Cold Justice: A Judge Willa Carson Mystery (The Hunt for Justice) by Diane Capri Page A
Authors: Diane Capri
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sporting a winter wonderland license plate and me trying to read the yellow highlighted route on the map because GPS was unreliable here, we traveled along the blacktop, skimming through the seven-foot snow tunnel open to the sky and the breathtaking beauty captured me once again.
Or maybe it was the frigid and unrelenting cold that stole my breath away.
Eventually, we reached U.S. 31 North, left Traverse City behind and headed toward Pleasant Harbor, about fifty miles north on the two-lane, according to the map.
We should have been there in about an hour. Ninety minutes tops.
CHAPTER TWO
The road hugged East Bay all the way up. The driving was easy. The day was gorgeous. What’s not to like? I chided myself.
On our left was an unobstructed vista across frozen Grand Traverse Bay toward Old Mission Peninsula. Grape fields and cherry orchards barely poked above the snow. Shanties perched on the ice for fishing and there were a couple of ice boats, sails filled with blasting cold wind, racing back and forth. A recent storm had dipped even the smallest tree branches in ice gloves that sparkled in the sunlight.
We both wore our sunglasses, which seemed silly when the temperature here was exactly one hundred degrees lower than what we’d left at home this morning. According to the Jeep’s thermometer, it was a frosty three degrees outside. Yet the sun’s glare was brighter than back in Tampa.
Snow was piled five feet high on the right side of the road, exposing a view of nothing but a solid white wall outside the passenger window.
I reached over and flipped the fan to maximum and simultaneously pressed the button to lower the window.
George asked, more than a little testily, “I like the cold, but are you trying to freeze me to death?”
“Listening to the quiet,” I told him.
The snow covered everything with a blanket of silence that muffled even the country sounds of the farmland we were driving through now. Except for what could have been snowmobiles in the distance, I didn’t hear a cow or a horse or anything. Blissful silence.
“Well, can you just imagine the quiet?” George snapped. “I’m freezing my ass off over here.”
I would have refused on principle alone, but it was really quite cold. I rolled the window back up, preparing to give him some lip about it, when we rounded a curve in the road and I glanced out the windshield.
“George! Stop!” I yelled and braced for impact.
He slammed on the brakes, both hands on the wheel. A sound like “Yaaaaaa!” exploded from his throat as he pumped the brake pedal.
Something oddly detached in my mind wondered whether pumping the brakes was the right thing to do.
The Jeep slewed into the oncoming traffic lane. George wrestled with the steering wheel and got back on track, but we continued to slide. Finally, the Jeep stopped.
Mere inches before we’d have slammed into the rear of the white Toyota SUV sitting dead still in the middle of our northbound traffic lane.
If we hadn’t been wearing our seatbelts, we’d both have been thrown into the windshield. As it was, we were jerked back like snapped rubber bands. Fortunately, the airbags didn’t deploy, although I wondered why not while my heart pounded like a thundering herd of wild buffalo in my chest and the sound amplified in my ears.
A few moments of silence enveloped the Jeep inside and out as we gathered our senses and discovered that we were not hurt.
The fluffy down parka I wore over a heavy wool sweater padded me enough that I might avoid a dandy seatbelt-shaped bruise across my torso tomorrow.
Otherwise, we were shook up, but fine.
“What the hell?” George eventually asked. His tone implied actual curiosity, a bit of his trademark composure returning. “There’s not a sign of a taillight or a flasher on that vehicle.”
The Toyota hadn’t moved since I’d first glimpsed it. I could see no brake nor tail lights nor flashers of any kind, either.
And the engine was off.
If
Or maybe it was the frigid and unrelenting cold that stole my breath away.
Eventually, we reached U.S. 31 North, left Traverse City behind and headed toward Pleasant Harbor, about fifty miles north on the two-lane, according to the map.
We should have been there in about an hour. Ninety minutes tops.
CHAPTER TWO
The road hugged East Bay all the way up. The driving was easy. The day was gorgeous. What’s not to like? I chided myself.
On our left was an unobstructed vista across frozen Grand Traverse Bay toward Old Mission Peninsula. Grape fields and cherry orchards barely poked above the snow. Shanties perched on the ice for fishing and there were a couple of ice boats, sails filled with blasting cold wind, racing back and forth. A recent storm had dipped even the smallest tree branches in ice gloves that sparkled in the sunlight.
We both wore our sunglasses, which seemed silly when the temperature here was exactly one hundred degrees lower than what we’d left at home this morning. According to the Jeep’s thermometer, it was a frosty three degrees outside. Yet the sun’s glare was brighter than back in Tampa.
Snow was piled five feet high on the right side of the road, exposing a view of nothing but a solid white wall outside the passenger window.
I reached over and flipped the fan to maximum and simultaneously pressed the button to lower the window.
George asked, more than a little testily, “I like the cold, but are you trying to freeze me to death?”
“Listening to the quiet,” I told him.
The snow covered everything with a blanket of silence that muffled even the country sounds of the farmland we were driving through now. Except for what could have been snowmobiles in the distance, I didn’t hear a cow or a horse or anything. Blissful silence.
“Well, can you just imagine the quiet?” George snapped. “I’m freezing my ass off over here.”
I would have refused on principle alone, but it was really quite cold. I rolled the window back up, preparing to give him some lip about it, when we rounded a curve in the road and I glanced out the windshield.
“George! Stop!” I yelled and braced for impact.
He slammed on the brakes, both hands on the wheel. A sound like “Yaaaaaa!” exploded from his throat as he pumped the brake pedal.
Something oddly detached in my mind wondered whether pumping the brakes was the right thing to do.
The Jeep slewed into the oncoming traffic lane. George wrestled with the steering wheel and got back on track, but we continued to slide. Finally, the Jeep stopped.
Mere inches before we’d have slammed into the rear of the white Toyota SUV sitting dead still in the middle of our northbound traffic lane.
If we hadn’t been wearing our seatbelts, we’d both have been thrown into the windshield. As it was, we were jerked back like snapped rubber bands. Fortunately, the airbags didn’t deploy, although I wondered why not while my heart pounded like a thundering herd of wild buffalo in my chest and the sound amplified in my ears.
A few moments of silence enveloped the Jeep inside and out as we gathered our senses and discovered that we were not hurt.
The fluffy down parka I wore over a heavy wool sweater padded me enough that I might avoid a dandy seatbelt-shaped bruise across my torso tomorrow.
Otherwise, we were shook up, but fine.
“What the hell?” George eventually asked. His tone implied actual curiosity, a bit of his trademark composure returning. “There’s not a sign of a taillight or a flasher on that vehicle.”
The Toyota hadn’t moved since I’d first glimpsed it. I could see no brake nor tail lights nor flashers of any kind, either.
And the engine was off.
If
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