The Trial of Dr. Kate by Michael E. Glasscock III Page A

same. They moved through Round Rock at thirty miles an hour and soon headed north toward Static. Bobby drove about fifty. Shenandoah kept her eyes on the speedometer but noticed a smaller meter on top of the dash. Pointing to it, she asked, “What’s that?”
    “Tachometer. Tells you how many RPMs the engine’s turning. Don’t want to redline the thing or it’ll explode -- throw a rod.”
    Bobby said this matter-of-factly. Shenandoah had never heard of such a thing. The wind blew Bobby’s hair around his face, and he kept pushing it to keep it out of his eyes. Shenandoah, despite herself, was mesmerized by Bobby’s tight shirt.
    In the first few minutes of the ride, Bobby paid more attention to Shenandoah’s anatomy than to the road. But suddenly he put the pedal down, and Shenandoah’s head snapped back as the car leaped ahead. An ear-splitting roar filled the passenger compartment, and the landscape outside her window blurred. They were on a long, straight stretch of road, and when she glanced at the speedometer, she saw the needle pass one hundred and ten. Her mouth went dry, and she held on to the front edge of her seat so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
    Bobby appeared relaxed as he pushed the car to its limits. At one-twenty, he let off the accelerator and started to pump the brakes. By the time they reached the first curve, he had the car down to sixty miles an hour. As they entered the curve, he tapped the brakes again and then gunned the car, bringing them out of the curve doing eighty.
    On a straight stretch again, he slowed to about forty, pulled on the emergency brake, turned the wheel sharply, and downshifted into low. This maneuver caused the Ford to do a one-eighty and turn in its own length, as it had earlier that day. He released the brake and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The whole episode took one or two seconds. Before Shenandoah could catch her breath, they were doing ninety-five miles per hour back in the direction they had come.
    “What the hell was that?” she shouted over the roar of the three wide open, two-barrel carburetors.
    “Bootleg turn!” Bobby shouted.
    Shenandoah’s knuckles were still white as they slowed to a mere sixty miles an hour. Shenandoah sat back in her seat. She had no idea where they were, but she knew that at some point they had taken a turn away from Round Rock.
    After a few minutes, Bobby started down a narrow road filled with sharp curves. It ended at Dale Hollow Lake. One of the TVA projects, it had a shore line of several hundred miles. Shenandoah and her father, Archibald, often fished for smallmouth bass in the deep, clear water every spring when she was a youngster.
    A boat ramp sat to one side, and back from the water there were six concrete picnic tables. Bobby pulled the Ford in beside one and turned off the ignition. He undid his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Shenandoah followed him to a bench and sat beside him. He smelled of sweet sweat, gasoline, and grease, sexier than any men’s aftershave lotion she had ever encountered. Bobby raked his fingers through his hair as beads of perspiration popped out on his brow, and his face was flushed. He rested his elbows on the table and cradled his chin in his hands. “I love Dale Hollow Lake,” he said. “I like to come here and just sit. It’s so peaceful.”
    It being the middle of the week, the lake was almost deserted. Shenandoah could see two johnboats in the distance, their occupants casting for fish near the bank. One outboard pulled a lone skier across the smooth surface of the water about a mile offshore. It was, indeed, a peaceful scene.
    “Do you swim?” Shenandoah asked.
    “Sure. I like to water-ski, too, but I don’t have much time for either.”
    “How did you get to be a mechanic?”
    “I like working with my hands, and Army needed the help. Besides, the pay’s good and it helps with school.”
    “School?”
    “Tech, over in Cookeville.”
    “What’re you