driver had decided he didn’t want to crash into the wall. The back of the truck slammed into the Edsel’s taillight, knocking the car a quarter turn to the right and throwing Rhodes hard against the steering wheel. Ivy had put on her seat belt already, so she didn’t hit the dashboard.
Rhodes fumbled at his ankle holster. The Velco made a ripping sound, and he had the pistol in his hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I guess,” Ivy replied.
She sounded breathless. Rhodes was breathless, too, and his chest hurt. He hoped it was just bruised and that he didn’t have any cracked ribs. He stepped out of the car and hobbled off after the truck, which had scraped along the side of the building and turned the corner.
“Where are you going?” Ivy asked.
“After that truck,” Rhodes told her, nearly tripping on the truck’s rearview mirror, which was lying where it had fallen after being knocked off by the wall. He shoved the mirror aside and kept going, though it hurt to breathe.
He heard the howl of breaks behind the building, then a crash, followed by the grinding screech of steel on concrete. The truck’s engine roared.
Rhodes got to the back of the restaurant, and, forgetting everything he’d ever learned, known, and experienced, made the turn around the corner without first having a look.
The truck was coming straight at him, its high beams blazing.
He could have planted his feet, stood his ground, and maybe gotten off one shot before the brush guard hit him. He had a flash of himself spread-eagled on the front of it like a character in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
So he didn’t take the time to shoot. He threw himself to the side, landing on his left shoulder. He rolled over a time or two and wound up on his back.
The big tires hissed by him on the asphalt. The truck squealed around the corner and was gone.
Rhodes lay on his back for a few seconds, making sure that he could still breathe. Now his shoulder hurt as much as his chest, but at least his lungs worked. That was bound to be a good sign.
He sat up and noticed that he was still holding his pistol. Another good sign. A lawman doesn’t let go of his weapon.
“Can you stand up?” Ivy asked.
She stood in front of him, looking down. Rhodes hadn’t noticed her arrival.
“I’m fine,” he said, and with a little effort he got to his feet. He stuck the pistol in his pocket and tried to brush himself off.
“You don’t look fine. What happened back here?”
Rhodes wasn’t sure. He turned to see if Kergan was still around. As he turned, the back door of the restaurant opened and people started to come out to see what all the commotion was about.
Someone screamed. Rhodes didn’t know who it was. He walked to where the Dumpster sat. It had been shoved five or six feet from its original position. Big gouges in the asphalt showed its path.
Kergan was in front of the Dumpster, looking like something that belonged inside it. The truck had hit him, then pushed him against the Dumpster. Kergan had been squashed, but not like a cartoon character. Like a flesh and blood man. Mangled flesh and too much blood. Rhodes was glad for the bad lighting.
Rhodes told everyone to go back inside. Some of the more morbid among them wanted to get a better look at Kergan’s remains, but Rhodes didn’t allow it.
When they tried to push past him anyway, he told them to get back in or he’d arrest them. That did the trick. They left, although reluctantly. Rhodes knew they’d be talking about what they’d seen for weeks. It wasn’t that they were bad people. It was just that violent death had a way of arousing a kind of curiosity in them that they might not even have known was there.
“What are you going to do?” Ivy asked. Her eyes looked stricken.
“Make some calls,” Rhodes told her.
Chapter 12
MUCH LATER, AFTER THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE HAD DECLARED Kergan dead, after the ambulance had taken him away, after the scene had been secured as well as
Rhodes fumbled at his ankle holster. The Velco made a ripping sound, and he had the pistol in his hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I guess,” Ivy replied.
She sounded breathless. Rhodes was breathless, too, and his chest hurt. He hoped it was just bruised and that he didn’t have any cracked ribs. He stepped out of the car and hobbled off after the truck, which had scraped along the side of the building and turned the corner.
“Where are you going?” Ivy asked.
“After that truck,” Rhodes told her, nearly tripping on the truck’s rearview mirror, which was lying where it had fallen after being knocked off by the wall. He shoved the mirror aside and kept going, though it hurt to breathe.
He heard the howl of breaks behind the building, then a crash, followed by the grinding screech of steel on concrete. The truck’s engine roared.
Rhodes got to the back of the restaurant, and, forgetting everything he’d ever learned, known, and experienced, made the turn around the corner without first having a look.
The truck was coming straight at him, its high beams blazing.
He could have planted his feet, stood his ground, and maybe gotten off one shot before the brush guard hit him. He had a flash of himself spread-eagled on the front of it like a character in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
So he didn’t take the time to shoot. He threw himself to the side, landing on his left shoulder. He rolled over a time or two and wound up on his back.
The big tires hissed by him on the asphalt. The truck squealed around the corner and was gone.
Rhodes lay on his back for a few seconds, making sure that he could still breathe. Now his shoulder hurt as much as his chest, but at least his lungs worked. That was bound to be a good sign.
He sat up and noticed that he was still holding his pistol. Another good sign. A lawman doesn’t let go of his weapon.
“Can you stand up?” Ivy asked.
She stood in front of him, looking down. Rhodes hadn’t noticed her arrival.
“I’m fine,” he said, and with a little effort he got to his feet. He stuck the pistol in his pocket and tried to brush himself off.
“You don’t look fine. What happened back here?”
Rhodes wasn’t sure. He turned to see if Kergan was still around. As he turned, the back door of the restaurant opened and people started to come out to see what all the commotion was about.
Someone screamed. Rhodes didn’t know who it was. He walked to where the Dumpster sat. It had been shoved five or six feet from its original position. Big gouges in the asphalt showed its path.
Kergan was in front of the Dumpster, looking like something that belonged inside it. The truck had hit him, then pushed him against the Dumpster. Kergan had been squashed, but not like a cartoon character. Like a flesh and blood man. Mangled flesh and too much blood. Rhodes was glad for the bad lighting.
Rhodes told everyone to go back inside. Some of the more morbid among them wanted to get a better look at Kergan’s remains, but Rhodes didn’t allow it.
When they tried to push past him anyway, he told them to get back in or he’d arrest them. That did the trick. They left, although reluctantly. Rhodes knew they’d be talking about what they’d seen for weeks. It wasn’t that they were bad people. It was just that violent death had a way of arousing a kind of curiosity in them that they might not even have known was there.
“What are you going to do?” Ivy asked. Her eyes looked stricken.
“Make some calls,” Rhodes told her.
Chapter 12
MUCH LATER, AFTER THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE HAD DECLARED Kergan dead, after the ambulance had taken him away, after the scene had been secured as well as
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