The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

better not show up. That’s the crabbiest old goat I’ve ever met. Some of the folks in Santana go clear to town for their food just to avoid having to interact with him.”

“Well, if it’s only going to be another hour, I should be able to make it. The frost should hold the cold for quite a while.”

“You’re a lucky man. Say, isn’t this James Marlboro’s car?”

This was bad. He had hoped the car wouldn’t be noticed until James reported it missing.

“Yeah, it’s James’. There was something the matter with mine on the way up. He loaned this one to me while he fixes mine.”

“You two must be good friends. Old James is picky about who rides in his cars, let alone drives them. Well, I’ll go check and see how they’re getting along—and watch those butts.”

“Will do, Officer.”

He kept control of himself until the man was gone, then he began trembling. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, so he leaned back and rested his head against the headrest and tried to overcome the dark waves that threatened to swallow him.

He must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him by the shoulder and calling out to him.

“Hey there fella, wake up. Road’s clear.”

It was one of the drivers he’d spoken to earlier.

“Oh, thanks.” The man went away and Harry pulled himself upright. He noticed that he was feeling immeasurably better.

Harry started the engine and waited for a chance to pull into the line of traffic. There must have been around twenty cars, and he had to be patient and wait until they had all passed. It may be slow going for a while, but he knew the cars would eventually thin out.

For a length of about ten miles, the road was reasonably straight, broken up only by the occasional, gentle curve. He passed by three cars, that eventually put him behind an ancient coupe that was putzing forward at about forty miles an hour. The left wheel was wobbling precariously and the driver religiously hugged the center of the road.

Harry clenched the wheel until pain shooting into his wrist called attention to what he was doing. The old beater showed no sign of increasing its speed and the road had transformed into a long series of blind curves.

The trees and road signs crawled by with an almost impossible slowness, and his muscles were beginning to feel like they were on a medieval torture wheel.

Harry rode nearly bumper to bumper with the offending car, mentally begging for the fiends of hell to remove the obstruction. His throat was so tight it felt like a hanged man’s. Time was no longer his friend.

They entered the snowshed. The road was still laced with curves, but they were far less sharp than before. There was a spot that seemed just long enough so long he sped up. Without much awareness of his actions, he gunned the motor and flung into the opposite lane. He floored the accelerator and the car leapt forward like a well-trained jack rabbit.

His speed was hovering around seventy when he first noticed the gasoline tank. By the time the driver’s cab had come into view, swaying around the curved incline, his whole body froze. Recovering himself, he yanked the wheel to the right only to hear the twisted grind of metal against metal as his black fender struck the car behind him. Someone else had tried to make the pass as well.

He could see the pale face of the truck driver, and he could hear the tin wail of tortured rubber as the truck’s air brakes labored to bring the vehicle to a halt.

Harry crashed head on into the truck and, after a brief moment of silence, roaring flames erupted towards the sky. The truck driver hobbled out of the cab on shaky legs and fled for safety at the edge of the road. Harry had escaped in a sense, but the real tragedy was that he had no reason to run.

XVII

McPherson had a good night. According to the health articles she’d read, she should be suffering because of the stress and tension of her job and all the odd hours she worked, but she never did. She slept like a baby, and ate everything in sight without it giving her any trouble.

She dressed quickly. The herringbone could use a pressing, but she didn’t feel like bothering. No matter how pressed and polished, she would never look like anything more than what she was.

After a final adjustment to her tie, she quietly pushed open the door to her room and stepped softly into the hallway. It was a kind of joke. Her landlady was a good kind-hearted woman, and she liked to keep her house neat and clean, but the idea of having an actual policeman living under her roof never ceased to fascinate her.

She always kept a keen eye on the front hallway and cornered McPherson for a morning chat every time she was able to catch her. Actually, it was more of an interrogation, and now with the Turner case floating around in the headlines she was sure to be on her toes. McPherson had overheard the woman’s conversations enough times to know that what “The lieutenant said” formed a large part of her repertoire.

McPherson made her way quickly down the stairs, taking great care to step over the one that squeaked, and reached the door before she was stopped.

“Lieutenant! One moment please.”

McPherson turned to face her. She could be a real nuisance, but she didn’t want to be rude to her.

“Yes, Mrs. Crag, what is it?”

Mrs. Crag hurried up to her like a bow-legged hen. She was a tiny little woman who was never still for long.

“Do you have enough hot water?” The hot water was automated and to McPherson’s knowledge there had never been a shortage.

“Plenty, Mrs. Crag.”

“Well, that’s good,” she beamed. “Now let’s see, there was something else I was hoping to ask