Linwood Barclay - The Accident

I’d never been hit with anything like this before. It hadn’t just scared me, losing a project to fire. It had shaken my confidence. If I was about anything, it was getting things right, doing a quality job.

“Shit happens,” Doug had said. “We pick ourselves up and move on.”

I wasn’t feeling that philosophical. And it wasn’t Doug’s name on the side of the truck.

I thought maybe I should eat something, so I slid my plate of lasagna into the microwave. I sat down at the kitchen table and picked away at it. The inside was still cold, but I couldn’t be bothered to put it back in. Lasagna was one of Sheila’s specialties, and if it weren’t for the fact that I had so much on my mind, I would have been devouring it, even cold. Whenever she made it in her browny-orange baking pan-Sheila would say it was “persimmon”-there was always enough for two or three meals, so we’d be having lasagna again in a couple of nights, maybe even for Saturday lunch. That was okay with me.

I ate less than half, rewrapped it, and put the plate in the fridge. Kelly was under her covers, her bedside light on, when I peeked into her room. She’d been reading a Wimpy Kid book.

“Lights out, sweetheart.”

“Is Mom home?” she asked.

“No.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

I nodded. When Kelly had something on her mind, it was usually her mother she talked to. Even though she was only eight, she had questions about boys, and love, and the changes she knew were coming in a few years. These were, I had to admit, not my areas of expertise.

“Don’t be mad,” she said.

“I’m not mad.”

“Some things are just easier to talk to Mom about. But I love you guys the same.”

“Good to know.”

“I can’t get to sleep until she gets home.”

That made two of us.

“Put your head down on the pillow. You might nod off anyway.”

“I won’t.”

“Turn off the light and give it a shot.”

Kelly reached over and turned off her lamp. I kissed her forehead and gently closed the door as I slipped out of her room.

Another hour went by. I tried Sheila’s cell six more times. I was back and forth between my office basement and the kitchen. The trip took me past the front door, so I could keep glancing out to the driveway.

Just after eleven, standing in the kitchen, I tried her friend Ann Slocum. Someone picked up long enough to stop the ringing, then replaced the receiver. Ann’s husband, Darren, I was guessing. That would be his style. But then again, I was calling late.

Next I called Sheila’s other friend, Belinda. They’d worked together years ago, for the library, but stayed close even after their career paths went in different directions. Belinda was a real estate agent now. Not the greatest time to be in that line of work. A lot more people wanted to sell these days than buy. Despite Belinda’s unpredictable schedule, she and Sheila managed to get together for lunch every couple of weeks, sometimes with Ann, sometimes not.

Her husband, George, answered sleepily, “Hello?”

“George, Glen Garber. Sorry to call so late.”

“Glen, jeez, what time is it?”

“It’s late, I know. Can I talk to Belinda?”

I heard some muffled chatter, some shifting about, then Belinda came on the line. “Glen, is everything okay?”

“Sheila’s really late getting back from her night class thing, and she’s not answering her cell. You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

“What? What are you talking about? Say that again?” Belinda sounded instantly panicked.

“Has Sheila been in touch? She’s usually back from her course by now.”

“No. When did you last talk to her?”

“This morning,” I said. “You know Sally, at the office?”

“Yeah.”

“Her dad passed away and I called Sheila to let her know.”

“So you haven’t talked to her pretty much all day?” There was an edge in Belinda’s voice. Not accusing, exactly, but something.

“Listen, I didn’t call to get you all upset. I just wondered if you’d heard from her is all.”

“No, no, I haven’t,” Belinda said. “Glen, please have Sheila call me the minute she gets in, okay? I mean, now that you’ve got me worrying about her, too, I need to know she got in okay.”

“I’ll tell her. Tell George I’m sorry about waking you guys up.”

“For sure you’ll have her call me.”

“Promise,” I said.

I hung up, went upstairs to Kelly’s door and opened it a crack. “You asleep?” I asked, poking my head in.

From the darkness, a chirpy “Nope.”

“Throw on some clothes. I’m going to look for Mom. And I can’t leave you alone in the house.”

She flicked on her bedside lamp. I thought she’d argue, tell me she was old enough to stay in the house, but instead she asked, “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. My guess is your mom’s having a coffee and can’t hear her phone. But maybe she got a flat tire or something. I want to drive the route she usually takes.”

“Okay,” she said instantly, throwing her feet onto the floor. She wasn’t worried. This was an adventure. She pulled some jeans on over her pajamas. “I need two secs.”

I went back downstairs and got my coat, made sure I had my cell. If Sheila did call the house once we were gone, my cell would be next. Kelly hopped into the truck, did up her belt, and said, “Is Mom going to be in trouble?”

I glanced over at her as I turned the ignition. “Yeah. She’s going to be grounded.”

Kelly giggled. “As if,” she said.

Once we were out of the driveway and going down the street, I asked Kelly, “Did your mom say anything about what she was going to do today? Was she going to see her parents and then changed her mind? Did she mention anything at all?”

Kelly frowned. “I don’t think so. She might have gone to the drugstore.”

That was only a trip around the corner. “Why do you think she was going there?”

“I heard her talking to someone on the phone the other day about paying for some.”

“Some what?”

“Drugstore stuff.”

That made no sense to me and I dismissed it.

We weren’t on the road five minutes before Kelly was out cold, her head resting on her shoulder. If my head was in that position for more than a minute, it would leave me with a crick in my neck for a month.

I drove up Schoolhouse Road and got on the ramp to 95 West. It was the quickest route between Milford and Bridgeport, especially at this time of the night, and the most likely one for Sheila to have taken. I kept glancing over at the eastbound highway, looking for a Subaru wagon pulled off to the side of the road.

This was a long shot, at best. But doing something, anything, seemed preferable to sitting at home and worrying.

I continued to scan the other side of the highway, but not only didn’t I see Sheila’s car, I didn’t see any cars pulled over to the shoulder at all.

I was almost through Stratford, about to enter the Bridgeport city limits, when I saw some lights flashing on the other side. Not on the road, but maybe down an off-ramp. I leaned on the gas, wanting to hurry to the next exit so I could turn around and head back on the eastbound lanes.

Kelly continued to sleep.

I exited 95, crossed the highway and got back on. As I approached the exit where I thought I’d seen lights, I spotted a police car, lights flashing, blocking the way. I slowed, but the cop waved me on. I wasn’t able to see far enough down the ramp to see what the problem was, and with Kelly in the truck, pulling over to the side of a busy highway did not seem wise.

So I got off at the next exit, figuring I could work my way back on local streets, get to the ramp from the bottom end. It took me about ten minutes. The cops hadn’t set up a barricade at the bottom of the ramp, since no one would turn up there anyway. I pulled the car over to the shoulder at the base of the ramp and got my first real look at what had happened.