Racing the Devil Read Free Page B

plate.
    And the name at the bottom of the article . . . Wanted for questioning: Jared McKean . . . that was mine too.

I TUCKED THE NEWSPAPER under my arm and sauntered out to the parking lot, trying not to look like a man who was wanted for murder. Sun and humidity basted the asphalt and turned the outdoors into a sauna. Through ripples of heat, I could see my truck a few spaces to the right of where I’d left it. I’d been distracted at the time, but I was sure I’d parked closer to the streetlight. I peered inside and saw a key jutting from the ignition.
    On the floorboard, the handgrip of a Glock .40 caliber protruded from beneath the driver’s seat. Not mine, I told myself, as if wishing it might make it so. Mine was in the glove compartment, and I’d locked it with a combination that was not my son’s birth date (too obvious), but my horse’s.
    My stomach tumbled, and my mouth tasted suddenly of bile. For a moment, I struggled to hold down my meager breakfast. Then I pulled my key chain from my pocket and counted. House key, office key, keys to Maria’s place and my brother’s house.
    The key to the truck was gone.
    My temples throbbed dully.
    I’d missed picking up Paulie yesterday, and it wasn’t looking good for today, either. It was already eleven-thirty, and if the police wanted me for questioning in a murder case, I’d be lucky if I managed to extricate myself by midnight.
    I tugged at the door handle. Unlocked. The Batman on the dashboard looked reproachful.
    I punched in the glove box combination and popped it open. Stared at the empty compartment as if I could will the gun into its accustomed place. For a long moment, I stood there, considering. I could take the Glock with me, wipe it down, pour acid down the barrel, and drop it in the Cumberland River. I could throw it down a manhole or bury it in some vacant field. It would be easy. My hand stretched toward the pistol . . .
    And pulled away. I shut the door and shoved my hands into my pockets. I’d made too many mistakes since Friday night. One more wouldn’t make things better.
    Besides, I’d rather be jammed up for doing the right thing than for doing the wrong one. At least if things went badly, I’d have the consolation of feeling self-righteous about it later.
    I moved into the shade, away from temptation, and called Maria from my cell phone. She picked up on the second ring, sounding breathless, harried.
    “It’s me.”
    “Jared.” There was a tremor in her voice, and I could see her in my mind, her round dark eyes like the pictures of those big-eyed kids so popular back in the sixties. “Where are you?”
    “I’m sorry about yesterday. Missing Paul. I didn’t—”
    “I know. Just . . . are you all right?”
    “You’ve seen today’s paper.”
    “Yes. And the police were here. They said you hadn’t made it home last night or the night before. They said you killed some woman.”
    I took a long, deep breath, pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, and told myself not to panic.
    This was easier said than done. If the police were actually saying that I’d killed a woman, it meant they had more than a license plate number. “Who’d they send out? Anybody I know?”
    “Frank Campanella. Harry Kominski. Where are you?”
    “Parking lot. Did they tell you what they have?”
    “They said they had your fingerprints. A lot of other things.”
    “They couldn’t have my fingerprints. I wasn’t there.”
    I could hear the tears in her voice and wanted to rush over there and take her in my arms. But that wasn’t my job anymore, and I heard D.W.’s voice somewhere behind her, comforting and reassuring.
    “I know you didn’t do it,” she said, finally. “I’m sure Frank knows it too.”
    D.W. took the phone. “Look, buddy,” he said, “none of us think you did this. But you’ve got to go and talk to them, get this thing straightened out.”
    “I will,” I said. “Put Paulie on. I’ve got to tell