The Fall Guy Read Free Page A

gouges and scrapes in the lichen-covered granite and smears of dark red that someone had tried to wash up. The ants were having a field day. I shuddered.
    I forced myself not to think about her. Instead, I looked up. An old white pine grew as tall and straight as a ship’s mast from the base of the cliff. Its jagged boughs spread high above the deck. Some bark had been torn from its thick trunk halfway down, where she’d tried to grab hold. Looking farther up, I saw something I’d missed before. A bird feeder, the fancy kind meant to keep squirrels away, was attached to the trunk just above the deck. It was crooked. It was hard to tell from where I was, but it seemed to be hanging from one screw, only half screwed in. Like someone hadn’t finished the job.
    I started to pick my way back across the rocks to the stone steps so I could get a better look. The rumble of an engine stopped me in my tracks. It was deep and rough, like a lion purring. It had faulty timing and a hole just starting in its muffler. A big engine, but not a truck. An old Ford V8 if I was right. I tried to think who drove a car like that but drew a blank.
    It crunched across the gravel and came to a stop. I ducked behind some bushes out of sight. I knew that was pretty pointless since my truck was sitting there in plain view in the parking lot. But I wanted to know what I was up against. I wanted to see the driver before he saw me. So I listened.
    The engine knocked a few times before it died. Silence closed in. Even the birds seemed to be waiting. A car door slammed with a heavy clunk, and I heard footsteps on the gravel. Slow and uneven, as if the guy was marking time. I held my breath as the footsteps came near. I’m not a big guy, hitting five-ten if I stand on my toes, but I wished I’d picked a bigger bush to hide behind. The sun was low in the sky, glaring off the lake and turning everything to bright gold. The footsteps stopped, and I could imagine the guy eyeing my truck. I peeked over the bush, but couldn’t see around the house.
    Then the car door opened again. Springs squawked as he got back in. The engine roared to life, revved by a heavy, impatient foot on the gas. I listened as the tires spun, spraying gravel against the metal of my truck. The car rocketed down the lane, sliding on the curves and thudding over the bumps, once even bottoming out on the big rock in the middle of the road. The guy must have been going over forty miles an hour. On that rocky, one-lane track, he was either nuts or in a serious rush.
    I let out my breath. I stood up slowly, unfolding my stiff muscles. Who the hell was that, and what was he up to? After three weeks on the job, I knew Wilkins’ three vehicles by sound as well as by sight. None of them had that rich, muscle-car growl.
    Some people are ghouls. They like to see blood and gore. They want to set eyes on the place where death had been. I thought it was disgusting, but there’s no accounting for taste. When my mother piled into that rock face on the highway up past the village, people came from all over just to shake their heads. And to wonder how come she didn’t see it staring right at her. How come she missed that easy turn. I never went there. Not after the first time the police took me to id what was left of the car. I knew my mother hadn’t seen the rock. Or the turn. It was January and the scrub farm was under three feet of snow. She’d have been off in a daydream, picturing herself on a tropical beach somewhere with a mai tai in her hand and a rich guy massaging her feet.
    I stood looking down at the ants crawling over the bloodstained rock. That’s probably what it was. Some rubber-necker come to see where Mrs. Wilkins’ head cracked open on the rocks. Maybe they thought no one was home, until they spotted my truck. I thought about going up to the parking lot to check out the damage to my truck, but decided not to. A few more dings weren’t