other chair.

“Shit, it's a growth industry around here. Only part of the economy still goin' strong, I guess.”

The chief's office at the main precinct was larger than I'd expected, but otherwise bore all the familiar markers. Wood-paneled. Shoulder-high metal files. The governor's official photo on the wall, framed importantly between the American flag and the state one.

Standard issue or not, the office had a good working heater, and at the moment that was all I cared about. That, and the unlikely fact I was still alive.

After the crash, I'd no sooner tried climbing out of the roadside ditch than I felt a rushing wave of nausea. I stumbled, fell forward, gasping. My vision was blurred, and a sudden, searing pain buckled my neck. Whiplash, maybe.

Aching and shivering, gulping frigid air, I staggered up the embankment to the edge of the road. Instinctively rubbing my sore neck, I just sat there, winded, knees drawn up. Listening to the hollow pounding of my heart.

Finally, I managed to call AAA on my cell and ask for a tow truck. Then I phoned Chief Block and explained that I'd be a bit late in arriving, though I didn't tell him why. Not then.

When the tow truck showed up, the driver got out, took one look at my car, and shook his head.

“Well, it ain't totalled, mister. But damned near.”

I'd gotten shakily to my feet to help him secure a tow line to the rear of the Mustang, but he waved me off. Luckily, the ditch was shallow enough that pulling the car out wasn't too difficult. But it was plainly undriveable.

I gingerly joined him in the front seat of the truck and we towed my car to an auto repair shop the driver knew. Once there, I spent another twenty minutes with the shop's service manager, who explained he'd need until Monday afternoon—at the earliest—to call me with an estimate. Given his look of barely-contained glee, I knew the repairs would be costly.

Not that I had much choice. So I signed some papers, shook hands with the guy, and asked if there was a car rental place nearby. He pointed to the peak-roofed building across the street.

By the time I'd rented a late-model Ford sedan and gotten back on the road, it was nearing noon. The storm had abated. Winds decreasing, snow thinning to flurries. Pale fingers of sunlight reaching through the trees.

Thankfully, my vision had cleared by then, though my neck had grown stiff, throbbing painfully. Every time I turned the wheel, I felt my shoulders pinch, as though snagged on something.

I stopped at a local store for Motrin, downed three pills with some bottled water, then drove on to the Wheeling precinct, where a bored, chinless desk officer directed me to Chief Block's office.

“Goddam meth dealers think they rule the roads,” the Chief was saying now, between tentative sips from his mug. “We hear of somebody gettin' hassled about once a week. Not just tourists, either. Business people, families. Hell, last year a couple o' them joy-ridin' sons-o'-bitches ran a squad car off the road.”

“So you don't think this was maybe somebody trying to stop me from talking to Wes Currim?”

He laughed bitterly.

“Listen, Doc, if it was in my power,
I'd
stop you from talkin' to Currim. But the order came from upstairs, so my hands are tied. Though I still think it's bullshit.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause the crazy bastard confessed! He's guilty, and he knows he's guilty. So do I. So does everybody.”

“His mother tells a different story, Chief.”

“Yeah, well, she would, wouldn't she?”

Rousing himself, he hauled his heavy frame off his desk and re-took his seat behind it. As he leaned back, the wheeled leather chair squeaked in protest.

“Now don't cause no trouble, okay, Doc? This visit with Currim is just a formality. A favor our bleedin' heart lady DA is doin' for the bleedin' hearts up your way. I mean, we appreciate your helpin' out with Currim before, but here's where it ends. You good with that?”

I nodded. “Believe me, I see it pretty much the same way. One short meeting with Currim and then I'm gone.”

This seemed to mollify him, for he gave me his version of a smile and pushed a button on his desk phone console.

“Hey, Harve…? Ya wanna step in my office?”

In moments, Sergeant Harve Randall entered, a bulky fur-collared parka over his police uniform. I rose and we shook hands. He was as spare and wiry as I remembered.

“How's it hangin', Doc?” Randall grinned. “Sure didn't expect to see
you
again. After what we found up at the old house, poor Ed Meachem hacked all to pieces, I figured you'd seen ‘bout enough of this place.”

“I'm kind of surprised myself, Sergeant.”

Block looked up as he casually unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum. “Do me a favor, will ya, Harve? Escort the doc over to lock-up. He's here to see Wes Currim.”

Randall frowned. “No shit? What for?”

“That ain't our concern, Sergeant. Now just do what I asked ya, okay? The sooner he sees Wes, the sooner he can be on his way.”

Block popped the gum in his mouth. “No offense, Doc.”

“None taken.”

***

Slapping his arms against the cold, Randall led me across the plowed precinct lot to the adjacent building. The lockup was a predictably bleak, block-long structure, all gray brick and barred windows. Pockets of snow rounded its corners, icicles hung from its low eaves. Though I doubted it looked any less forbidding in the summer.

“Don't mind Chief Block.” Randall's breath was coming in puffs. “He's nearin' retirement, and lately he just hates aggravation. This Currim thing—”

“A bit too public for the chief, I'll bet.”

Randall chuckled. “Damn straight. They practically had to drag him in front o' the camera when the DA gave her press conference.”

“I saw.
You
didn't look too happy, either.”

“No, sir. Not one bit.”

He stopped then and spread his hands, taking in the near-deserted lot.

“Anyway, that was the last straw for the chief. Past couple days, this place was swarmin' with reporters, TV news vans. He finally put his foot down, had the mayor tell 'em to clear out. We weren't grantin' any more interviews, and havin' all that ruckus here was interferin' with the investigation.”

“Looks like it worked.”

We'd arrived at the heavy double doors fronting the building. Plexiglass windows interlaced with wire netting.

Randall paused again, gloved hand on the door knob.

“Look, Doc, I ain't no shrink, but if you want my advice, don't say nothin' bad to Wes about his mother. She was in here yesterday, and one o' the guards musta said somethin' about her, 'cause Wes kinda lost it. Yellin' and screamin' like all get-out. Hadda be subdued.”

“Is he okay? Was he hurt?”

“No, nothin' like that. He calmed right down, sounds like. But, man, he's got some kinda weird thing with her. Ya know? Like he's her little husband or some shit. Totally fucked up.”

I didn't reply. After a moment, Randall shrugged, feigning disinterest, and pushed open the door.

I followed him into the small front lobby, where he introduced me to the desk officer and had me sign in. Then he directed me to a narrow corridor.

“Go on down and make a left, and you'll see the cell block door. Guard there will take you to the visitors' area and bring Wes in to you there.”

I thanked him and started down the corridor. He called after me. I stopped, turned.

“Listen, Doc,” he said, voice oddly tentative. “Ya want me to look into that thing with the pickup? Maybe try to find out who ran you off the road?”

“I appreciate the offer, Sergeant. But you're probably not going to find anything, are you?”

He sheepishly scratched his ear. “Probably not.”

I nodded and headed back down the corridor.