Maggie.” He stopped beside the front grille of the Pontiac and looked at it. There was a dent in the hood and the plastic grille was cracked in two places. “You been drinking some, hon?”
“No,” she blurted.
“Maybe a little?”
“Well, I mean, yes. I was. Earlier.” She felt confused and foolish. Was she dreaming all this? “I’m not drunk, Cal.”
“Could be you just imagined you’d hit someone…”
“No.”
“Or maybe it was a deer. Maybe it just kept running off into the woods. They can do that, you know. My brother once hit a twelve-point buck up on 40 with his Durango and the thing hardly batted an eye at—”
“No. It wasn’t a deer, Cal.” She felt a strange relief about having to convince him of what, only moments ago, she hadn’t been so sure of herself. Even more peculiar was the laugh she felt threatening to burst from her throat. Was she out here losing her goddamn mind?
“Well, Maggie, there ain’t nobody out there.”
“Did you look in the woods?”
“I did. It’s dark and I don’t got a flashlight but I didn’t see nothing. Didn’t hear nothing, either.”
“The person…was still alive,” she said. Closing her eyes, she could see the split-second glimpse of the face, white as the moon with small, dark eyes. “He crawled over there into the trees.” She pointed.
With his hands on his hips and the John Deere cap now stuffed in the rear pocket of his dungarees, Cal turned back around and surveyed the dark and vacant roadway. “Out here?”
She clutched at one of his forearms with both hands. “What do you mean?”
“Who’d be walking all the way out here at this hour?”
She didn’t care if it didn’t make sense or if Cal fucking Cordrick thought she was out of her mind. She closed her eyes and could clearly see the accident over and over, vivid as a film projected onto a screen.
In a small voice, she added, “I think it was a child.”
Cal sighed and turned back around. He was maybe just a few years older than Maggie, but in the false light of crisscrossing vehicular headlamps he looked ghastly and no younger than a mummy exhumed from an ancient tomb. Again, he raked one thumb along his bristling chin. Car exhaust veiled him like mist.
“Christ,” Maggie moaned. Her knees gave out and she felt herself go down, the world becoming a pixilated grid of smeary light, like looking at the world below from the window of an airliner. “Jesus Christ, Cal.”
Cal Cordrick grabbed her and held her upright. He smelled of camphor and Old Spice. Faintly of bourbon, too, she thought. That kid in the road…
“Hang on there, Maggie. I’m sure Evan can—”
“He’s on the night shift tonight,” she whimpered into Cal’s flannel shirt. She was gripping him as if letting go would cast her off the face of the planet.
“Okay,” Cal said. There was an exhausted gruffness in his voice. His breath settled sourly against her face but she hardly noticed. “Do you think you can drive? I can follow you back to your—”
Trembling, Maggie Quedentock released her two-handed grip on Cal’s shirt. Her body numb and her bones as reliable and sturdy as rubber bands, she sank slowly to the pavement. A high-pitched whine began trilling from her throat.
“I think maybe we need to call the police,” Cal said.
2
It was midnight. Sergeant Benjamin Journell of the Stillwater Police Department stood in Porter Conroy’s field beneath a moon that looked like a skull cracked in half. What had been mild weather earlier that afternoon had turned frigidly cold in the wake of the day’s thunderstorm, and he wished he’d brought his parka from his cruiser.
Ben was thirty-five, unmarried, and he possessed a smooth, clean face and youthful eyes that made him look more like an Ivy League fraternity boy than a police officer. Ben had joined the department the day after his twenty-third birthday, when it became clear to him that, having spent his entire life living in the
“No,” she blurted.
“Maybe a little?”
“Well, I mean, yes. I was. Earlier.” She felt confused and foolish. Was she dreaming all this? “I’m not drunk, Cal.”
“Could be you just imagined you’d hit someone…”
“No.”
“Or maybe it was a deer. Maybe it just kept running off into the woods. They can do that, you know. My brother once hit a twelve-point buck up on 40 with his Durango and the thing hardly batted an eye at—”
“No. It wasn’t a deer, Cal.” She felt a strange relief about having to convince him of what, only moments ago, she hadn’t been so sure of herself. Even more peculiar was the laugh she felt threatening to burst from her throat. Was she out here losing her goddamn mind?
“Well, Maggie, there ain’t nobody out there.”
“Did you look in the woods?”
“I did. It’s dark and I don’t got a flashlight but I didn’t see nothing. Didn’t hear nothing, either.”
“The person…was still alive,” she said. Closing her eyes, she could see the split-second glimpse of the face, white as the moon with small, dark eyes. “He crawled over there into the trees.” She pointed.
With his hands on his hips and the John Deere cap now stuffed in the rear pocket of his dungarees, Cal turned back around and surveyed the dark and vacant roadway. “Out here?”
She clutched at one of his forearms with both hands. “What do you mean?”
“Who’d be walking all the way out here at this hour?”
She didn’t care if it didn’t make sense or if Cal fucking Cordrick thought she was out of her mind. She closed her eyes and could clearly see the accident over and over, vivid as a film projected onto a screen.
In a small voice, she added, “I think it was a child.”
Cal sighed and turned back around. He was maybe just a few years older than Maggie, but in the false light of crisscrossing vehicular headlamps he looked ghastly and no younger than a mummy exhumed from an ancient tomb. Again, he raked one thumb along his bristling chin. Car exhaust veiled him like mist.
“Christ,” Maggie moaned. Her knees gave out and she felt herself go down, the world becoming a pixilated grid of smeary light, like looking at the world below from the window of an airliner. “Jesus Christ, Cal.”
Cal Cordrick grabbed her and held her upright. He smelled of camphor and Old Spice. Faintly of bourbon, too, she thought. That kid in the road…
“Hang on there, Maggie. I’m sure Evan can—”
“He’s on the night shift tonight,” she whimpered into Cal’s flannel shirt. She was gripping him as if letting go would cast her off the face of the planet.
“Okay,” Cal said. There was an exhausted gruffness in his voice. His breath settled sourly against her face but she hardly noticed. “Do you think you can drive? I can follow you back to your—”
Trembling, Maggie Quedentock released her two-handed grip on Cal’s shirt. Her body numb and her bones as reliable and sturdy as rubber bands, she sank slowly to the pavement. A high-pitched whine began trilling from her throat.
“I think maybe we need to call the police,” Cal said.
2
It was midnight. Sergeant Benjamin Journell of the Stillwater Police Department stood in Porter Conroy’s field beneath a moon that looked like a skull cracked in half. What had been mild weather earlier that afternoon had turned frigidly cold in the wake of the day’s thunderstorm, and he wished he’d brought his parka from his cruiser.
Ben was thirty-five, unmarried, and he possessed a smooth, clean face and youthful eyes that made him look more like an Ivy League fraternity boy than a police officer. Ben had joined the department the day after his twenty-third birthday, when it became clear to him that, having spent his entire life living in the
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