Richard Powers - The Echo Maker

But he assembled Karin and Bonnie in the Homestar living room on the first Monday evening in March, to see the latest edition of Crime Solvers . “Got a heads-up call today,” he explained, refusing to say more. He moved methodically, forcing hot drinks and bags of corn nuts on them, making sure everyone used the facilities before the show started. Karin watched him, feeling the folly of all hope.

Then, as if on command, Tracey, the show’s hostess, announced, “There’s been a break in the story we brought to you some weeks ago about the Farview man who…”

On screen, a farmer out by Elm Creek pointed to a hole in the border of his front lawn. Five days before, his wife had discovered some bloodroot growing up inside the planter he’d fashioned for her out of an old tire he’d fished out of the river back in August, when the water was low. “Now, my wife and I are a couple old fans of your show, and as I stood there, looking at that tire, your television story came back to me, and it crossed my mind to ask myself…”

Police Sergeant Ron Fagan explained how the tires had been impounded and checked by forensics against the crime-scene evidence on file. “We believe we have a match,” he told the world, a bit crestfallen to be describing computer database searches instead of high-speed chases. But he reported that the tire had been traced to a local man who had been brought in for questioning. The man worked at the Lexington packing plant and was named Duane Cain.

Karin shouted at the tube. “I knew it. That pond scum.”

Bonnie, on the other side of Mark, shook her head. “That can’t be right. They swore to me it was someone else.”

Mark sat rigid, already a corpse. “They ran me off the road. Chicken goat-head. They left me for dead. At least I finally know I am.”

Karin threw on her coat, slamming around in her bag for her keys. “I’ll give him questioning.” She fumbled for the door. In her haste, she sprang it open on her face and smashed her lip.

Mark lifted off the sofa. “I’m coming with you.”

“No!” She wheeled, furious, scaring even herself. “No. You let me talk to him!” Blackie Two growled. Mark stepped back, hands raised. Then she was out in the dark, blundering toward her car.

She checked at the police station. Duane Cain had been released. Sergeant Fagan was not on duty, and no one would give her details. The night was as cold and the world as airless as any meteor. Her breath came frozen out of her nostrils and bathed her hands in flinty smoke. She beat her elbows against her sides to keep her lungs pumping. She got back into her Corolla and headed across town, making it to Cain’s apartment in minutes. He opened the door to her assault in a purple sweatshirt reading: What Would Beelzebub Do? He was expecting someone else, and he shrank at the sight of her. “I take it you saw that show?”

She pushed into the room and slammed him into the wall. He didn’t fight back, only reached up and pinned her wrists.

“They let me go. I didn’t do anything.”

“Your fucking skid marks cut right in front of him.” She struggled to land a punch while he blunted her in a clumsy embrace.

“Do you want me to tell you what happened, or don’t you?”

He refused to say anything until she stopped struggling. He sat her on a beanbag chair and tried to give her something to drink. He balanced on a bar stool at a safe distance, brandishing the phone book like a shield.

“We didn’t really lie, per se. Technically speaking…”

She threatened to kill him, or worse. He started again.

“You were right about the games. We were racing. But it wasn’t what you think. We were at the Bullet. Tommy had recently acquired a set of communicators. We went out and started goofing with them. Me and Rupp in Tommy’s truck, Mark in his. Just tag. Driving around like we always did, testing the range, chasing each other. You know: hotter, colder, losing the signal, picking it up again. We were a ways away, coming east on North Line, from town. We thought we had him. Mark was giggling into the communicator, something about taking evasive action. Then his signal went dead. Took his finger off the transmit button and never came back. We didn’t know what he was up to. Tommy kicked his truck, figuring we had to be close. It was pretty dark out there.”

He hooded his eyes with one hand, from the glare of memory.

“Then we saw him. He was upside down in the ditch, right-hand side, just south of the road. Tommy swore and slammed the brakes. We fishtailed and swerved across the center line. That’s what you saw: our tracks in his lane. Only, we got there after him.”

She sat stiff, her spine a spike. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s lying in that ditch. You and your friend are right there.”

“Are you kidding? He had three tons of metal on top of him. Every second counted. We did what we had to do. Spun around, ran back to town, and called it in.”

“Neither of you has a cell phone? Jacking around with those ridiculous walkie-talkie toys, and no cell phone?”

“We called it in,” he said. “Within minutes.”

“Anonymously? And you never came forward, after. Never told the story. Changed your tires and pitched the guilty ones in the river.”

“Listen to me. You don’t know anything.” His voice rose. “Those police types bust you first and ask questions later. They go after guys like me and Tommy. We threaten them.”

“You, threaten ? And he went along with it. Your friend Rupp. The Specialist.”

“Look. You don’t believe me, even now. You think the police were going to believe us, the night of the accident?”

“Why didn’t they lock you up?”

“They questioned Tommy down at Riley, and he gave exactly the same story. The point is, we got the paramedics there as fast as possible. We didn’t have anything to add to the facts. We have no clue what happened to him. It wouldn’t have made any difference, our coming forward.”

“It might have made a difference to Mark.”

He screwed up his face. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Her need to believe him appalled her. She rose to her feet, rearranging things: the tracks, their order, her memory. Time threaded and rethreaded, slowed, buckled, and slammed into reverse. “The third car,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Cain said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a year.”

“The third car,” she repeated. “The one that ran off the road, from behind him.” She crossed to him, ready to slam him again. “Were any cars coming toward you as you reached the spot? Any westbound cars, heading back toward town? Answer me!”

“Yeah. We were watching, as we got close. We kept expecting him to blast past us. But then came this white Ford Taurus with out-of-state plates.”

“What state?”

“Rupp says Texas. I couldn’t tell. We were going a little fast, I told you.”

“How fast was this Ford going?”

“Funny you should ask. We both had the impression that it was crawling.” The thought sat him up. “Jesus. You’re right. This other car…this Ford came up just before we did, just after he…and they…You’re saying that they…What exactly are you saying?”

She didn’t know what she was saying. Then or ever. “They didn’t stop either.”

Cain shut his eyes, clamped his neck in one palm, and threw back his head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“It might have,” she said. God led me to you.

She got home crazy late. Daniel was waiting up for her, beside himself. “I thought something had happened to you. I thought…You might have been anywhere. You might have been hurt.”