Chapter Six
Jake hurried into the chilly garage, holding his jacket over his arm and carrying his empty traveler’s mug. He was dressed for work in an old wool sweater, jeans and sneakers, the way he always did on a Saturday; he’d worked at least one day of the weekend for as long as he could remember, because it was the quiet time he needed, to think without phones and interruptions.
He checked his watch—6:15 in the morning, which was when he usually left. He’d gotten ready quietly enough for Pam to remain asleep and he was doing everything the way he always did, just in case she woke up. He hadn’t checked on Ryan because that would’ve been out of the ordinary; the Saturday routine was for Jake to go to work early, Pam to get up around eight o’clock, let the dog out, and leave for the gym around nine thirty. Ryan would stay in bed until eleven o’clock or so, if he didn’t have a game or practice.
Jake hustled to the car, stopping to double-check the damage to the front bumper. It was too dark to see well because the only illumination came from three small windows in the garage door, but he wouldn’t normally turn on a light, so he didn’t now. He straightened up, chirped the car unlocked, opened the door, and jumped inside, throwing his coat on the passenger seat and screwing his travel mug into the console.
He buckled into his harness, hit a button on the rearview mirror to open the garage door, and while he waited for it to ca-chunck upward, he surveyed the front seat and floor of the car, scanning for any errant napkin, sign of blood, or anything from the accident scene or his efforts to clean up. Everything looked in order, and there wasn’t any sign of blood or anything else on the front seat, dashboard, console, or steering wheel.
He twisted on the ignition, reversed out of the garage, and cruised down the street. It was too early for any of the neighbors to be out starting their Saturday errands, and he cruised past the darkened houses that sat silently behind the blue recycling bins and rolling trash cans. He fed the car some gas, switched on the heat, and turned right, heading for the office. He didn’t breathe any easier once he left their street, but on the contrary, felt more nervous, either because he was leaving Ryan alone with Pam or because of what he had to do next.
What about the car?
Jake tried not to think about it as he drove through their development, the only car on the curvy, man-made streets with their oddly high curbs, taking the perimeter road, past the mandatory forestation and specimen plantings required by the township zoning board. The trees in the front row were the builder’s-grade evergreens, planted in that telltale zigzag for maximum privacy, and though they’d grown and filled out, Jake remembered when they’d been only four feet tall, shaped like gumdrops the same height as Ryan. He’d taken a photo of Ryan with one of the trees, and they had the picture in the house somewhere, Pam would know where.
Jake steered past the Chetwynd Springs sign at the grandiose entrance/exit of the development and flipped on the radio. It was tuned to the local news channel from last night, but it was weather on the nines. He didn’t need a meteorologist to tell him it was a crummy day, under a sky opaque with thick gray clouds.
Fog is a cloud on the ground.
Jake hit the open road and joined the line of sparse traffic, his thoughts shifting into gear at the task that lay ahead. He had a plan and he knew where he was going. He knew what he had to do and what he had to say. He had done the research he needed on the computer. He told himself to stay calm, and that he had to see his plan through, as dreadful as his purpose was, it was the only way to protect Ryan. He drove on autopilot, listening to the radio and waiting for the news as traffic got heavier, with people getting the jump on the day, ready to check off items on their things-to-do list. They’d run to Acme and Whole Foods in pre-snowstorm panic, stocking up on salt.
Suddenly, he heard the announcer change on the radio, and the news began, “In headline news, the victim of a hit-and-run driver in Concord Chase last night has been identified as sixteen-year-old Kathleen Lindstrom. A junior at Concord Chase High School, she was struck while jogging. Police are asking anyone with information regarding this incident to please call the main tipline, at number…”
Oh my God, no.
Jake gasped aloud, in horror. His fingers clenched the steering wheel. He almost ran into the maroon Subaru in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, setting his ABS system shuddering.
No, no.
Jake shook his head, shocked. He clung to the wheel as if it were a life raft and he a drowning man. His heart thundered. He broke a sweat under his shirt. He couldn’t believe it was possible. The revelation stunned him.
I killed a kid. Kathleen Lindstrom.
Jake didn’t recognize the name, but now it was a part of his DNA. It would echo in his head for the rest of his life. New tears brimmed in his eyes. He couldn’t fathom that she was so young. He’d thought she was petite but she was just a girl. A teenager, only sixteen years old. Her life was just beginning, and now she was gone.
God, forgive me.
Jake flashed on her face, covered with blood. She had been somebody’s daughter. She had parents, waiting for her to come home from her run. They would wait and wait, until they got the call that every parent dreads. They would never see her alive again. Their daughter, their child. His heart broke for them.
Jake felt shaken to his very foundations. Kathleen was the same age as Ryan. She was a student at the same high school. Jake realized, aghast, that Ryan probably knew her. Concord Chase High wasn’t that large, only about a thousand students.
He killed his classmate.
Jake found himself reeling, stopped at a red light. This news would kill Ryan. His son wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt; it would be unsupportable. He didn’t know how Ryan could go to school, ever again. Ryan’s classmates, and all of the faculty and staff would be mourning a girl that he knew he had killed. It would be impossible, untenable. Ryan was too sensitive a kid to get past this, ever. Jake feared for his son’s sanity, maybe even his very life.
The horn of a car behind him blared, startling Jake out of his reverie. The traffic light had turned green, and he fed the car some gas, following the Subaru mechanically. He felt sick to his stomach and fought the impulse to call Ryan, but it was too risky, with Pam at home. Then he had another, darker thought. What if the news would send Ryan to Pam, to spill his guts?
Dad, I swear, I won’t tell Mom. I won’t tell anybody.
Jake couldn’t process the information. He wanted to pull over but there wasn’t time. He felt his gorge rising, but swallowed hard. He had to stay on plan. He blinked his tears away and tried vainly to ignore the pain in his chest. He drove ahead, past clapboard Cape Cods, new brick split levels, and a Dutch Colonial with white stucco, wondering if Kathleen Lindstrom lived with her family in a house like one of these. Pike Road was only ten minutes away.
Jake gritted his teeth, trying to recover. The stretch of road he was looking for lay just ahead, a two-lane street lined with houses, trees, and a strip mall that held a Chinese restaurant, a Wawa convenience market where he always stopped for coffee on the way to work, and the auto body shop he’d used for years. He’d given plenty of free financial advice to its owner Mike Ayanna, and Mike owed him a favor, but Jake wasn’t about to depend on Mike, favor or no. The police would undoubtedly be investigating the local body shops, and Mike would be compelled to turn over his records.
Jake put on his right blinker when he spotted the Wawa sign, glowing a corporate red, and slowed as he approached its parking lot. It was the side entrance to the store, with a line of parking spaces under a white sign, NO IDLING—DIESEL POWERED VEHICLES OVER FIVE TONS. The parking spaces ended next to a bundle of cardboard recycling, a stack of flat boxes, and a green metal Dumpster. The side lot was completely empty, which is what Jake would’ve expected this early in the morning.
He turned into the parking lot and aimed at the Dumpster. He hit the gas, steering slightly to the right, knowing that the damage would obliterate the dents from last night. The Dumpster raced forward to meet him.
Jake braced himself for impact, feeling that if anything went wrong, he deserved to die.
Kathleen, I am so very sorry.