Текст книги "Spider Bones"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“If some of Alex Lapasa’s business dealings were as shady as rumor has it, maybe Nickie’s worried about privacy issues. Felons tend to be protective of their DNA.”

“Maybe. But Nickie’s never been linked to anything illegal. Anyway, an hour later he rang back, irate, ranting about incompetence, stupidity, professional misconduct. He threatened to phone his congressman, his senator, the ACLU, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the president, CNN, Jesse Jackson, Rush Limbaugh, maybe even Nelson Mandela.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“Maybe not Mandela.”

“Why so angry?”

“We kept his brother on our shelves for over four decades.”

Good point, I thought.

“Again, I offered to do comparative testing, said DNA had been successfully sequenced from the remains in two thousand one. He demanded that that information be destroyed, said he didn’t want his family in”—Danny’s voice went gruff—“no bullshit government database.”

“Anything else?”

“He said heads would roll.”

“First Plato Lowery, now Nickie Lapasa. Weird.”

“I’ve dealt with weirder.”

Changing gears, I shared my theory concerning the gold duck-mushroom thing buried in Lumberton with 2010-37, and described my conversation with Sheriff Beasley.

“He’d never heard of dental sparkles?”

“No.”

“You’d think Beasley would have encountered at least one if they occurred with any frequency in his jurisdiction,” Danny said.

“The sparkle craze may have bypassed Robeson County.” I thought a moment. “It may go nowhere, but we could try locating Reggie Cumbo.”

“The cousin,” Danny said.

“Yes.”

“The guy you exhumed in Lumberton has to be Luis Alvarez,” Danny said. “Alvarez is still missing. His bioprofile is identical to Lowery’s and fits the remains. Alvarez is Mexican-American. Sparkles are big with Mexican-Americans.”

“Now,” I said. “But was that the case back in the sixties?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so.” Danny was silent a beat. “We should recheck the photos in Alvarez’s file.”

“We should,” I agreed.

“First thing tomorrow.”

“First thing.”

We had another date.

SUNDAY EVENING WE ENJOYED, OR ENDURED, A “BATTLE OF THE ringtones.” Our musical choices were the stuff of psych dissertations.

Lily’s current pick was “Super Freak” by Rick James. Katy was using Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher.” Ever the optimist, I’d switched to the Happy Days theme. Ryan was still featuring Big Bird and his pals.

Dinner was once again cooked on the grill. While we were clearing the dishes, Cab announced an incoming call. Katy excused herself, returned minutes later, pensive, but face basically arranged in a grin.

One query from me brought full disclosure.

Katy’s caller had been Coop’s older brother, Jed. Jed had been exceedingly apologetic about the manner in which Katy had been treated. Because Coop’s death had received so much publicity, the Cooperton home had been inundated with contact from journalists, well-wishing strangers, and citizen wackos opposed to the war. As self-appointed protector of the family’s privacy, Jed’s uncle Abner had assumed phone responsibility. His strategy: rebuff any caller unknown to himself personally.

Jed told Katy that he had something he believed Coop would want her to have. Though perplexed, Katy clearly was pleased. And more relaxed than I’d seen her since Coop’s murder.

Ryan was next. Despite the sunny ringtone, his news came from the other end of the spectrum. His voice was grim as he updated me later, alone in the kitchen.

Lutetia was leaving Montreal for her home in Nova Scotia. Until further notice Lily would be Ryan’s responsibility. Bye-bye. Adios.

My reaction was mixed. While I knew Lutetia’s departure would hurt Lily and cause Ryan untold complications, I can’t say I was sorry to bid Ryan’s ex adieu. Metaphorically, of course. We’d never once spoken.

My first caller was Hadley Perry. She told me three things.

One, she’d gotten no hits with the MP families. Two, Honolulu PD Detectives Lô and Hung would begin canvassing hospitals first thing in the morning. Three, she was taking heat from the mayor and city council for closing Halona Cove.

Again in hushed tones, I shared Perry’s report with Ryan, this time on the lanai.

Ryan’s mouth corners twitched as his mind performed the same transposal mine had.

“Lô is Vietnamese, puts a little cap over the o. Hung is Chinese. The two have partnered for nine years, and are no longer receptive to comments concerning their names.”

Anticipating the usual reaction, Perry had diverted any witticism I might have offered. I did the same with Ryan.

“I thought you were here for some dude who died in the sixties,” Katy said.

Ryan and I swiveled in surprise. Neither of us had heard Katy come through the sliding door.

“I am. Several dudes, actually,” I said. “And the local ME asked my advice on a recent local case. I assumed you wouldn’t want to hear about it.” Given Coop’s death. I didn’t say that.

Katy looked from me to Ryan then back again. “Sure I do.”

Ryan rose. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I haven’t checked my e-mail in days.” Lame, but Ryan sensed Katy was feeling excluded.

Katy settled into the lounge chair Ryan had vacated. I told her about Hadley Perry, the body parts, the tooth marks, the surgical pin, and the partial tattoo.

“Live every week like Shark Week.”

Huh?

“Tracy Jordan? 30 Rock?”

Still, I was lost.

“The NBC sitcom? Tracy Morgan’s character was referring to a series on the Discovery Channel? Lampooning motivational quotes? Never mind. My remark was stupid. It’s wrong to joke about victims.”

I patted her hand.

“No offense taken.”

For a moment we both listened to the tick of palm fronds and the shush of gently breaking waves. Katy spoke first.

“I’ve been spending a lot of time on my blog.”

“Commenting on what?”

“The stupidity of war.”

“Sounds worthwhile.”

“I’m going to write about the insensitivity of what I just said.” She thought a moment. “About how we sometimes lose sight of the fact that every death is tragic.”

“I’d very much like to read your thoughts.”

“You have to say that.” Shooting to her feet, she buzzed my cheek. “You’re my mother.”

Before I could protest, she hurried inside.

My second caller was Tim Larabee, the ME in Charlotte. A decomposed body had been found in a sandpit off a rural highway in Cabarrus County. He’d been on-scene since midnight, suspected the remains were those of a housewife missing since the previous fall. An anthropology consult would be needed. He wondered, no pressure, when I’d return.

Happy Days.

Lily’s phone rang at half past ten. Having finished Stephen King, I was on to a Grisham novel. Ryan was watching CNN. Katy was in her room blogging or tweeting or whatever it was she’d said.

After checking caller ID, Lily clicked on and hurried upstairs.

I looked over at Ryan, recognized the changed jawline, the tensed shoulders. Understood. Suspecting Lily’s caller was Lutetia, he was steeling himself for his daughter’s tears.

A half hour later Lily returned. She was calm, almost smiling. Curling on the sofa, she offered no explanation.

My eyes met Ryan’s. He raised questioning brows.

I nodded toward Lily.

Ryan didn’t grimace, but he came close.

I nodded again, harder.

“That your mom?” Ryan asked his daughter, casual as hell.

“No.”

I feigned total absorption in my book.

Seconds passed. A full minute.

“Anderson Cooper’s got really great hair.” Lily’s eyes stayed glued to the TV. “But I hear he’s short.”

Monday, Ryan agreed to drive Lily up to the North Shore. She wanted to visit the Turtle Bay resort where scenes from Forgetting Sarah Marshall were shot. He wanted time alone with his daughter.

Katy stayed home to work on her blog.

Traffic in the city was one giant snarl. By the time I reached Hickam it was almost eight.

No problem. Danny entered the JPAC lot two cars ahead of me. He waited as I parked and climbed from my Cobalt.

“Aloha.”

“Aloha.”

“Primo wheels,” he needled.

“Very funny.”

“You could call Avis, try to upgrade.”

“It’s not worth the effort. I’ve got a case back in North Carolina, so I’ll probably head out in a day or two.”

“You just arrived.”

“I’ve been here ten days.”

“What about the case you’re working with Perry?”

“Cases.”

While we walked, I told him about the second shark vic, the traction pinhole, and the partial ankle tattoo.

“Perry should get a hit on one or the other,” Danny said.

“I think so. And with no more remains, there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Your work here is done.”

“My work here is done. After we look at Luis Alvarez’s photos.”

I noticed Danny was sprouting one of those jawline crawlers so inexplicably popular with the male demographic.

“Growing a beard?” I asked.

“Giving it a shot.” His chin hitched up and twisted from side to side. “What do you think?”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

The chin dropped.

We were in the corridor leading to the CIL wing when Gus Dimitriadus appeared in the lobby on the far side of the glass, arms hugging a cardboard box to his chest. A potted palm projected from one side, a trophy of some sort from the other.

Dimitriadus was frowning. Shocker.

Danny opened and held the door wide.

Dimitriadus’s head came up. His frown morphed to a full-blown scowl.

“Need help?” Danny offered.

“You’ve done enough.”

“Look, this doesn’t have to be pers—”

“Really? Doesn’t it?”

What a prick, I thought, and immediately felt bad. After all, the guy had just gotten canned from what he’d undoubtedly thought was a career job.

“If you have more boxes, we’d be happy to—”

“I’ll bet you would.” Dimitriadus cut me off.

I looked into his eyes.

And saw pure hatred directed my way.

Wordlessly, Danny and I stepped aside.

As he moved through the door, Dimitriadus put out one elbow and jabbed my chest. Hard.

Taken off guard, I stumbled backward.

“Jackass,” Danny said to Dimitriadus’s retreating back. To me, “You OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“The jerk did that on purpose.”

“He’s venting,” I said. “I’m an easy target.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“The man just lost his job.”

“He’ll lose his nuts if he tries another move like that.”

Sir Danny, Avenger of Damsels Bashed in the Boobs.

While Danny went for coffee, I settled in his office with the Alvarez file.

The old black-and-whites were as I recalled.

I glanced only briefly at the head and shoulders portrait of Private Alvarez in uniform. No smile. No use.

I picked up the shot of nine sweaty soldiers dressed in sleeve-rolled fatigues and studied the man with the name Alvarez scrawled in ink across his chest.

Excitement fizzed through me.

Alvarez’s face was turned from the lens, as though he’d been distracted just as the shutter clicked. He wasn’t smiling, but, surprised, perhaps curious or frightened, had unconsciously drawn back his lips.

Revealing most of his upper front teeth.

I was searching for a magnifier when Danny appeared.

“Any luck?” He set two steaming mugs on his desk.

“Maybe. Where’s your hand lens?”

“Let’s use one of the Luxos.”

We hurried into the lab.

Danny lit the fluorescent bulb on a round, table-mounted magnifier. I positioned the photo, then manipulated the arm until Alvarez’s mouth came into focus under the lens. We both leaned in, Danny’s head so close I could feel his ear next to mine.

And there it was. A bunny-shaped shadow on Alvarez’s right central incisor. A minute point of light sparked from the bunny’s bow tie.

“Hee-haw!”

“Hee-haw!”

We bumped hips like jocks bump chests in an end zone.

“Our computer geeks will magnify the image so that the tooth is one-to-one with the fragment of sparkle you found. Then they can do a superimposition. Given the circumstances of the Huey crash, the fact that the biological profile fits Alvarez perfectly, and the dental evidence, the ID should be solid.”

“And you can try sequencing mitochondrial DNA, assuming a maternal relative can be found.”

“We can indeed.”

Beyond the glass wall that sealed off the lab I noticed Dimitriadus cross the lobby carrying another cardboard box. This one appeared heavy, probably books. When he’d disappeared from sight, Danny and I returned to his office.

The coffee was now tepid. We sipped it anyway.

“So Alvarez was found shortly after the crash and buried in North Carolina as Spider Lowery,” I said. “Lapasa was found eight months later, in the same general area, with Spider Lowery’s dog tag. Since Lowery was already ID’ed, Lapasa went to Tan Son Nhut as an unknown, then to CIL-THAI, finally here.”

“And, thanks to us, Luis and Xander are both going home.”

“As is Spider,” I said.

“Well-done.” Danny beamed.

We clinked mugs.

Sipped.

But was it? The loose ends bugged me.

“I can understand the mix-up with Alvarez and Lowery. But why was Lapasa wearing Spider’s dog tag?”

“Good question.”

“And was Lapasa on that chopper? If so, why?”

“Technically that’s two questions.”

“And how did Spider end up in Quebec?”

“We’ve got a foursome! But you forget the most intriguing question of all.”

I gave Danny a “go on” look.

“How did we let each other slip away?”

“Come on, Danny. This is serious.”

“Perhaps I am too.”

Whoa!

“You love your wife.”

“Madly,” he said. “That’s a problem.”

There was a beat of embarrassed silence. Then, “Just kidding.” Big goofy smile. “I keep thinking about my conversation with Nickie Lapasa.” Danny slid a pen through his fingers, tapping the tip then the butt to his blotter. “Why was Nickie so opposed to the idea of DNA testing that might positively identify his brother’s remains?”

“If the rumors about organized crime are true, my initial hunch was probably dead-on.”

“Probably.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You know what?” Pointing the pen at me. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Do what?”

“A DNA comparison.”

“Where will you get a family sample for comparison?”

“I’ll think of something.” One finger tapped a temple, just as it had outside the Lanikai house upon our arrival. “I’ve got an arrival ceremony this afternoon, but right after that, I’m on it like fat on bacon.”

Sunday, Monday, happy days!

I checked my BlackBerry.

Hadley Perry.

Not wanting to dampen Danny’s good mood, I opted to take the ME’s call in the lobby.

While worming through stacks of books and papers, I noticed a shadow cross the tile beyond the open office door.

In the corridor, I looked left and right. Empty.

Had someone been eavesdropping? Dimitriadus? If not, who? Why?

Perry’s news blew the issue right out of my head.

“LÔ JUST CALLED. HE FOUND A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD MALE WHO broke his left tibia and fibula back in two thousand three. Francis Kealoha. The kid spent time as an in-patient at The Queen’s Medical Center.”

“In traction?”

“Yes, ma’am. The pins were removed the following year.”

“The guy’s quick.”

“The Queen’s is Hawaii’s only designated trauma center, so Lô started there, put the screws to some chick to do a database search using our suggested parameters. Kealoha’s record popped right out.”

“Did Lô contact the family?”

“The mother died in oh-seven, father’s been out of the picture for years. But he managed to track down a sister. Gloria. A real piece of work. Gloria said the last time she talked to or saw her brother was three years back. She thinks.”

“Did Lô learn of any associates, anyone who might have noticed that Kealoha had disappeared?”

“Gloria swears she knows none of her brother’s friends, has no idea where he’s been living for the past few years. Or what he’s been doing. Lô’s working on it. I’m heading to The Queen’s now, thought you might want to meet me.”

“Why can’t Lô pick up the medical file and drop it by your office?”

“The treating doc’s being a prick. Says he can’t release anything without permission from a parent or guardian. Or proof of death.”

“That’s ass backward.”

“Yes.”

“How old is Gloria?”

“Thirty-two.”

“So what’s the problem? Lô can get a release from her.”

“Gloria’s a prossie with no love of cops. Lô’s call must have spooked her, because she’s stopped answering the phone. He went by, got no response, heard no sounds of activity.”

“Is Hung having any luck with the tattoo parlors?”

“Apparently that shark motif is fairly common. The only unusual elements were those little loopy things along the top border. One tattoo artist thought they were probably added later. The tat angle may turn out to be a bust.”

“Who’s Kealoha’s doctor?”

“Sydney Utagawa, an orthopedic surgeon.”

“Where are you meeting him?”

“In his office at The Queen’s. We can examine the file, but he keeps possession.”

“Give me directions.”

She did.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

When Captain James Cook stumbled onto the Hawaiian Islands in 1778, the population numbered roughly 350,000. By 1854, when Alexander Liholiho ascended the throne as King Kamehameha IV, that number had dropped to approximately 70,000. Such was the impact of Western microbes.

From the moment of his inauguration, King K and his queen, Emma Naea Rooke, fought for the establishment of health care for native Polynesians. In 1859 the royal couple’s dream was realized in the form of a tiny, eighteen-bed, temporary dispensary. The following year, a permanent facility, The Queen’s Hospital, was built on a parcel of land called Manamana, at the foot of the Punchbowl.

Over the years, buildings spread outward from the original rock coral and redwood structure championed by his and her highness. Renamed The Queen’s Medical Center, the hospital is now a megacomplex of high-rise towers, multilevel parking decks, specialty research and treatment centers, physicians’ office buildings, medical libraries, and conference centers.

I got lost leaving Hickam, but eventually blundered onto Vineyard Boulevard. Following Perry’s directions, I turned onto Lusitana Street and found the parking area for Physicians Office Building 1. Seems the docs are no more creative than the troops in naming their habitat.

Or maybe someone was making a statement. Physicians Office Building 1 was a nondescript stone block devoid of redeeming architectural detail. Nice tree to one side, though. Baobab? Nawa? An arborist I’m not.

As I walked toward the entrance, I noted the main hospital tower looming beyond, chalk white, its backdrop the glass and steel of downtown skyscrapers.

I rode the elevator with two men and a woman, all in lab coats with stethoscopes looped in their pockets. The woman flipped through a chart. The men watched the floor buttons blink in succession as we ascended. Discreetly, I scanned name tags.

Nussbaum. Wong. Bjornsen.

Cultural diversity. Honolulu rocks.

Utagawa’s office was on the third floor. Perry was already there, positioned with her back to the door. The hair spikes were currently a tasteful magenta.

Behind the desk sat a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a hairline holding, for the moment, at midcrown. I assumed this was the intractable Dr. Utagawa.

Utagawa’s face was blotchy, suggesting agitation. Or rosacea. Knowing Perry, I guessed the former.

Utagawa rose when I entered. Too quickly, as though glad of rescue. His left hand lingered on a file, palm arched, manicured fingertips spread like spider legs. Other than the folder, the desktop was empty.

We shook hands, exchanged names. Utagawa gestured to a chair beside the ME. I sat. He sat.

Utagawa aligned the file with the edge of the desk. Laced his fingers on it.

“I have been explaining to Dr. Perry, as I did to the detective with whom I first spoke, this case involves a minor. Until I have permission from a parent or guardian, or a court order, I can discuss this file only to the extent that ethics allow.”

Utagawa squared his shoulders, prepared for battle.

“It’s been years since you treated this kid—”

“Of course.” I cut Perry off. “We understand completely, and wouldn’t want you to do anything to violate doctor-patient privilege.”

Utagawa’s frown eased ever so slightly. He nodded, more with his eyelids than with his head.

“Please”—I smiled my most beguiling smile—“tell us what you can.”

Utagawa’s gaze flicked to Perry, back to me, dropped. Opening the file, he began extracting conscience-friendly facts.

“On August thirteenth, two thousand three, fifteen-year-old Francis Kealoha arrived by ambulance at the emergency department of The Queen’s Medical Center. Kealoha had injured his left leg while surfboarding.” Utagawa adjusted his glasses. Skimmed. “The ER attending took X-rays, concluded that an orthopedic consult was indicated. I was the surgeon on call.”

Lots of page flipping.

“Following examination, I admitted the patient for reconstructive surgery.” Utagawa’s lips compressed. He was finished.

“Kealoha had suffered a distal metaphyseal fracture of the tibia?” I prompted.

“Among other injuries.”

“The tibial shaft was unstable, so you managed the fracture with calcaneal pin traction, is that correct?”

“And subsequent plaster of Paris casting. There were no pin track problems, and the break progressed to complete union.”

“How long did you treat Mr. Kealoha following his discharge?”

“Until removal of the cast. Though advised to continue therapy, the patient kept no appointment after that. During his final visit, he complained of slight residual subtalar joint stiffness.”

“Do you have Mr. Kealoha’s X-rays?”

Tight nod.

“May we compare Mr. Kealoha’s left lower leg films to those taken from our unknown?”

Utagawa rose and strode to a wall-mounted light box. Perry and I followed. A large black square had already been clamped into place.

As Utagawa flipped the switch to illuminate the fluorescents, Perry withdrew her X-ray and popped it beside that which Utagawa had ordered in 2003. Utagawa straightened both.

We all looked from antemortem to postmortem and back, and back again, comparing details of bony architecture and microstructure.

Everything matched. The shape and robusticity of the malleolus. The diameter and contour of the medullary cavity. The density and orientation of the trabeculae. The number and positioning of the foramina.

The size, depth, location, and angulation of the traction pinhole.

“Oh, my.” Utagawa spoke for all of us.

Minutes later, Perry and I were wending through the parking deck. She now carried two large brown envelopes.

“Lô and Hung plan to canvass Gloria Kealoha’s neighbors?” I asked. “See if Francis was known in the neighborhood?”

“They’re on it as we speak. If someone recalls Kealoha dropping from the radar, maybe they’ll remember a pal vanishing at the same time. A twofer would make my job a hell of a lot easier. And God knows I could use a break. My ass is in a sling over the Halona Cove closing.”

“Who’s unhappy?”

“Everyone.”

Wishing Perry luck, I headed to my car.

There seemed little point in returning to the CIL. Ryan and Lily were in Turtle Bay.

I dialed my daughter’s cell.

Katy was pumped. Her new blog post had stimulated a lot of response. She wanted to stay with it for a couple more hours, then she’d be up for some beach time.

Oahu’s windward shore stretches about forty miles from Kahuku Point in the north to Makapu’u Head in the south. Lanikai lies roughly three-quarters of the way down, between Kaneohe Bay and Waimanalo Bay.

I considered a moment. Decided.

Instead of shooting west on the Pali then down, I’d take the long way home, circling the island’s southernmost tip, then looping back north. The views would be spectacular and, with luck, might include whales. Or some buff boy surfers.

But kohola and naked kane weren’t the only draws. The route would also take me past Halona Cove, the inlet where Francis Kealoha’s ankle had been recovered. I’d been there before but taken little note of the landscape. I was curious to view the location in person.

After buckling up, I exited the parking deck and eased into traffic.

Bypassing Waikiki, I pointed the Cobalt toward Diamond Head and slipped through a neighborhood of opulent homes. Kahala. The Lapasa family turf.

Past Kahala, the H-1 dwindles to a narrow two-laner called the Kalanianaole Highway. Highway 72. The day was Hawaiian tropic perfect. I lowered the window and let the wind play with my hair.

I followed the Kalanianaole past Hawaii Kai, Hanauma Bay, and Koko Head, stopping at every scenic marker along the way. Forty minutes out, I pulled into an overlook near Makapu’u Beach Park and got out of my car. Two dozen vehicles crammed the small lot.

To the right, the craggy cliffs of Makapu’u Point rose in the distance. To the left, tourists circled the Halona Blowhole, cameras poised, willing the capricious waterspout to make an appearance.

Far below, off the southernmost railing, lay Halona Cove, a golden crescent cradled in the palm of towering black cliffs. From Here to Eternity Beach.

Not a single greased body lay on the sand. Not a single bronzed boarder rode Halona’s waves. Newly erected signs blocked the narrow path snaking down the cliffside. Kapu! Forbidden!

I stood a moment, wondering how Francis Kealoha and his unnamed companion had ended up in the cove. Had they picked their way down the rugged trail to swim? To fish? Had they died elsewhere, then their bodies washed in and been trapped among the rocks? Had the sharks attacked when the men were still alive? Had they scavenged following some deadly turn of events?

I had no answers. But, oddly, I felt better having visited the site.

Past Makapu’u Point, I skirted Waimanalo Bay; at three and a half miles, Oahu’s longest uninterrupted stretch of sand. Makai, oceanward, waves thundered toward a rocky shoreline, sunlight sparking the curves of their backs. Makau, inland, the mountains rose cool and green, as though posing to inspire a Monet or Gauguin.

I was stealing peeks at a line of surfers when I felt a bump and the Cobalt lurched.

My foot hit the brake. My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror.

A black SUV was riding my tail. Its windshield was tinted and afternoon sun bounced from the glass.

I squinted, trying to see the vehicle’s occupants. Two hulking silhouettes suggested a male driver and companion.

“Well, aloha to you too.” Glaring into the rearview, I lowered my speed.

The SUV dropped back.

My eyes returned to the road.

Seconds later, I felt another bump, this one harder than the first.

Through my open window, I heard an engine roar.

Again, my eyes sought the mirror, my foot the brake.

Horrified, I saw the SUV swerve wide, then cut back and smack my driver’s-side rear quarter-panel.

The taillight shattered.

The Cobalt’s back end shot right.

Anger fired through me, swiftly replaced by fear as the right rear tire dropped from the pavement.

Death-gripping the wheel, I fought for control.

No good. The left tire dropped.

The world hitched sideways as I spun.

The SUV was disappearing up the road to my right. A burly arm waved from the passenger-side window.

Though not a precipice, the shoreline at this point was pitched and rocky. There was no guardrail.

Surf pounded behind me.

I eased off the brake and depressed the gas pedal.

The engine whined, but the car didn’t budge.

I pressed harder. The wheels spit gravel into the air.

The Cobalt began a slow backward slide.