Tough Cookie

The next time Doug presented me with a dismal report on John Richard’s assets, he’d followed it with, In the mood for some Italian? After a momento of hesitation while I calculated my cupboard contents, I offered to prepare fettucine Alfredo. He wolfed it down, even asked for the recipe. Over coffee, I was politely enthusiastic as he showed me another fat portfolio, this of his representational paintings. All depicted historical weapons: the repeating rifle, the Colt .45, the bayonet. He said he was hoping to get a New York show for these works. Collectors would pay thousands for each painting! I murmured compliments.

The next week’s discouraging report on The Jerk must have engendered some guilt on Doug’s part. He pulled out tickets to a Denver showing of military memorabilia. Arch and Doug and I strolled past exhibits of samurai swords, bloodstained maps of battlegrounds, state-of-the-art grenade launchers. I found it boring; six-year-old Arch had been in heaven. Doug sprang for vendor hot dogs outside Currigan Hall. He liberally squirted on ketchup and rattled on about his volunteer work at nearby Capitol Hill. It seemed Doug was campaigning for a friend who was running for the state senate. I dislike guns, I dislike hot dogs, and I find the state senate boring. Arch sagely assessed my mood while pasting mustard on his wiener; on the way home, he asked if the end of my relationship with Doug Portman was in sight.

Through the spinning flakes ahead, the tube of the Eisenhower Tunnel finally yawned. In the lane next to the van, another driver went too fast and careened off the median before straightening out.

When Doug had slapped his final report on my kitchen table, he’d assessed my rack of pots and pans and demanded, “What’s cooking?” I’d smiled. I’d announced that nothing was on the menu but a trip to my lawyer. This had marked the end of my nonromance with Doug Portman, forensic accountant, artist, and bore. I’d received the house, a sixty-thousand-dollar divorce settlement, and a sizable adjustment in child support. Doug, with his ego, paintings, and plans, had been a man on the way up—and out of my life.

On my final approach to the tunnel, I tried to remember what Marla had told me about what had happened to Doug. He had married Elva, just the kind of wealthy woman he needed. He’d given up accounting and moved to Killdeer, where he’d become involved in Elva’s art gallery in addition to his own increasingly political commitments. His candidate had been elected; Doug himself had become involved in building high-end condos while writing about the arts for a regional newspaper. Someone must have told me he came to Sheriff’s department functions because he was connected to corrections. What I’d never guessed was that his political benefactor had made him chief of the state parole board.

If I was going to avoid even more suspicions about what was going on with my business and my life, I was going to need to find out more, I determined as I squashed down on the accelerator. And not only was I going to find out all about Doug Portman, I was going to find out the exact status of John Richard’s stint behind bars.

Without warning, the van lurched forward. Wild honking burst from all quarters. A car had hit me from behind. I yelped as another hard thud shook the van and my teeth. More cars honked, but in the suddenly thicker snowfall I couldn’t see the vehicles around me. My van slid across the left lane, where the bumper hit the divider with such force my neck snapped forward. I spun the steering wheel, but balding tires on ice have a life of their own. Another sickening thud sounded against my rear bumper.

It was a pileup, I realized helplessly. I was the second domino, behind the pickup truck. But where was the truck? A grinding crash of metal on metal thrust me forward. I gasped as the van skated back across the lanes. Another bang resounded. The van skidded inexorably toward the guardrail. I saw a fleeting image in my rearview mirror, a horrified face. I braked again. It was hopeless. Another car whacked me broadside. My van crashed through the guardrail and I was airborne.

CHAPTER 7

Down, down, down the snow-covered hill the van flew. I was sure I would die. An internal brain screen flashed images of my younger self on the Jersey shore with my mother. Then I was holding Arch as a newborn. Pain shot across my back. Warm liquid ran up my arm. I saw Tom slipping the wedding ring on my finger. I thought, But what will he have for dinner?

The van slammed into something hard, jolting me forward. A wave of shadowy whiteness obscured the windshield. The van again bounced onto something hard—a boulder?—and shuddered. My vehicle flipped over, then flipped back. I was screaming. Then, with a terrifying boom, the van hit another rock. The windshield shattered. A shock wave of icy snow hit me in the face.