The Secret Keeper by Dorien Grey Page A

to avoid—though I’d imagine at the speed he must have been going, already preparing to stop for the sign, it had been more a jog than a swerve—and pulled off the road beside it. It was only about 300 feet from the bridge, the rusty iron side rails of which could easily hide someone. Looking back at the stop sign, it was clear to me that anyone aiming for that would be firing at a considerably lower angle than if they were aiming at the windshield of an approaching truck.
    Using the car as reference, I walked to the bridge and climbed the embankment to the tracks. From the trestle, I could see that the dirt road marked by the stop sign passed through a patch of trees on the other side of Woods Roads and moved considerably closer to the tracks. Someone could easily have parked a car in the trees and come up onto the bridge to lie in wait.
    Whoever it was had probably waited until Jonathan passed in order to be sure it was the right truck—there was no “Evergreen” identification on the front. What’s more, while Jonathan could have turned left on County Line Road when he’d reached it and wended his way back to town from there, it would have been a considerably longer drive that way. So, it was logical for him to just turn around and head back the way he’d come.
    I slowly crossed the trestle on the side facing the stop sign, looking for shell casings. I found at least a dozen, of several different calibers, and had no idea how long they’d been there. Still, I picked them all up with a Kleenex and put them in my pocket. If the police could tell the caliber of gun that had made the hole, having both the casing and the bullet might be worthwhile. There was even the far outside chance there might be a fingerprint on the casing. Unlikely, but possible.
    That the police would come looking for them on their own was extremely remote. Considering their regular workload, I was pretty sure that, as far as they were concerned, this was still just a minor incident not worth the effort.
    I returned to my car and drove back to town, wondering if what little I’d learned had been worth going in the first place.
    It did give me a chance to think, though. Despite my certainty it had been a deliberate attack, I couldn’t in all fairness discount the possibility it could just as easily have been some idiot doing target practice; or that the shooter was trying to send Jonathan a message—though, a message about what? And what might they expect him to do about it if it were received.
    No, I came back to the conclusion that whoever had fired the shot was serious and intended to kill him. The question of why remained.
    I found it hard to believe whatever it might be had anything to do with Clarence Bement’s new will. Still, if Clarence had told Jonathan anything at all someone didn’t want to chance his repeating, or merely assumed Jonathan knew something he shouldn’t, that might be a solid motive. But it implied whatever it was had to be pretty important, and if that were the case, Jonathan might have picked up on it.
    That the mystery caller had not called back was mildly bothersome. How had he (or she—I still couldn’t figure out the voice’s gender) gotten our number? Jonathan may well have given it to Clarence, and that could link the call or the caller to Bement’s house. It was also possible the caller didn’t know Jonathan had a partner. In that case, he/she might have hesitated to call again in a variation of the old “if a man answers, hang up” joke.
    On the way back to town, I stopped for gas and decided to call Oak Terrace again, not wanting to just drop in. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be if Mel’s mother refused to see me, but took a chance. This time, the switchboard put me through, and after three rings the phone was answered with a pleasant “Hello.”
    “Mrs. Fowler, my name is Dick Hardesty, and your son Mel suggested I call you.”
    “Yes, I spoke with Mel right after he’d left your