A terrible feeling had come over Ann, that she’d missed something important back at the accident scene. It was true that once she’d come upon the dead elk she’d been too absorbed to think of anything else.
She had no idea of what to do except to turn around and keep driving. If Mitch and the sheriff had gone to Buoy City, then no one had seen them. She’d stopped in at the town’s only filling station and minimart, which was doing a brisk business in spite of the storm, had in fact sold out most of its cold beer. The boy working the counter had recognized her, didn’t charge her for the cup of coffee she took to go. He was good looking she’d thought at the time, talked to her as if they’d known each other. Certain that she had never seen him before in her life, she’d played along to spare them both any embarrassment.
The sky had started to clear again and the moon, now bone white and granular, drifted over the iron water like a discarded shell. Few people were out driving yet, probably too drunk by now to even attempt it. A couple of semi trucks she’d recognized from the 101 parking lot passed her, going fast to make up for lost time.
The road flares were all burned out and the powder they’d left behind had been washed away by the rain. Ann missed the spot the first time and had to go several miles ahead before finding a safe place to turn around. That’s when she’d seen the strange man walking down the highway, dressed in a long overcoat and black combat boots. Something had compelled her to stop-the crazy notion that maybe he’d seen something that could help her. When she’d gotten out of her car to talk to him she’d held firmly to the.38 in her jacket pocket, a birthday gift from her grandfather.
Living on the coast, Ann had encountered hundreds drifter types making their journeys up and down the highway. Many didn’t stay put for long out of fear. Some claimed to be in search of a truth or a place to call home while others told her they were motivated by sheer wanderlust. Ann wondered how many found what they were looking for, if the ones who had been at it for years would ever be able to live a normal existence. The man she’d seen tonight fell into the late stage category-too crazy and too filthy to ever have any success at hitch hiking although it didn’t stop them from trying. What made this one stand out in Ann’s mind was his purposeful stride and erect head. He reminded her of an old story, a tale about a king in disguise, wandering to the ends of his kingdom to find an important truth. When he’d turned to her it was as if the single eye shining between the curtains of his collarbone-length hair was as large and knowing as an elk’s. Ann knew then she should have been scared-that even having a gun was no guarantee she’d be able to stop an attack. But the man had kept moving, seemingly uninterested in her or the prospect of getting a ride.
She walked down to place where she’d imagined the crash site to be and stayed on the side opposite of where the elk lay. With her flashlight she followed the sloping hill of undergrowth that led down to a row of trees standing on the edge of the cliff as if they were night divers waiting their turn. That’s when she saw the glimmer of a taillight in the thick salal, felt her chest sting while she held on to a small pine to catch her breath. After she got off the road she came upon a set of tire tracks, obvious scars of orange clay. She ran down with them until she reached the trees lined along the top of the cornice.
When she pulled away the undergrowth the trunk of the patrol car began to appear, a smooth polished hump of black. Sticky vines clung to her legs as she worked her way around to the front. If the trees hadn’t been here to stop it, the car would have easily gone into the sea. The right door was wedged open, its hinge twisted in the opposite direction by a violent force. But the inside of the car was empty. Ann noticed the coffee cup Mitch had bought from her earlier lying on the floor, the banana slugs moving across the windshield.
You’re too late.
She sat down next to the car and cried, imagining what Tammy must have gone through, wondering if she was even still alive. She had no doubts that what she’d seen in Tammy’s house was real-the signs of a struggle, the blood on the sink. She was jolted by a disturbing idea. Could the attacker have been Mitch? The pieces fell together so readily-the bruises on his face, his bandaged hand. The story about falling on the jetty could have been made up for all she knew. But would Mitch hurt Tammy? The more she thought about it the more she tried to push the idea away. It was too easy. A question worth asking, but impossible to fathom. She’d known them both for too long. And why would he have suggested that she visit Tammy at the 101 if he’d had something to hide? Tammy wasn’t the kind of person to keep her mouth shut. If she’d had problems with Mitch the whole town would have known about it.
There wasn’t anything else to do but to head back to Traitor Bay and hope someone had shown. She climbed back up to the highway and turned around to see if she could still see the patrol car but even the blinking taillight was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. A fog was creeping up from the cliff and pooling in the hollow depressions left by landslides.
She didn’t pass the man again, wondered if he’d set up camp back in the woods or if he’d broken into one of the darkened cabins that remained vacant most of the winter. An escape from the rain and cold. Steaks in the freezer, electric heat and a comfortable bed. Dressers and closets with clothes that might fit. Cable tv. Yet for some reason he didn’t seem like the type to take risks unless they were absolutely essential. He traveled light and after dark and, she imagined, no matter how crazy his thoughts would make him he knew that he had to keep his head below the radar.