Page 102 of Cold, Cold Bones

There was a long, dead pause. Another shared glance.

“We saw no evidence of a hit-and-run.”

23

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY13

“Apotato.” Fire was searing the inside of my skull, shooting flames into all the gray cells it held.

“Shoved up your car’s ass.” Slidell was eyeing me oddly.

“Someone jammed that”—pointing to the offending tuber lying between us—“into my tailpipe.”

I was repeating Slidell’s words, attempting to make sense of them. Attempting to jump-start my brain though the sun had barely cleared the horizon.

“Did that thump on the noodle affect your ears, Doc?” Slidell’s attempt at levity?

“When? How?”

“Tailpiping ain’t complicated and only takes a second. The perp must have circled wide, then crept up on your rear.”

“The potato caused my engine to stall.”

“It blocked exhaust from getting out and fresh air from getting into the combustion chambers.” Soverypatient. “Game over.”

I said nothing.

“Before you saw what you saw, maybe after, you didn’t hear noone messing with your car? Feel nothing?” Obviously Slidell wasn’t convinced of my hit-and-run story.

The previous night’s events existed as a fragmented muddle in my mind. I’d tried sorting and rearranging the pieces. With little success.

“It was raining. And dark.” Defensive. “I was concentrating on the other vehicle.”

“Tell me why you were out there. Exactly what happened, what you witnessed.”

I did.

A slight hitch in his breathing, then, “The uniforms on scene reported no evidence of a vehicular impact. No skid marks. No broken glass.”

“There wouldn’tbeany skid marks. The driver made zero attempt to stop. The hit was on purpose.”

“They also reported no body and no blood.”

“I saw it!”HadI? In the light of day, I was no longer sure. Such a cold-blooded act seemed impossible.

“You okay?” Again, that hound-dog look of, what, concern?

I nodded. Which made the room swirl.

“Where’s my car?”

“Towed.” Slidell jotted on a scrap of paper and slid it to me. “That’s the garage. By the way, the cops said it was pure bliss driving you home.”

I remembered snatches of my ride in the back of the cruiser. An argument about an ER visit. My protracted rant concerning the scene I’d observed. Tall/deep asking about keys to the annex, him squatting to turn over a rock. The stairs. My bed. Then nothing until Slidell pounded on my door early this morning.

“One of the cops recognized your name, that’s why they brought you here and not to a loony bin.”

“Seriously? Why a psych ward?”