Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Chapter 7

VERO AND I are having a tea party. We are sitting at a kid-size maple-wood table, Fat Bear sitting across from her, Priscilla the Princess sitting across from me. The room is bright and sunny. Light-green walls covered on one side in a mural of climbing roses, set off by fresh white trim. Vero’s twin-size bed is pushed against the far wall, hidden behind yards of pink gauze. It’s a beautiful room, perfect for a little girl, and I feel a pang because I know already that neither of us likes it here.

Vero passes the porcelain teapot. I delicately pour a stream of apple juice in my dainty china cup. I repeat the process for Fat Bear, with his overstuffed brown limbs and happily rounded belly, who sits to my left. I notice for the first time, Vero has taped Xs over both of his glass eyes. Same for Priscilla the Princess.

I glance at Vero, a vision in pink chiffon and yards of pearls.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “They’re not afraid of the dark.”

I nod, as if this makes perfect sense, and set the teapot in the middle of the table. The hand-painted rosebush is moving on the wall. It appears as if some of the pink petals are falling from the flowers onto the ground. As well as something darker, more ominous. Blood dripping from the thorns.

“Have some tea,” Vero says.

We sip in companionable silence, each munching a vanilla wafer. Between the apple juice and the sugary cookie, the meal is too sweet; I feel vaguely nauseous. But I don’t stop. I need this moment, any moment, not nearly enough moments, with Vero.

“He’s going to leave you,” she says now. I understand she’s referring to Thomas. “He thinks you’re crazy.”

I don’t say anything, simply set down my thimble of tea. I wish I could reach across the table and take her into my arms. I want to comfort her, tell her everything will be all right. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t know any better. These things happen.

But I don’t want to lie.

I realize for the first time that the table, the room, is really too young for her. She’s not a child of six, but closer to twelve, with mascara coating her steel-gray eyes, a harsh slash of overly bright lipstick smearing her lips.

She stares at me, takes another sip of apple juice. Or maybe it is scotch, eighteen-year-old Glenlivet, straight from the bottle.

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.

“Liar.”

“If I could go back, I would.”

“Bigger liar.”

“Vero—”

“Shhh . . .” She stands abruptly, and I hear it now: heavy footsteps coming from down the hall.

I can’t help myself. I shudder, and across from me, Vero smiles, but it is not a nice look.

Now that she’s standing, I realize her dress is cut nearly to her navel. Not at all appropriate for a twelve-year-old. And peeking from beneath the flounces of pink are green and purple smudges, bruises covering her arms and legs.

The footsteps, looming closer. As more petals fall from the climbing rose, fresh blood dripping from the thorns.

I want to touch this marble statue of a woman-child, who already holds herself too tight and defies me with her gaze to comment on the neckline of her dress, the state of her limbs.

“Be strong,” I whisper, but we both know that is not the problem. Vero has always been tough. In this world, however, those who can’t bend eventually break.

Footsteps. Louder. Heavier. Ominous.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I miss you—”

“You killed me.”

My mouth opens. I have nothing else to say.

“Run,” Vero states firmly, the child more in command than the adult. “Get the hell out and don’t look back.”

But I can’t bring myself to leave her.

Again.

“He’s here! Don’t you understand? He’s going to find you, and when he does . . .”

“It’s not your fault,” I hear myself say again, but Vero is already turning away from me.

“Stupid loser. Get out. Get away. Run, dammit! Run!”

I want to do all of those things. Instead, I do none of those things. I push away from the table. I approach this little girl who is not so little anymore. And even though I know what’s going to happen next, I take her into my arms.

For one second, she is there. I can feel her. I can smell her. Vero. And in that moment, as always, I know exactly what I have done.

Then her flesh dissolves within my embrace. And I cradle nothing but a pile of bones, covered in hundreds of fat white maggots that wriggle against my skin.

In my arms, her skull slowly rotates, regards me with dark, empty sockets.

“Run,” Vero’s skeleton orders me.

But it’s too late. He’s already here.

*   *   *

MY EYES BOLT awake. Bright overhead lights. Sterile hospital room. I don’t think anymore. I move.

Grabbing the first batch of wires and wrenching them from my body. Blood sprays from the back of my hand as the IV needle is ripped away. From the thorns of the roses, I think wildly, watching the red drops fan across the hospital bed. He’s here. He’s here.

I can’t figure out the metal rails. They are up, trapping me on the bed. I shove at them desperately, trying to force them down. When that fails, I scramble to the end of the mattress and jump, bare feet hitting the cold floor, hospital gown flapping loosely as I bolt for the open door.

Gotta run. Where, where, where?

I make it out to the broad hallway. It’s too vast, overexposed. Anyone can see me. As if on cue, a nurse down the hall shouts out a warning.

Run. He is coming. Or maybe he’s already here.

I flee, mindless, oblivious, fueled by instinct. My feet hurt, my ribs, my chest. I don’t care. Nothing is more important than my desire for flight. I want a closet. Someplace small and dark. Like an animal retreating to its den. A closet could save me.

I hear footsteps pounding behind me, then more voices, joined in alarm.

I skitter around the corner, and he’s standing there.

“Nicky,” Thomas says.

He spreads his arms, blocking my path. His face is expressionless. I can make out nothing but his dark eyes, boring into mine.

“He’s here,” I state wildly.

“Shhh,” my husband replies.

“No, no, I have to run. I have to get away. Vero says so.”

Something flickers in his gaze. For a second, it’s almost as if he believes me. Then:

“Listen to the sound of my voice, Nicky. Just focus. My voice. Talking to you. My voice, calming you.”

“I have to get out of here!”

“Focus. One thing. My voice. All that you hear. All that matters. One thing, Nicky. Focus on my voice. The rest will go away.”

I don’t want to focus. I’m upright, swaying on my feet, and my ribs are too tight and I can’t catch my breath and there’s a skeleton in my head and maggots on my arms and doesn’t he know the rosebush is still bleeding and I failed her. So many times, so many ways. Over and over I go back to her. And over and over again, I fail.

I’m tired. Suddenly. Absolutely. I don’t think I can stand anymore.

“Everything is all right,” Thomas murmurs. “Come on, honey. You must be cold. Let’s tuck you back in bed.”

He takes a step closer.

“Why me?” Vero whispers in my head. But she is not whining anymore, just making conversation.

“Is your head all right?” Thomas continues. “Do you have a headache?”

On cue, my head explodes. I grab my temples, squeeze my eyes shut. In that moment, Thomas closes the gap between us. His arms snap like a steel trap around my shoulders. The hospital personnel fall back. Why not? The husband has arrived. Clearly, he’s got this.

“The sound of my voice,” he commands.

So I do. I listen to the sound of his voice. And with the weight of his hands upon my shoulders, I turn and fall in step meekly beside him.

In the hospital room, he effortlessly slides down the metal rails, then helps me onto the tall bed. He tucks my trembling legs beneath the sheet, smooths the blue coverlet high across my chest.

I stare at him resentfully, prepared for his expression of gloating. He has won, I have lost, even if I don’t understand the rules of engagement. When he glances back, however, I’m startled to see that his eyes are overbright, his expression distraught. He catches himself, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. For my sake or his?

“Please, honey,” he begins, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re calling unnecessary attention . . .” His voice breaks; he looks away. He’s upset. I’ve upset him. I feel bad, like I should apologize. Those dark, dark eyes, I think. How I loved him once. Love him still?

He swallows heavily. “I know you don’t believe me. I know; everything feels upside down, topsy-turvy. But I love you, Nicky. I have only ever wanted the best for you. Whether you remember that or not.”

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

He smiles tiredly.

“I don’t think the doctors will let you. You’re very sick, Nicky. Three concussions and you’ve bruised your ribs.”

“You’ll take care of me.”

“Based on the past six months, Dr. Celik would beg to differ.”

“It’s not your fault I drink,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

“I won’t touch any alcohol,” I promise more rashly. “Just get me out of here. The lights are too bright. They hurt my eyes.”

“The police want to question you,” he says bluntly. “Here or at home, Nicky, you have to face them.”

“But I don’t remember anything!”

“Not even buying the Glenlivet?”

His question, spoken coolly, brings me up short. Do I remember buying the bottle of scotch? Maybe. Kind of. Is that even a real answer?

“I want to go home,” I say again.

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with me anymore. Will he leave me?

Will I miss him?

“Do you remember the promise I made to you, our first night together in New Orleans?” he asks abruptly.

I don’t. It must show on my face.

“Once upon a time, you said your home was wherever I was,” he says.

The words mean nothing to me.

“Once upon a time, you said my love made you strong.”

I have no answer.

“And once upon a time, you said as long as we were together, it would be enough.”

I don’t know what to say; he’s telling me stories from someone else’s life.

He seems to know as much. His shoulders come down. He regards me expressionlessly. “We made a deal that night. Anytime you thought you smelled smoke, you’d reach for my hand. Do you smell smoke, Nicky?”

I frown at him. For the first time, his words sound familiar, as if I should know what he’s talking about. Slowly, I shake my head.

“Did you smell smoke last night?”

I have to think about it. “After the crash,” I murmur.

He doesn’t say anything. Just a muscle flinches in his jaw. A sign that he’s heard. A sign that he hurts.

“I died once before,” I hear myself say.

My husband is not surprised by this news.

“There are only so many times a woman can come back from the dead.”

“We’re going to get through this,” Thomas says evenly.

My turn to smile. Because I might have forgotten his name, but I still know when he’s lying to me.

Vero, I think.

Then I reach out and take my husband’s hand.

Chapter 8

HOW GOES THE battle?” Tessa asked.

On the other end of the phone, Wyatt contemplated his girlfriend’s lighthearted question and promptly sighed heavily. “Long morning,” he admitted. “Long, strange morning. But the good news is, I think we should get a puppy.”

“What?”

He could already picture her, sitting up straighter, blue eyes blinking in bewilderment.

“A cute yellow Lab,” Wyatt continued. “One that will wag its tail and cover you with kisses every time you come home. That would be perfect.”

“Perfect for whom? Dogs have to be fed, you know. As well as taken outside, exercised regularly. And Sophie and I are never home.”

“Mrs. Ennis would help.”

“Mrs. Ennis is seventy years old—”

“And still the toughest broad I know. In fact, if things don’t work out between us, I might just set my cap for her.”

He could practically feel Tessa rolling her eyes. Which was exactly what he needed. A break from the pressure of a case that might not even be a case. And yet he was sure it was a case. At least a motor vehicle accident.

“So why a puppy?” Tessa was asking him.

“Because a puppy makes everything better. Just ask Sophie.”

“Low blow.”

“Of course, I reserve the right to present the puppy. We both know I need the brownie points.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought,” Tessa said.

“Spent the morning with a search dog,” Wyatt volunteered. “Which might have gone better if we’d been searching for a real person, versus some brain-damaged woman’s mental delusion.” He couldn’t help himself; he sighed again.

“Day going that well?”

“Yeah, which means, sadly, I’ll never make dinner. Now that we’ve eliminated the ghosts, we have a real crime scene to analyze and auto accident to reconstruct.”

“Catch me up; what do you know thus far?”

Over the phone, Wyatt could hear Tessa shifting her position, most likely getting more comfortable in her black leather desk chair. She wasn’t just asking a question; she was interested in the answer. Which was one of the things Wyatt liked best about dating a fellow investigator. Tessa didn’t just inquire about his day; she was more than happy to review it with him. And sometimes, as the saying went, two heads were better than one.

Sitting in his county cruiser, waiting for the state police to arrive with the electronic data retrieval box, Wyatt took her up on her offer.

“Single MVA, off road, possible aggravated DWI.”

“Blood alcohol level?”

“Well, first complicating factor. Driver smelled like a distillery. According to hospital records, however, her blood alcohol level was only .06—”

“That doesn’t meet the threshold for DWI.”

“Ah, but the patient suffers from something called post-concussive syndrome. Has taken one too many blows to the head over the past six months. According to the doctor, for a person suffering from a TBI, even a little alcohol can go a long way. So I’m not willing to dismiss it just yet. We could potentially make the argument that for a driver with this condition, .06 is sufficiently impaired.”

Wyatt had given the matter a lot of thought, mostly because it was his thought to give. Given the unique laws of New Hampshire, county cops had the power to prosecute all misdemeanor cases. Meaning Wyatt didn’t just build a case; he got to present it, too. Factoring in the driver’s injuries, this crash could end up being a felony DWI, in which case the county attorney would take over, but Wyatt would still be responsible for the arraignment bail hearing and probable cause hearing. He liked to joke he was half cop, half lawyer. Though given the way the legal system worked these days, you had to be more like 90 percent lawyer just to survive.

“Interesting,” Tessa was saying now. “So you have an unimpaired, impaired driver.”

“It’s possible. Now, booze in question came from an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch—”

“Expensive.”

“Please, you should see the car. Guys traced the purchase of the bottle to a liquor store ten miles from the accident scene, purchased on a credit card. We’re going through security footage now to see if we have actual film of her making the purchase. But so far, not bad for a morning’s work.”

“And yet you’re bothered by . . . ,” Tessa pushed.

“Liquor store closed at eleven. Accident happened around five A.M. So what was the driver doing between those hours? Because if she was sitting around drinking, her blood alcohol level should obliterate .06.”

“Friend, associate, to help her out?”

“Possible.”

“Husband?”

“Claims he was occupied in a work shed. Apparently hadn’t even realized his concussed wife was missing.”

“No card for him on Valentine’s Day. Where’d the car go off? Busy area? Plenty of shops, restaurants, bars, to keep your driver entertained?”

“Nada. I’ve counted two gas stations between the liquor store and scene of the crash; that’s it. So again, what was she up to for six hours?”

“Maybe . . .” He could hear Tessa thinking about it. “Maybe she wasn’t doing anything. Maybe she was just . . . hanging out. Trying to collect her thoughts. When I was patrolling, you’d be amazed how many parked cars I came across in the middle of the night, occupied by lonely souls. If your driver is concussed, suffering from a TBI, maybe she’s confused, too. Another lost soul looking for the light.”

“So she buys a bottle of scotch. Drowns her sorrows . . .”

“Sips her sorrows. Only .06.”

“Then hits the road. Searching for a little girl who doesn’t exist.”

“Little girl?” Tessa’s voice picked up.

Wyatt winced. He hadn’t intended to mention that part. “When the first officer arrived at the scene, the woman claimed she couldn’t find her daughter, Vero. Only her husband of twenty-two years claims there are no kids. Not now, not ever.”

“So she’s delusional?”

“Apparently, her brain has been compromised by multiple TBIs. She fell down the stairs doing laundry, then another fall outside, then, of course, the car accident. Long story short, her memory is shot, and she has ongoing problems with headaches, light sensitivity, and extreme mood swings.”

“With all due respect, forgetting things isn’t the same as making things up.”

“What do you mean?” Wyatt asked.

“Did you confirm with the doctors that this woman is indeed delusional?”

“Physicians don’t talk. HIPAA and all that. What we know we got from the husband.”

“Please. Wouldn’t be the first time the husband was the last to know.”

“But they obviously don’t have a child—”

“And yet she’s looking. I mean, even if she’s delusional, why that delusion? Of all the short circuits running through her head, why this one? I’d check the odometer, too. Because maybe that’s what she was doing for the six hours. Driving around searching for her lost girl.”

“Who doesn’t exist,” Wyatt repeated.

“And yet is clearly important to her. First time she’s done this?”

Wyatt hesitated. “Didn’t think to ask that question.”

“Friends, support system?”

“New to the area.”

“Job?”

“Self-employed. Husband and wife work together making props for Hollywood.”

“Meaning her only family, only contact, is her husband.” Tessa’s voice picked up. “The one telling you they don’t have kids. The one reporting his wife has had three ‘accidents’ in six months.”

Wyatt got her point. Same thought had crossed his mind, too. And in a cop’s world, where there was paranoia, there was often probable cause.

“You suspect domestic violence. Which, I have to say, is what worries me, too.” Wyatt thought again of the bruise that had discolored Thomas Frank’s jaw. From an impaired wife, lashing out in agitation? Or from a terrified woman acting in self-defense?

“Fits the profile,” Tessa was saying, “not to mention a man who beats his wife . . .”

“Might also beat his kids. Leading to what, the death of a girl who doesn’t exist? Let’s not get completely lost in the land of wild conjecture. I already spent the morning, not to mention significant county and state resources, on a wild-goose chase. At this point, my boss, the sheriff, would appreciate a lot more facts and a lot less fiction.”

“Have you even talked to the woman—”

“All in good time.”

“You haven’t interviewed the driver?” Tessa sounded dumbfounded.

“She’d just been sedated! Woman’s having medical issues, thought we covered that.”

“So you haven’t even questioned her directly—”

“First thing tomorrow. Doc says she needs more time to recover. Which gives us the rest of today to get our ducks in a row: Single-car accident. Lone driver. Possible aggravated DWI.”

He could feel Tessa rolling her eyes at him again. Crazy part was, her daughter rolled them exactly the same way.

“Fine. I’ll play by your county-cop rules,” she granted him. “So looking at just the accident . . . If your driver’s blood alcohol level was only .06, why’d she crash?”

“Inclement weather. Impairment from her brain injury combined with said blood alcohol level. Either way, she went off the edge of a steep road; car flew down an embankment.”

“Went off or drove off?”

“Waiting for the state police to help us with that one; we need the info from the vehicle’s electronic data recorder.”

“Suicide?”

“She had her seat belt on, which is one vote in the no column. Then again, open bottle of scotch could be taken as a vote in the yes department. However, and probably most interesting, after the accident, the driver clawed her way up a two-hundred-foot ravine in the pouring rain to flag down help.”

“Certainly sounds like a woman with a will to live,” Tessa commented.

“Except.” Wyatt couldn’t help himself. He paused uncomfortably. “She didn’t seem to think she needed help for herself. Instead, she begged for assistance to help find her missing girl. She pleaded for Vero.”

“The little girl who doesn’t exist?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“Some delusion,” Tessa said knowingly.

“Don’t you have a lunch to attend?” Wyatt asked her irritably. “You know, with your favorite detective, D. D. Warren.”

“The one and only.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Luck? Please, I need more like heavy armor.”

Which made Wyatt roll his eyes at her, before ending the call.

*   *   *

THE STATE POLICE were good guys. In New Hampshire, all members of law enforcement attended the same training academy, from city to county to Fish and Game. Kept everyone on the same page and helped build bridges in an area long on mountains and short on people. Especially north of Concord, where law enforcement resources were particularly scarce, the various agencies relied upon one another for backup. And not just for manpower, but also for equipment. Contrary to those TV cop shows where crime labs looked like space stations and SWAT teams started out with a hundred grand in equipment per officer, real-world policing required more cooperation . . . and at times, sheer inventiveness. Wyatt had run undercover drug stings with surveillance equipment that had been pieced together from three different towns. Sometimes it felt less like policing and more like passing a collection plate.

Now Wyatt approached Jean Huntoon, who’d arrived with the state’s data retrieval computer. The two had met twice before. They shook hands, made the obligatory comments on the weather, then hoofed it down to the crash site. Huntoon was a slender five six and cycled hundred-mile races in her free time. She also hadn’t hiked in and out of the ravine half a dozen times, Wyatt thought resentfully, as the younger officer beat him to the vehicle.

“Sad ending for a beautiful car,” Huntoon observed.

“Apparently even crossovers weren’t meant to fly.”

“Distributed front-end damage. Took it right on the nose.” Huntoon looked back up the way they came. “Must have left the road up top, sailed right down. No other vehicles involved?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Brake marks?”

“Nope.”

Huntoon arched a delicate brow. “Never a good sign. All right, you got questions. Let me get some answers.”

Huntoon hefted her computer onto a relative flat spot near the frame of the shattered windshield, got out some cables, and went to work.

There were a couple of ways to conduct a vehicle autopsy. One was to dismantle the car in the field and ship away entire parts, doors, seats, the little black box, to the state’s labs. As it was a county case, someone like Wyatt would follow his evidence to the labs, overseeing every step of analysis and data retrieval.

But Wyatt was feeling a pressure he couldn’t completely explain with this one. Maybe because the case had gotten off to such a rough start, dozens of officers tied up in a wild-goose chase. Now he felt as if the investigation had gotten away from them and he needed to rein it back in, define the parameters of exactly who, what, when, where, why and how.

He needed the accident to present factually as just an accident. Run-of-the-mill. Nothing new to be seen here. Then he and his team could settle in, get it done.

Hence he’d called Jean Huntoon to meet him out in the field to retrieve the Audi’s electronic data, rather than waiting another day to handle it in the lab.

Bad news about hooking up to the vehicle directly; Huntoon had to work around the shards of broken glass and bloodstained dash. An experienced officer, she whistled cheerfully as she rigged the cables from the car’s electronic data recorder to her computer. She played with this, fiddled with that, then stood back to let her equipment do its thing.

An hour before, Kevin and a couple guys from the TAR team had wrapped up mapping the scene with the Total Station. Add that data to the info from the vehicle’s EDR and Wyatt was hoping they’d have a nice, neat blueprint of single-car accident 101.

“Nice prints,” Huntoon observed now, gesturing to a pair of bloody handprints on the front dash.

Wyatt nodded. It was true. Vehicles were notoriously tricky to fingerprint. Too much overlay and not enough viable surface. His personal favorite was to print the inside lid of the glove compartment box. Steering wheels, doors, gear shift, mostly yielded garbage. But the inside lid of the glove compartment . . . nice, smooth plastic. Generally accessed only a few times by a few people. He’d scored some lovely incriminating prints from the glove box in his time. Things cops were proud of.

“Blood testing?” Huntoon was asking, indicating the gory mess smearing the driver’s side door.

“Gonna let you guys do the honors. Whole door will ship out later tonight. Probably tear out big chunks of the dash as well. Less dilution that way.”

Huntoon nodded in agreement. Taking a blood sample involved swabbing it with sterile water, which in turn diluted it. In this day and age of modern forensics, a good cop didn’t just find evidence; he protected it.

“Female driver?” Huntoon asked.

“Yep.”

Huntoon gestured through the shattered windshield to the driver’s seat. “Seat setup looks similar to mine, about right for an average-size woman.”

Wyatt crossed behind the vehicle so he was standing outside the driver’s side door. Huntoon was right about the seat position, and now was as good a time as any to consider the rest of the driver-side setup.

“Seat belt is spooled, so I’m assuming it was on,” he said. “Mirrors . . .”

Mirrors were hard to tell. Ideally you needed to sit in the driver’s seat, but given the amount of broken glass, let alone that neither door would open, that was impossible. Wyatt eyeballed it now, would return to it later when they’d removed the doors.

He bent this way, crooked his head that way. “Appear to make sense.”

Huntoon joined him in the juxtapositioning-the-mirrors game. “Nothing looks off to me.”

Her machine beeped. She crossed back over to consult the screen.

Wyatt finished up his brief assessment. “So seat setup, mirror placement, all consistent with female driver five four to five six. Nothing yet to indicate anyone else in the vehicle. In fact, we have a search dog who would swear the driver was the lone occupant. And now you’re going to tell me . . . ?”

“Stability control was deactivated.”

“What?” Wyatt drew up short. Of all the things he’d thought Huntoon was going to read off her data collector, that wasn’t it.

“This model has stability control. You know, to help the vehicle autocorrect if the driver goes into a skid, takes a corner too hot, that kind of thing. The vehicle’s computer senses the potential threat and will take over braking and/or deceleration on its own. Except in this vehicle, where the stability control had been shut off.”

“Manual override button?” Wyatt asked, as that was his memory with these high-end cars. They gaveth, but the driver could taketh away. Again, according to his memory, because God knows he’d never get to experience such vehicles on his salary, some drivers preferred an edgier experience. They wanted to push the limits of the car’s high-end capabilities without the computer’s self-preservation instinct kicking in.

“Exactly.” Huntoon looked at him. “Your female an adrenaline junkie?”

“I have no idea.”

“Vehicle was traveling at approximately thirty to thirty-five miles an hour,” Huntoon read off next. “But get this: no rpms.”

Wyatt stared at the officer. “Engine was in idle.”

“Gear shift’s in neutral.” Huntoon nodded her head toward the shifter, which they could both see in the front. Wyatt had observed its position earlier; he’d simply assumed the driver herself had knocked the vehicle out of gear.

“How does a car achieve thirty-five miles an hour while in neutral?” Wyatt asked in confusion.

“Gotta be some hill,” Huntoon said, looking at the road above them.

“Yeah. Or some push.”

Huntoon glanced up again, her dark eyes considering. “That would do it. Still thinking accident?”

Wyatt said simply. “Ah, shit.”