James Patterson - Thriller - Stories to Keep You Up All Night

"That guy's a total ass," she was finally able to whisper.

Maggie hadn't been able to resist. She stole a glance, needing to see the total ass she was about to defend.

He had seemed too ordinary to need Maggie's defense. Ever the profiler, she had found herself immediately assessing him. She saw a tall middle-aged man with a receding hairline, weak chin and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white oxford shirt, a size too large and sagging, even though he had tried to tuck it neatly into the waistband of wrinkled trousers-trousers that were belted below the beginning paunch of a man who spent too much time behind a desk.

He had slid into one of the corner booths and grabbed one of the laminated menus from behind the table's condiments holder. Immediately, he unfolded the menu and hunched over it, searching for his selection while he pulled silverware from the bundled napkin. Again, all very ordinary-an ordinary guy taking a break from work to get a bite to eat. But then Maggie had seen the old woman, shuffling to the table, holding on to the backs of the other booths along the way, her cane not enough to steady her. That's when Maggie realized her mother's pronouncement had little to do with the man's appearance and everything to do with the fact that he had left this poor woman to shuffle and fumble her way to their table. He hadn't even looked up at her as she struggled to lower herself between the table and the bench, dropping her small, fragile frame onto the seat and then scooting inch by inch across the vinyl while her cane thump-thumped its way in behind her.

Maggie had turned away, not wanting to watch any longer. She hated to agree with her mother. She hated even more the "tsk, tsk" sound her mother had made, loud enough for others at the diner to hear, perhaps even the total ass. Funny how things worked.

Maggie would give anything to hear that "tsk, tsk" from her mother now rather than the high-pitched scream she belted out from the passenger's seat. But, had she not been distracted by her mother's scream she may have noticed the blur of black steel sliding alongside her car much sooner. Certainly she would have noticed before the monster pickup rammed into her Toyota Corolla a second time, shoving her off the side of the road, all the while ripping and tearing metal.

Was that her front bumper dragging from the pickup's grille, looking as though the hulking truck had taken a bite out of her poor car? What the hell was this guy doing?

"I can't believe you didn't see him!" her mother scolded, the previous screams leaving her usual raspy voice high-pitched and almost comical. "Where the hell did he come from?" she added, already contradicting her first comment. She strained against her seat belt, reaching and grabbing for the Skittles candies she had been eating, now scattered across the seat and plopping to the floor mat like precious rainbow beads from a broken necklace.

"I didn't see him," Maggie confessed, gaining control of her car and bringing it to a stop on the dirt shoulder of the two-lane highway. God! Her hands were shaking. She gripped the steering wheel harder to make them stop. When that didn't work she dropped them into her lap. She felt sweat trickle down her back. How could she not have seen him?

The pickup had pulled off the road more than three car lengths ahead, the taillights winking at them through a cloud of dust. Between the two vehicles lay the Toyota's mangled front bumper, twisted and discarded like roadside debris.

"Don't go telling him that," her mother whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't go admitting to him that you didn't see him. You don't want your car insurance skyrocketing." "Are you suggesting I lie?" "I'm suggesting you keep your mouth shut." "I'm a federal law officer."

"No, you said you left your badge and gun at home. Today you're a plain ol' citizen, minding your own business." Kathleen O'Dell popped several of the Skittles into her mouth, and Maggie couldn't help thinking how much the bright-colored candy reminded her of the nerve pills her mother used to take, oftentimes washing them down with vodka or scotch. How could she eat at a time like this, especially when it had only been less than an hour since they had left the diner? But Maggie knew she should be grateful for the recent exchange of addictions.

"I haven't been in a car accident since college," Maggie said,rif-fling through her wallet for proof of insurance and driver's license.

"Whatever you do don't ask for the cops to be called," she whispered again, leaning toward Maggie as though they were coconspirators.

She and her mother had never been on the same side of any issue. Suddenly a black pickup rams into the side of their car and they're instant friends. Okay, maybe not friends. Coconspirators did seem more appropriate.

"He sideswiped me." Maggie defended herself anyway, despite her mother being on her side.

"Doesn't matter. Calling the cops only makes it worse."

Maggie glanced at her mother, who was still popping the candies like they were antacids. People often remarked on their resemblance to each other-the auburn hair, fair complexion and dark brown eyes. And yet, much of the time they spent together Maggie felt like a stranger to this woman who couldn't even remember that her daughter hated apple pie.

"I am the cops," Maggie said, frustrated that she needed to remind her mother.

"No, you're not, sweetie. FBI's not the same thing. Oh, Jesus. It's him. That ass from the diner."

He had gotten out of the pickup but was surveying the damage on his own vehicle.

"Just go," her mother said, grabbing Maggie's arm and giving it a shove to start the car.

"Leave the scene of an accident?"

"It was his fault anyway. He's not going to report you."

"Too late," Maggie said, catching in her rearview mirror the flashing lights of a state trooper pulling off the road and coming up behind her. Her mother noticed the glance and twisted around in her seat.

"Oh fuck!"

"Mom!" For all her faults, Kathleen O'Dell rarely swore. "This has not been a good trip."

Maggie stared at her, dumbfounded that her mother thought the trip had been as miserable an outing for her as it had been for Maggie.

"Promise me you won't play hero." Kathleen O'Dell grabbed Maggie's arm again. "Don't go telling them you're a federal officer."

"It'll actually be easier," Maggie told her. "There's a bond between law enforcement officers."

To this her mother let out a hysterical laugh. "Oh, sweetie, if you really think a state trooper will appreciate advice or help from the feds, and a woman at that…"

God, she hated to agree with her mother for a second time in the same day. But she was right. Maggie had experienced it almost every time she went into a rural community: small-town cops defensive and intimidated by her. Sometimes state troopers fit into that category, too.

She opened her car door and felt her mother still tugging at her arm.

"Promise me," Kathleen O'Dell said in a tone that reminded Maggie of when she was a little girl and her mother would insist Maggie promise not to divulge one of a variety of her indiscretions.

"You don't have to worry," Maggie said, pulling her arm away.

"My, my, what a mess," the state trooper called out, his hands on his belt buckle as he approached Maggie's car, then continued to the front bumper where he came to a stop. He looked from one vehicle to another, then back, shaking his head, his mirrored sunglasses giving Maggie a view of the wreckage he saw.

He was young. Even without seeing his eyes she could tell. A bit short, though she didn't think the Virginia State Police had a height requirement any longer, but he was in good shape and he knew it. Maggie realized his hands on his belt buckle wasn't in case he needed to get at his weapon quickly but rather to emphasize his flat stomach, probably perfect six-pack abs under the gray, neatly tucked shirt.