she sees firemen with crowbars. There’s another groaning sound as the Audi’s doors are pried open.
Megan’s wobbly and her chest aches where the seat belt wrenched her. Blood drains from her head; it’s a light-headed, bleached-out feeling, and the night turns white. A cold, prickly sensation rushes up her arms as she’s led away from the car. She hears Adrian say something, but it’s all so far away. She sits on grass—wet with evening dew—far from the car. The car’s crushed front end rests atop the remnants of a low stone wall. Its headlights cast white shafts of light into the air.
Adrian talks with police officers, describing what happened. How calm and unruffled he seems. It must come from doing surgery—life and death, a daily routine for him. But Megan feels hazy, dazed. And above all, so frightened she’s shaking.
“No,” Adrian says. “I never got the plate.”
“Did you see the driver?” asks a cop.
“No, it had darkened windows.”
Megan wonders if the cop might think Adrian was DUI and just lost control of the car. After all, his breath must smell of wine. But there’s a young man there—a buzz-cut college kid wearing a Fairfield University sweatshirt and jeans.
“Yes, Officer,” the kid says. “I was right behind them and saw the whole thing. A pickup just ran them off the road. No reason.”
“What color was it?”
“Dark, but I’m not sure because of the sodium lights,” the kid says. “It could’ve been dark blue or black. Its plates were spattered with mud.”
“Any identifying marks?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Could you make out the brand? Ford, Toyota … anything?”
“It could’ve been a Ford F-250 or maybe a Toyota Tundra, but I’m not sure.”
Cars slow to a crawl on the Post Road as people rubberneck. Cops direct traffic. Headlights pierce the night air; a stream of red taillights snakes off in the direction heading toward Fairfield; horns blare; Megan hears snippets of conversation. She nearly recoils at the smell of gasoline and smoke in the damp night air.
My God! We were run off the road by a madman .
Megan’s shaking as she wonders why she didn’t take Ann’s advice, why she didn’t call an investigation agency—some by-the-hour PI who could run a quick check—find out where on earth Conrad is. It might take a few hours, but he could be located quickly. God, he could be back here in Connecticut . Was the pickup Conrad’s from years back? His was black—and this monster? She just glimpsed it. It’s three years now. Who knows if he even has that big Ford.
An EMS guy squats beside her. He looks into her eyes, scribbles something, and asks questions. God, he reeks of cologne—smells like Paco Rabanne or some other crap. Nauseating, cloying, absolutely puke-worthy. It’s worse than those gladioli. A sickeningly sweet scent seeps into her nostrils, penetrating her brain. Megan feels she could vomit.
He asks her name, the date, where they are, other questions: time, place, and person—the whole mental status thing. He’s trying to see if she suffered a concussion. He shines a penlight into her eyes. The small circle of light is blinding.
“You should come to the emergency room,” he says.
“I’m all right,” she mutters, though a surge of nausea flows through her.
“Ms. Haggarty, you’re a nurse. You know you could have internal injuries.”
Oh God, he recognizes me from the hospital .
“I’m fine,” she says, looking at his name tag: Rodriguez.
I don’t recognize this guy; I never saw him before and yet he knows my name. God, am I getting paranoid?
Another technician rolls a gurney onto the grass.
“I really think you should go to the ER.”
“Just give me the form and I’ll sign it. You’re off the hook.”
“Any nausea?”
“No.” She swallows, hoping she doesn’t hurl on his shoes. That would nail it—she’d be off to the ER.
Lights flash and police radios still crackle. A dispatcher’s voice on
Megan’s wobbly and her chest aches where the seat belt wrenched her. Blood drains from her head; it’s a light-headed, bleached-out feeling, and the night turns white. A cold, prickly sensation rushes up her arms as she’s led away from the car. She hears Adrian say something, but it’s all so far away. She sits on grass—wet with evening dew—far from the car. The car’s crushed front end rests atop the remnants of a low stone wall. Its headlights cast white shafts of light into the air.
Adrian talks with police officers, describing what happened. How calm and unruffled he seems. It must come from doing surgery—life and death, a daily routine for him. But Megan feels hazy, dazed. And above all, so frightened she’s shaking.
“No,” Adrian says. “I never got the plate.”
“Did you see the driver?” asks a cop.
“No, it had darkened windows.”
Megan wonders if the cop might think Adrian was DUI and just lost control of the car. After all, his breath must smell of wine. But there’s a young man there—a buzz-cut college kid wearing a Fairfield University sweatshirt and jeans.
“Yes, Officer,” the kid says. “I was right behind them and saw the whole thing. A pickup just ran them off the road. No reason.”
“What color was it?”
“Dark, but I’m not sure because of the sodium lights,” the kid says. “It could’ve been dark blue or black. Its plates were spattered with mud.”
“Any identifying marks?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Could you make out the brand? Ford, Toyota … anything?”
“It could’ve been a Ford F-250 or maybe a Toyota Tundra, but I’m not sure.”
Cars slow to a crawl on the Post Road as people rubberneck. Cops direct traffic. Headlights pierce the night air; a stream of red taillights snakes off in the direction heading toward Fairfield; horns blare; Megan hears snippets of conversation. She nearly recoils at the smell of gasoline and smoke in the damp night air.
My God! We were run off the road by a madman .
Megan’s shaking as she wonders why she didn’t take Ann’s advice, why she didn’t call an investigation agency—some by-the-hour PI who could run a quick check—find out where on earth Conrad is. It might take a few hours, but he could be located quickly. God, he could be back here in Connecticut . Was the pickup Conrad’s from years back? His was black—and this monster? She just glimpsed it. It’s three years now. Who knows if he even has that big Ford.
An EMS guy squats beside her. He looks into her eyes, scribbles something, and asks questions. God, he reeks of cologne—smells like Paco Rabanne or some other crap. Nauseating, cloying, absolutely puke-worthy. It’s worse than those gladioli. A sickeningly sweet scent seeps into her nostrils, penetrating her brain. Megan feels she could vomit.
He asks her name, the date, where they are, other questions: time, place, and person—the whole mental status thing. He’s trying to see if she suffered a concussion. He shines a penlight into her eyes. The small circle of light is blinding.
“You should come to the emergency room,” he says.
“I’m all right,” she mutters, though a surge of nausea flows through her.
“Ms. Haggarty, you’re a nurse. You know you could have internal injuries.”
Oh God, he recognizes me from the hospital .
“I’m fine,” she says, looking at his name tag: Rodriguez.
I don’t recognize this guy; I never saw him before and yet he knows my name. God, am I getting paranoid?
Another technician rolls a gurney onto the grass.
“I really think you should go to the ER.”
“Just give me the form and I’ll sign it. You’re off the hook.”
“Any nausea?”
“No.” She swallows, hoping she doesn’t hurl on his shoes. That would nail it—she’d be off to the ER.
Lights flash and police radios still crackle. A dispatcher’s voice on
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