Cricket McRae - Spin a Wicked Web

We got back to Cadyville around seven-thirty, and Barr went to update Robin on the new information from La Conner. I drove home and spent a mundane evening with Meghan and Erin, watching a movie on DVD, doing my best to push Ariel's murder out of my mind. If Gabi really had killed her, I might have to come to terms with the fact that she'd get away with it.

Great in theory; not so easy in practice. I went to bed early, but slept fitfully, my slumber punctuated with dreams of being caught in a huge sticky web, surrounded by laughing spiders with all too human faces.

The next morning I awoke feeling tired and groggy. I finally forced myself out of bed, showered and dressed, and pasted a smile on my face. Meghan and Erin were leaving for math camp, so I grabbed a cup of strong coffee and went down to my workroom to take inventory.

After making all the custom bath fizzies for the wedding shower, I was low on baking soda. I made notes of some other items I needed and spent some time online, restocking frequently used essential oils and bulk ordering cocoa butter, palm oil, and coconut oil. Then I trundled out to my pickup to run a few local errands.

After a quick stop at the bank, I picked up a twenty-pound container of baking soda from the nice folks at the Cadyville food co-op, who let me order wholesale through them. I also went by the apiary supply store and bought several pounds of unfiltered beeswax; it was amazing how quickly I went through the stuff.

Resupplied, I headed for home. The whole experience with the Kaminskis still sat heavy along my shoulders. I couldn't seem to shake it. Every day Barr had to deal with people lying to him, disliking him, even being afraid of him. Sighing, I signaled to turn onto Tenth Street, wondering how he handled it so well.

I shifted my foot to the brake pedal… and nothing happened. My attention snapped back to the present. The pedal sank all the way to the floor, but my truck didn't slow a bit. I tried pumping it.

Zilch. Nada.

Deep breath. Think, Sophie Mae, think fast. And whatever you do, DON'T PANIC.

The speed limit in town was only twenty-five miles an hour, and as usual, I wasn't in enough of a hurry to break it. So it wasn't like I was careening down some winding mountain road, ready to tip off a cliff at any moment. If I had to lose my brakes at all, I probably couldn't pick a better place to do it than meandering through sleepy Cadyville, Washington.

The Toyota was, however, headed down a hill.

I yanked on the emergency brake.

The truck didn't slow an iota.

I tried to downshift.

That didn't work, either.

This might be more than faulty brakes. Another arrow of fear stabbed through my solar plexus. My fingers curled around the steering wheel so hard they hurt, but I didn't loosen my grip.

The slope was gentle, but the pickup's speed was increasing. I eyed the edges of the street, thinking I could nudge up next to a curb. It wouldn't be great for the tires, but it would slow me down. But this street had no curbs. I'd go straight up on the sidewalk, and then into someone's yard. By now I was going fast enough that I might end up in their living room.

There must be other options. Had to be. Think of something, Sophie Mae. Now.

A cross street ahead, and a stop sign to go with it.

No choice but to brazen it out. Clenching my teeth, I leaned on my horn and sailed into the intersection. A cream-colored Mercedes approached from the right, and the driver didn't even slow. Narrowly missing my bumper, she leaned on her horn, too, and yelled at me out of her window.

It wasn't a very nice name to call someone under any circumstances, and given my current straits I yelled something equally not nice back at her.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I considered bailing out and letting the truck veer on alone. My hand moved to unhook my seat belt, then stopped. There had to be a better way. Not only would a tumble like that hurt, probably a lot, but a runaway vehicle could do real damage. It could hit a child, for heaven's sake.

There. Pine Street. It wended up a long hill, and if I could make the turn, it would serve the same role as the runaway truck lanes off interstate highways in the mountains.

Turning onto another street would be risky. I calculated the approach, steered as wide as I could, and, teeth clenched, swerved right onto Pine. Rubber squealed against pavement. My sunglasses skittered down the dash and bounced to the floor, and the block of beeswax on the seat beside me slammed into the passenger door. For a moment the truck felt suspended, the wheels on the left nearly leaving the ground. I leaned against my door, as if that would keep it from overturning.

Don't roll over, don't roll over, don't roll over. I muttered out loud to the Toyota, to myself, to the Universe and anyone else who happened to be listening. Panic praying.

The truck made it through the turn, straightened, and began heading toward the hill.

Before Pine began to climb, though, I had another short hill to go down, with Ninth Street at the bottom. Another stop sign. I leaned on the horn again, hoping to warn any oncoming traffic well ahead of their arrival.

No one was coming, and I breezed cleanly through.

Thank God this hadn't happened in Seattle. I'd have been creamed in no time, I thought as the truck reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb.

Perfect.

The Toyota continued up the hill, slower and slower.

Creeping.

Inching to a stop.

I let out a whoosh of breath I'd been holding in my lungs for who knew how long. I was going to be okay. Really okay.

The truck started rolling backwards.

Of course, the brakes didn't work in that direction, either. I swore and concentrated on steering in reverse. Went back through the intersection of Ninth and Pine, and a little ways up the hill I'd just come down.

Again the truck slowed to a stop, and paused, hanging on the verge of movement for a small eternity. My empty hope that the ordeal was over fell away like dust as the truck began rolling forward.

A teenaged boy driving a beat-up Honda came up from behind and veered around me. He gave me a questioning look, but at least he didn't yell or make rude gestures.

And then I was rolling backwards. The seesawing between one incline and the next felt like something out of an irritating slapstick comedy. Finally, the Toyota barely crept along. Slower.

And slower.

And stopped. Really and truly stopped.

Smack dab in the middle of the intersection of Ninth and Pine.

Nice.

Trembling with relief, I unhooked my seat belt and reached for my cell phone.

A horn blared. A really, really big horn followed by the shrieking of brakes. My head jerked up. Fear trilled through me. A semitruck bore down, trailer slewing as the driver desperately tried to stop. It was going way, way over the tidy twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and it was about to go over me, too.

In one motion I opened the door and dove out of my little pickup. The grit of the pavement barely registered against my palms as I rolled to my feet and ran. The terrifying crunch of tearing metal sounded behind me. Over my shoulder, I saw the driver of the big rig had managed to slow down, but it still pushed my little Toyota pickup over, crumpling it in slow motion like so much cardboard.

The five-gallon bucket of baking soda in the bed of my truck erupted into the air. The sun shone through the dusty cloud, giving the whole mess a romantic, surreal effect.

The driver leapt from the semi and ran to me. "Oh, God, lady. Are you okay?" He peered at the wreck. "Was there anyone else in there?"

I shook my head, curiously unable to speak. I looked down at my hands, fluttering at the ends of my arms like leaves in the wind. Oh, wait a minute. No wonder: my whole body was shaking like that.