Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

A stand of tall oaks flashed into his vision and vanished. A roadside truck, some fence posts. The shoulder here was narrow. Paralleling his mad course was a barbed wire fence that would lacerate him if he were to set the bike down in the gravel beside the road.

Jamie Corde, an A-minus science student, knows that terminal velocity in earth atmosphere is approximately one hundred and thirty miles an hour, he knows that human organs cannot withstand instant deceleration from any speed about fifty. He glances up at the cross-traffic along Route 116, trucks and cars whizzing past. Tears – from the wind, from his panic – streak from his squinting burning eyes and disappear into his hair. He sits up to increase wind resistance. He remembers a prayer from Sunday school. He drags his feet on the asphalt but shreds the running shoes' nylon toes quickly. He lifts his feet to the pedals and the bike hurtles forward once again.

Seventy-five yards…

The hill had bottomed out but the bicycle tore along the road at close to sixty, the noise of the wheels and gears wholly obscured by the howl of the slipstream. Several bugs died against his face with sharp stings. The lightweight frame of the bike shuddered painfully with every stone.

Jamie eased onto the center-line of Old Farm Road where there was less debris. A fragment of bottle or a smear of grease could kill him.

Fifty yards from the intersection …

He believed he heard a horn behind him, maybe the Volkswagen driver trying to warn him.

Forty yards …

The man in a car waiting at the light glanced in his rearview mirror and Jamie saw astonishment in the glossy rectangle that reflected the man's eyes.

Thirty …

Two Japanese imports and a Buick dashed through the intersection on 116 going north. A tanker truck rumbled south.

And Jamie Corde began to pedal.

He couldn't stop in time. That was clear. Either he was going to dart between cars or he was going to get nailed. He lowered himself into his best aerodynamic huddle, clicked into his highest gear, released the front brake lever and pedaled as he never had before. He felt a warm sense of calm envelop him. The cars were on a different plane. The wind, the barbed wire, the road too. The bike itself. The fear vanished. He was above all of these things. The blue-haired woman piloting the Volkswagen, the driver whose eyes gaped in the mirror, the trees, the birds startled and fleeing from Jamie's own speed – nothing was of the least importance. He smiled and struggled to pedal fast enough to keep up with his trilling wheels, propelling himself faster and faster.

Fifteen yards …

The car waiting for the green light was a Nissan and its license plate number was DRT 345.

Ten …

An old skid mark in the shape of a sine curve crossed both lanes.

Pedal pedal pedal pedal! …

A wooden crate that had contained Rock Island peaches lay shattered by the roadside, wads of blue tissue paper bleeding into the ground.

… faster than light …

The southbound Taurus station wagon, doing about sixty-five, began its skid thirty feet from where the bike was entering the intersection. The gray vehicle's end drifted to the left as the frozen wheels howled. The driver steered into the skid expertly, which had the effect of moving the car into the oncoming lane and aiming the grille precisely at where the speeding bicycle would cross the highway.

The front-seat passenger lowered her face below the dashboard.

The baritone Detroit horn blared.

The driver flung an arm over his eyes.

Ping .

Jamie Corde had an impression of fingers snapping beside his head as he passed in front of the station wagon. The bumper missed his rear tire by no more than six inches. Their combined speed was close to one hundred ten miles an hour.

His ears filled with the horn and the endless scream of the locked wheels. Then he was past Route 116, dancing over what was otherwise a risky patch of pebbles and transmission fluid as confidently as if the road were a smooth, banked racetrack. He relaxed his numb legs and coasted. Horns shrieked behind him and he knew he was getting cussed out by at least one station wagon full of people.

But what could he do except keep going, leaving them far far behind?

Jamie Corde continued to pedal – furiously to keep his speed up. As he approached the school he stood high on the pedals. He gazed up into the sky and breathed in hot oily air, waving a fist above his head, laughing and howling like a desert-loco cowboy.

Jim Slocum opened the candy bar and took a bite, pressing the candy up against the roof of his mouth. He dropped a dollar on the counter.

"Be right with you, Officer," the young woman behind the counter said.

"Take your time."

Slocum leaned against the counter in the Sweets 'n Things shop at the Oakwood Mall. He took another bite of Milky Way, which was still his favorite candy bar. Always had been, always would be. The door to the candy store opened and Slocum watched a teenage boy enter. Fat. Wearing grimy clothes. Blond hair long and stiff with spray or grease. Slocum recognized him as Philip Halpern. The boy glanced at Slocum in unconcealed surprise. He walked to the wall of glass canisters of penny candy and began to fill a bag.

Slocum was put off. He felt angry at the boy for his weight and his lack of willpower. He wanted to say, "You keep eating like that you're gonna stroke out by the time you're twenty, son." He kept these thoughts to himself though. Like all New Lebanon deputies Slocum had answered domestic violence calls at Creth Halpern's shabby bungalow. The father could be frightening – his eerily confused eyes as much as his temper. The ex-sailor would slouch on the couch picking at a flap of skin from his right-hook knuckle and smiling at the bloody streaks on the dented front of the Kelvinator.

His wife, pungent with gin, holding ice to her pretty face, would look up with a drunk's sincerity and say, "We was fooling around is all." Philip, himself sometimes bruised, usually hid in the bedroom. There was a daughter too. Slocum bet she'd be knocked up and Remington-married by the time she was sixteen.

Boy, you stay that fat, they won't let you join the Army and what're you gonna do then? Jim Slocum was convinced that all emotional troubles could be cured by varsity football or basic training.

The clerk's customer left the store.

"Miss," Slocum said to her, "I'm asking all the merchants here in the mall if they were open late on Tuesday night."

"This have to do with the student girl who got killed?"

"Yep, sure does."

"Is this fellow, you know…" Two furrows of concern appeared on the young woman's brow.

"How's that?"

She touched her heavily moussed brown hair. "What I heard was, Debbie Lipp told me, who's ever behind that killing? He's looking for brunets. I bought some Clairol yesterday. I mean, I had my colors done and going blond would throw it all off but…"

Slocum watched a tear center in her eye and roll over the edge of the eyelined lid.

"I wouldn't go doing that, miss. He's not looking for brunets that we know about. Your hair looks real nice just the way it is." He smiled. "Sexy too."

"I'm scared, Officer." Her brittle voice cracked. "I gotta drive home at night and Earl he's my husband's shift's not over till eleven. Sitting there in the trailer for three hours! By myself… I can't watch TV, for the noises outside. I can't read. I just sit. I'm too addled to even knit and I'm going to miss my niece's birthday with the vest I promised her." She cried, grim and silent, for a moment.

"We're doing everything in our power to get this son of a gun. Now I was asking about Tuesday?"