The traffic had thinned considerably and it was almost six fifteen by the time he passed the sign half-way down the hill warning, ‘Dangerous Curve Ahead-Max. Speed 30 m.p.h.’ The tail-lights of the vehicles in front heeding the sign’s advice winked redly in the dusky aftermath of the gaudy sunset. Slowing down at the bottom of the long decline the scene of the accident gradually came into view as he rounded the bend.
The wrecked tractor-trailer stood upright in the median strip with its front end crushed against the concrete abutment of the railroad overpass. A tow-truck was backed up to the rear of the trailer, and an ambulance and another emergency vehicle from the Plainville Fire Department were parked on either side. A sheriff’s car was parked in the median behind the ambulance and a second stood on the right shoulder of the road behind a red Toyota.
He pulled out of the line of traffic and stopped behind the sheriff’s car on the right. The head and shoulders of a man on the driver’s side, and the profile of a young woman with long, dark hair seated next to him, were silhouetted against the windshield. She was undoubtedly one of the two witnesses Ben had mentioned. The other one must have already left. No one else was visible through the rear window. Turning on his blinker lights, he got out and walked toward the car in front. A young, blond deputy turned to look up at him as he came up to the driver’s window.
“Yes, sir. Is there something I can do for you?”
Thick, straight strands of hair swept back from his broad, low forehead; deep-set, pale blue eyes gazed steadily from beneath heavy, overhanging brows. A full-lipped feminine mouth was incongruous in the otherwise square-jawed masculinity of his face.
He handed him a business card. “I represent Mid-Continent Casualty and Life. They hold the policy on Central States Motor Freight. The owner of Central States called me as soon as he was notified by your office.”
The deputy looked at the card and put it in the pocket of his shirt. “You just missed one of the witnesses. He left a couple of minutes ago.”
“He wasn’t injured?”
“No sir.”
“Was his car damaged?”
“No sir.”
“Did you get a report from him before he left?”
“Yes sir. Do you want to see it?”
He said he did, aware of a peculiar lack of intonation in the deputy’s voice. He spoke each word clearly and distinctly, but without inflection, as if they had been memorized. His heavy features were as expressionless as his tone, and a dull glaze in his unblinking, ice-blue eyes hinted at something lacking above the broad shoulders and thick, corded neck. He flipped over the top sheet of the clipboard he held in his hand and removed the accident report from underneath.
“It only has the information for him. I was just starting a separate report for Miss Young, the other witness.”
“Thanks. I’ll take this back to my car and copy it. Would you tell Miss Young I’d like to talk to her myself when you’re through?”
The deputy turned to the young woman to relay the message. The noise coming from the passing traffic and the wreck drowned out her reply, but the deputy turned back to give it to him.
“She says it’s okay with her. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
He walked back to his car and got in behind the wheel. Taking out a small notebook from his breast pocket, he opened it to a blank page and began to copy the information for ‘Driver Number 1. Name: Closter, William John. Address: Box 42 Old Farm Road, Plainville. Date of Birth: 3-19-16;’ making him fifty-six, male and probably white-not that it made any difference.
‘Vehicle Number 1’ was a ‘69 Oldsmobile convertible. According to the pentagon symbols on the diagram and the terse description of what had happened, vehicle number one (driven by Closter) had been westbound in the inside (left-hand) lane preparing to pass vehicle number two (driven by Miss Young) which was in the outside (right-hand) lane. Closter had heard vehicle number three, (the truck) coming up in the outside lane behind Miss Young’s car and, as it passed him he had sounded his horn to warn her to get out of the way. She had moved over in front of him, and they were both almost forced off the road into the median strip as the truck crossed in front of her car and ran head on into the abutment.
He was sorry he had missed him. The bare essentials provided by the report raised more questions than they answered. Such reports usually did. There were no spaces provided to record the thoughts and emotions of the witnesses. It was always best to get a first-hand report while they were still confronted with the end result of what they had seen. He had found that memory was, at best, a cloudy, distorted mirror of reality. He should probably go see Closter as soon as he got through with the driver of vehicle number two. Apparently, she was still giving the deputy her report. Her profile was outlined in the rear window-high, sloping forehead; short, straight, slightly tilted nose; a firm, round chin-obviously young and pretty. Young. Miss Young. That was the name of Cassandra’s teacher. She had talked of little else since starting school in September. Kept asking him to go to school with her so he could meet her. He had promised her he would but had not gotten around to keeping the promise yet. Possibly; through one of life’s unaccountable little ironies; and despite his procrastination; he might be about to meet her anyhow. Thank God, she had not been hurt or killed. Cassandra would have been devastated-if it was the same Miss Young.
He took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out, and threaded his way carefully between the slowly moving lines of passing traffic. A short slender deputy stood on the edge of the median motioning furiously with a red-tipped baton. As he approached, he could hear his muttered imprecations at the failure of the motorists to respond with more alacrity to his urgings.
The deputy turned toward him, the peak of his cap concealing his eyes. “Well? Something I can do for you mister?”
The words were almost the same as the other deputy had used, but the tone was harsher and frankly impatient. He took out another business card and held it out to him. The deputy took it and dipped his peaked cap to read it as he explained his presence as he had to the first one.
The deputy handed the card back to him. “You sure got here fast enough.”
It seemed an unnecessary comment, so he gave him an unnecessary reply. “As fast as the law allows.”
The peaked cap jerked upward, giving him a glimpse of a pair of close-set eyes, a pushed-in nose and a slash of mouth in a thin sallow face.
“Maybe you should’ve gone faster than the law allows. One of the witnesses already left.”
“I know. The other deputy already told me. He showed me his report. Were there just the two of them?”
“If there were any others, they didn’t stay around to tell us about it.”
“Who notified your office?”
“I don’t know. Check with headquarters.”
“Which one of you got here first?”
“He did.” He motioned with the baton in the direction of the sheriff’s car on the other side of the road, and turned away to resume waving at the traffic that had begun to back up again.
“I’m going up to take a look at the wreck,” he said to the slender back.
“Go ahead,” the deputy replied over his shoulder. “But watch yourself. The bastards are so eager to see if there’s any blood, they’d run right over you to get a good look.”
It was obvious he was not concerned for his safety. He just did not want any more problems to contend with. One glance at a few of the faces of the passing drivers confirmed his estimate of their interest in the accident. The deputy’s annoyance was understandable, but there had been an undertone of antagonism that was puzzling.
He walked ahead along the gravel surface of the shoulder in the direction of the wrecked tractor and trailer. The tow truck driver was lying on his back underneath the rear end of the trailer attaching a heavy cable to the axle. The crew from the Plainville Fire Department was still trying to extricate the body of the dead driver from the crushed cab. The driver’s head and torso had been covered with a sheet, making it appear as if a comic strip ghost were sitting behind the wheel. The orderlies sat on the open tailgate of the ambulance waiting in silent boredom for their mangled passenger. The mars lights of the sheriff’s cars and the emergency van flickered brightly over the whole scene, lending it the unreal air of a gala event, like the opening of a new supermarket.
The road was sharply banked around the curve. But still, the truck had apparently been traveling fast enough that the centrifugal force, generated by its speed and weight, had been sufficient to propel it almost straight ahead over the crest of the shoulder and head-on into the overpass abutment. Between the unyielding concrete and the impact of the following trailer, the cab-over-engine type tractor had been compressed to less than half its original length. The nose of the trailer was telescoped over the roof of the cab but, surprisingly, it appeared to be otherwise undamaged. It was, perhaps, even more surprising in view of the large red-lettered placards bearing the single word ‘FLAMMABLE,’ attached to the side and rear.
The brakes must have failed. It seemed the most logical explanation for the speed at which the truck must have been traveling when it left the road. But, it was hard to believe it was that simple. Ben’s maintenance program was one of the best in the business. Mid-Continent had made a thorough study of it before issuing the policy. Every piece of equipment was serviced on a regular basis and the road tractors, like this one, were checked out like commercial jets before each run. Maybe something had gone wrong with the driver. Otherwise, why had he not jumped when he saw he was going to crash? He might have gotten killed anyhow, but what did he have to lose? His chances would have been just as good out of the truck as in it, when he saw that he could not avoid the abutment. Perhaps he had stayed with it to keep it from hitting anyone else. Pilots had been known to ride their planes to their deaths rather than abandon them to possibly fall on a residential area. It was not inconceivable for a truck driver to be imbued with the same spirit of self-sacrifice. And yet, according to Closter’s report, Miss Young had almost been hit from behind-and would have been if he, Closter, had not sounded his horn to warn her. Maybe Closter got a look at him as he went by-if he had the top of his convertible down. Damn! He should not have bothered to call Marie before leaving the office. He might have gotten here before Closter left.
The tow truck driver got back in his vehicle, drew the cable taut, and slowly pulled the trailer away from the tractor. He had tried to lower the trailer’s dolly wheels but they were jammed and now, as the trailer lost the support of the tractor, the floor of the crushed front end gave way, disgorging the mangled remains of assorted pieces of freight. It collapsed on top of the pile of debris, looking like a beached whale that, in its final death throes, had regurgitated its own entrails. The fire department crew; who had climbed down while the operation was taking place; climbed back up and resumed their attack on the tractor.
Turning away, he walked back to the baton-wielding deputy. The traffic was considerably lighter than it had been, but the deputy’s irritation had not diminished with it.
“Well, what now?” he snapped as he stopped behind him.
“Did the witness, Closter, have the top down on his convertible?”
He spun around, seemingly surprised by the question, his voice guarded, “Yeah, it was down. Why?”
“I was just wondering if he could see the driver as the truck passed him coming down the hill.”
He shrugged a pair of bony shoulders, “Suppose he could? What of it?”
“Well, he could have seen whether he was conscious or not.”
“What makes you think he wasn’t conscious?”
“Nothing definite. It just seems strange that he didn’t jump before he crashed.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time.”
“Possibly. But it seems more likely that he wasn’t able to because something was wrong with him.”
“Like what?”
“Like, maybe a heart attack or a stroke. I’m only guessing. But, if it was something of the sort, Closter’s description of him could help pin it down.”
He shook his head, as if the motion guaranteed the accuracy of his opinion. “It wasn’t nothin’ like that. His brakes failed, that’s all.”
“Did you talk to Closter about the accident?”
“No.”
Obviously, there was no sense in debating the question with him. Chances were he was right anyhow, even though his reasoning was as insubstantial as his own.
“Are there any skid marks or tire tracks?” he asked him.
The deputy pointed the baton in the direction of the curve. “Back there.”
A glance across the road indicated that the other deputy still had not finished with Miss Young. Shining the flashlight ahead, he walked back along the shoulder for about twenty-five or thirty yards. Where the road began to bend around the curve, the beam illuminated the marks of the heavy, tandem truck wheels leading from the edge of the gravel surface to the rear of the trailer; where it rested, nose-down, in the grassy median; and beyond to the tractor crushed against the abutment. Looking back up the hill, it was apparent; even allowing for a natural tendency of the heavy vehicle to follow the banked curve; that the tracks were in a direct line with the right-hand lane.
Aiming the light along the edge of the pavement, he walked a few yards further around the curve, past the tire tracks. The light picked out the skid marks of the narrow tires of the Toyota’s two front wheels, which ended only a few inches from the track of the left wheels of the truck. That lovely profile had come very close to being mashed into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.
A few steps further revealed the wider marks left by the wheels of Closter’s Oldsmobile. They criss-crossed the Toyota’s skid marks and ended no more than ten feet from the leading edge of the smaller car’s. Again, it was evident that the young woman in the sheriff’s car had missed being killed, or seriously injured, by the slimmest of margins. And the possibility that something had been wrong with the driver seemed reinforced by the absence of any skid marks leading to the point at which the truck had entered the median strip. There was something else, too-something in Closter’s statement. What the devil was it? Oh, yes. He had sounded his horn to warn her to get out of the way! It seemed to imply that the truck driver had not tried to warn her. But, why not? It was too much to believe that both the brakes and the horn had failed at the same time. The coincidence would be an actuarial mind boggler.
Waiting for an opening between the passing cars, he recrossed the road and walked back along the shoulder to his car. As he reached it, the blond-haired deputy got out of the car in front and came towards him. He reached in, picked up the accident report for the driver of vehicle number one off the front seat and met him half-way.
“I’m finished with Miss Young now, if you still want to talk to her,” the deputy told him.
He handed him Closter’s report. “Thanks. How is she?”
“She’s all right. Still a little shaky, but she wasn’t hurt.” Without prompting, he continued, “Her first name is Elsie. She lives in Glen Park. She’s a teacher in the Glen Park Elementary School. She was on her way to the shopping center in Plainville. She says Mr. Closter savedher life by blowing his horn to warn her that the truck was coming up behind her.”
So she was Cassandra’s teacher. And their meeting like this was a pretty fair coincidence in itself. Not as statistically astonishing as the first perhaps, but surprising enough to prompt a fleeting unspoken cliché-conclusion on the size of the world.
“Did she say if the truck driver also sounded his horn to warn her?”
“No, sir.”
“ ‘No,’ she didn’t say, or ‘No,’ the driver didn’t try to warn her?”
The lights of a passing car glinted icily from the blue frost of his eyes. He was slightly shorter then he had seemed sitting down-or maybe it was only an illusion caused by his short, thick neck and powerful, sloping shoulders.
“She didn’t say,” he answered atonally.
-And, obviously, you did not think to ask her. He had not seemed very bright earlier, but now he was beginning to sound almost stupid.
“Can she add anything to Closter’s statement?”
“Not much. She was closer, but Closter saw more.”
“Well, maybe there’s no reason to keep her here any longer in that case.”
He walked around the deputy and bent down to look in the driver’s window of the sheriff’s car. She turned toward him, her face shadowy in the faint glow of the dashboard lights and the flickering illumination of the passing traffic.
Cassandra had come home from her first day of school exclaiming how “bu-tee-ful” her teacher was, and in the weeks that followed had continued to repeat the assertion (black, lustrous, shoulder-length hair softly framed her high cheekbones, firm, U-shaped jawline and slender neck). He had been inclined to attribute her opinion to childish exuberance for the new world she was beginning to discover in her school work, and was only glad that she had found her teacher so agreeable (her eyes were dark and deeply luminous beneath thick lashes and unplucked brows). Marie, on the other hand, had scornfully rejected the child’s judgement as “ridiculous,” and had become increasingly angry and obviously jealous when she continued to insist on the truth of it (the tilted tip of her nose sloped down to a deep depression above a wide upper lip that hinted at a quick and ready smile under happier circumstances). Cassandra; apparently recognizing her mother’s mounting irritation during the last few weeks; had refrained from making any further references to Miss Young in her presence (her full lower lip cast a small shadow over her rounded chin), although she had continued to entreat him to accompany her to school so he could verify with his own eyes that she was not “zaggerating.”
Now, struggling to recall exactly what it was that he had intended to say to her, the only thing his mind seemed capable of assimilating at the moment was that Cassandra had not exaggerated at all. She was beautiful.