cruiser. With no place on the sides for cars to pull over, the flashing blue and red lights stayed behind the pickup and trailer. Melanie floored it despite the REDUCE SPEED signs and despite entering the outskirts of Louisville.
More curves. More inclines.
“Turn up ahead,” Jared instructed her, and she wouldn’t have noticed the turnoff except for a sign with an arrow for Platte River State Park.
She followed his directions, only seeing his wisdom after she took another curve going seventy-five. With all the inclines and curves, the cruiser hadn’t been in sight when she turned. He couldn’t see her now, either. He would automatically think they’d continued on Highway 50.
“Did we lose him?” She almost didn’t want to know.
“Keep going.”
“I am. But is he still coming?”
“Up ahead. Off to your right is the state park. Pull in there.” He was already pointing but she couldn’t see it. “It’s a long road into the park. There should be a sign.”
“I can’t see him.” She watched the rearview mirror, her eyes trying to take in all angles. She was tempted to turn around, just for a second or two, to look.
“It’s there. It’s right there,” Jared yelled.
But it was too late. She was going too fast. She saw the park entrance. Perhaps she felt cocky after all the stunts she had pulled off. She thought she could make it despite not slowing enough. She thought she had judged the distance, the angle. She twisted the steering wheel too much, too quickly, and suddenly the car was airborne, flying over the deep ditch, scraping through the barbed-wire fence—the screech of wire against metal—before slamming hard, the chassis rocking. They skidded through the tall cornstalks, a sound like wind whipping against the glass. The smell of antifreeze and gasoline filled her nostrils along with hot, stale air.
When they finally came to a complete stop all Melanie could see through the windshield were cornstalks and bulging gray thunderheads.
CHAPTER 20
5:51 p.m.
An Omaha police officer waved Grace through the maze of rescue vehicles, cruisers and media vans. She didn’t know all the younger officers, including this one, but most of them knew her or at least knew who she was. It wasn’t unusual for the police and the district attorney’s office to work together, starting at the crime scene. However, it had taken a while—certainly not an overnight victory—for the Omaha Police Department and the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department to treat the only woman county prosecutor like an asset instead of a pain in the ass.
At a side door to the brick bank building another officer handed Grace a pair of latex gloves, shoe covers and a face mask. She declined the mask, slipped the paper shoe covers over her leather flats and tugged on the gloves. She followed the narrow hallway past two closed doors, one with a nameplate. Hopefully, Mr. Avery Harmon had taken the day off or left early.
Even before she reached the lobby, she could smell it. It filled her nostrils: sour and rancid, so strong she could almost taste it. She stopped at the doorway, but only because she wanted to examine the scene. She wanted to take it all in, memorize it for later, imagining the lobby without the detectives, without the coroner, without the Douglas County lab technicians.
She counted three bodies. Pakula had said there might be five. One, a woman, lay facedown close to the bank’s double glass doors that led to a small entrance. Was she a customer on her way out when the shooting began? From where she stood, Grace couldn’t tell where the bullet had entered, though it looked like a back head shot. That’s where the blood had pooled. A man in a shirt and tie lay crumpled in the doorway to a side office, his crisply starched white shirt now stained red. At the teller counter lay an old man, flat on his back. He was the closest to Grace, so close she could see his blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, one
More curves. More inclines.
“Turn up ahead,” Jared instructed her, and she wouldn’t have noticed the turnoff except for a sign with an arrow for Platte River State Park.
She followed his directions, only seeing his wisdom after she took another curve going seventy-five. With all the inclines and curves, the cruiser hadn’t been in sight when she turned. He couldn’t see her now, either. He would automatically think they’d continued on Highway 50.
“Did we lose him?” She almost didn’t want to know.
“Keep going.”
“I am. But is he still coming?”
“Up ahead. Off to your right is the state park. Pull in there.” He was already pointing but she couldn’t see it. “It’s a long road into the park. There should be a sign.”
“I can’t see him.” She watched the rearview mirror, her eyes trying to take in all angles. She was tempted to turn around, just for a second or two, to look.
“It’s there. It’s right there,” Jared yelled.
But it was too late. She was going too fast. She saw the park entrance. Perhaps she felt cocky after all the stunts she had pulled off. She thought she could make it despite not slowing enough. She thought she had judged the distance, the angle. She twisted the steering wheel too much, too quickly, and suddenly the car was airborne, flying over the deep ditch, scraping through the barbed-wire fence—the screech of wire against metal—before slamming hard, the chassis rocking. They skidded through the tall cornstalks, a sound like wind whipping against the glass. The smell of antifreeze and gasoline filled her nostrils along with hot, stale air.
When they finally came to a complete stop all Melanie could see through the windshield were cornstalks and bulging gray thunderheads.
CHAPTER 20
5:51 p.m.
An Omaha police officer waved Grace through the maze of rescue vehicles, cruisers and media vans. She didn’t know all the younger officers, including this one, but most of them knew her or at least knew who she was. It wasn’t unusual for the police and the district attorney’s office to work together, starting at the crime scene. However, it had taken a while—certainly not an overnight victory—for the Omaha Police Department and the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department to treat the only woman county prosecutor like an asset instead of a pain in the ass.
At a side door to the brick bank building another officer handed Grace a pair of latex gloves, shoe covers and a face mask. She declined the mask, slipped the paper shoe covers over her leather flats and tugged on the gloves. She followed the narrow hallway past two closed doors, one with a nameplate. Hopefully, Mr. Avery Harmon had taken the day off or left early.
Even before she reached the lobby, she could smell it. It filled her nostrils: sour and rancid, so strong she could almost taste it. She stopped at the doorway, but only because she wanted to examine the scene. She wanted to take it all in, memorize it for later, imagining the lobby without the detectives, without the coroner, without the Douglas County lab technicians.
She counted three bodies. Pakula had said there might be five. One, a woman, lay facedown close to the bank’s double glass doors that led to a small entrance. Was she a customer on her way out when the shooting began? From where she stood, Grace couldn’t tell where the bullet had entered, though it looked like a back head shot. That’s where the blood had pooled. A man in a shirt and tie lay crumpled in the doorway to a side office, his crisply starched white shirt now stained red. At the teller counter lay an old man, flat on his back. He was the closest to Grace, so close she could see his blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, one
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