REAR VIEW MURDER, by Carla Coupe

“Is he dead?”

Her voice broke on the last word. She pushed lank, damp hair off her forehead, the musical tinkle of her charm bracelet loud in the momentary stillness. Sunlight sparkled off the crisscrossed street signs on the corner, ghosting the words “Fourth” and “Cedar” onto her retinas.

The cop shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced down at her, the shade of his hat brim a dark slash across his broad sunburned cheeks.

“Looks that way.” His voice an unexpected tenor. “He must of cracked his head on the pavement when he went down.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at the deep scratches on the toe of the cop’s left shoe. Dead. The cracked cement curb radiated heat, the thin cotton of her shorts little protection against the rough surface. A crumpled package of Lucky Strikes lay in the gutter beside her. His?

With a shudder, cold and hot flashing over her skin faster than a Times Square marquee, she tightened her grip on her sweaty legs. Her cotton shirt stuck to her back, drops of perspiration trickled between her breasts. It was beginning to sink in. She’d killed a man.

A muffled clang buffeted the humid air, cut off in mid-strike, then began the deep resonant tolling from St. Cyril’s. They still hadn’t fixed the bells, even after … how many years? She counted the peals. Five o’clock.

She raised her face as the sound shivered into stillness. “He just walked into the street right in front of me. I didn’t even have a chance to stop.”

“Yeah, miss. I got it down when you told me the first time.” The cop rubbed his nose.

A local boy, she thought, her mind veering onto yet another tangent. Most of the boys she’d grown up with had noses that size and shape: squat, fleshy, eastern European noses. Over half the town could still trace its roots back to the same handful of villages on the Ukrainian-Polish border. Their ancestors—and hers—settled in these coal-rich hills, working in the mill down by the river, saving up to buy a tiny house with a deep front porch up by the Orthodox church.

Dark, wet patches spread under the cop’s arms. A shrug, a glance over his shoulder at the knot of people busy on the other side of her car. “Lucky for you, you got a couple witnesses who say it was an accident, too.”

Lucky, indeed.

Her lips twisted, and she lowered her head. The charms bit into the tender underside of her arm. She’d taken a man’s life.

Her fingers groped for the small boot that hung on the bracelet. Drops rolled down her cheeks, collecting in the corners of her mouth. Salty, like a faint taste of the sea. The cop would take them for tears of shock or sorrow.

* * * *

The door of the bar had opened and three men emerged, squinting in the brutal sunlight.

Mouth suddenly dry, she took a sip of her soda and glanced at the clock on the dash. 4:07. As she suspected: creatures of habit. She tucked the cup into the holder between the seats and pulled out of the parking lot. The tires sent an empty beer can skittering across the broken asphalt. Two of the men, bellies lapping over their belts, crossed to the left side of the street near the corner. They turned and called to the other man. Brown hair scraped back into a scraggly ponytail, a faded yellow Steelers tee-shirt stretched across his narrow shoulders, he flipped them the bird and continued his shambling course down the opposite sidewalk.

Keeping the speedometer exactly on twenty-five, she headed down the street.

Not much traffic. A quiet time, school buses finished with their routes, and the evening shift at the mill already underway. Down the steep curve of the hill; remember to flip on the right turn signal and brake for the stop sign at the bottom. The two men stood on the left corner, gesturing expansively. She craned to see around them. All clear. A pause, a breath. Then she turned the wheel to the right and pressed the gas. The car shot forward.

A flash of yellow as he stepped into the path of the car.

Fast, so fast her foot still held down the pedal, the hood plowed into him. For an instant, his startled eyes met hers. Then a thud and his body rose, a crane poised for flight, quickly aborted. A shout from behind. She jammed on the brakes, her heart pounding wildly, a scream clawing its way up her throat.

He sprawled on the patched asphalt, arms and legs twisted, yellow against black. And red.

She struggled with the seatbelt catch. The belt retracted with a whirr. The two men she’d passed pounded up to the car; one wrenched open the door.

“Jesus Christ, lady! You—”

“I didn’t see him!” Her nose wrinkled at his cigarette-and-beer stench. “I turned, and he stepped out in front of me.”

The man raised one hand and shaded his eyes. The hair on his arms glinted gold, his fingers tightened on the door frame. The other man knelt on the street, next to the … He looked up, ran a hand over his thinning hair and shook his head slowly.

“Damn,” the man beside the car murmured. “You got a cell phone, miss?”

She nodded and fumbled in the backpack on the seat next to her. Her hand shook as she pulled out the phone, and the man gently took it from her.

“We need an ambulance.” His voice husky, he stared at the men in the street. “There’s been an accident at the corner of Fourth and Cedar.”

* * * *

Her Aunt Natalie had warned her about the speed traps when she first arrived, so she’d been careful when she drove around town. Things had changed so much over the years; the neighborhood she’d grown up in suffered from what politicians called urban blight, and what her aunt called too damned high property taxes and not enough decent work. A few landmarks remained, though. Enough for her to get her bearings.

Fat raindrops polka-dotted her windshield as she turned down Fourth, passing boarded-up shop fronts—the shoe repair, the beauty parlor, and the little grocery where her mother would send her to buy a forgotten dinner ingredient. Where she and her best friend Donna would spend their hard-earned dimes and nickels on licorice whips or a box of Cracker Jack. Across the street, Pete’s bar, sole survivor on the block, celebrated business with lurid neon lights that could barely be seen through the grime-caked windows.

She dug into the take-out bag on the passenger seat and pulled out a French fry. Blew on it before folding it into her mouth. Hot. Salty. Greasy. So good. Scanning the deserted street, she slowed down, then pulled into the trash-strewn parking lot across from the bar.

Turning on the radio, she twisted the dial until the muted sounds of soft rock filled the car, then sat back, occasionally munching on a fry and watching raindrops spatter on the hood and windshield. Fog hazed the windows. She cranked down the one on the driver’s side, clammy air thick on her skin. She’d forgotten the smell: sharp, acrid, stronger when the wind blew up the valley, or when the air hung still and damp.

She’d checked her watch twice, and the fries left at the bottom of the carton were cold when the bar door opened and a man stepped out. A limp ponytail hung out the back of his black Steelers cap, jeans rode low over skinny hips. He hunched his shoulders against the drizzle and stuck his hands into his pockets before turning and walking away, swaying like a sailor newly ashore.

He staggered down the street, never pausing or turning his head, disappearing below the crest of the hill. He’d cross Cedar Street at the bottom, take the direct way home. Her clasped hands felt like blocks of ice. When she took a shaky breath and forced her hands apart, the street was long deserted. The chill in her bloodstream quickly turned to heat.

No. Hate.

She checked her watch—4:17—then twisted the key in the ignition and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * * *

“It’s good to see you, girl.” Her aunt had smiled, faint echoes of her grandmother and mother in the shape of her aunt’s jaw, in the faded blue eyes. “It’s been too long.”

She smiled back at her aunt and sipped her iced tea. A bead of water meandered down the glass, dampening her fingers as she stared down at the pile of potato chips and the sandwich on her paper plate. Two slices of bologna on white bread, spread crust to crust with mayo; it used to be her favorite. Could she eat it now without gagging?

“Work keeps me busy.” Which was true, during the day, at least. At night, memories roamed freely. That was what she had come here for, to make her peace with those memories.

“And life in the big city.” Aunt Natalie gave her a knowing look. “So, have you found a nice boy yet?”

Instead of answering, she asked about Uncle Mike and her cousins.

After lunch, they moved to the tiny living room. Aunt Natalie settled in front of the TV—a huge monstrosity housed in a cabinet, bought with pride in 1968—to watch “her story,” her feet propped on a vinyl hassock, a bottle of Iron City on the TV tray beside the chair.

Time to get to work.

“I’ll just make a couple of phone calls while you enjoy your show, Aunty.” She had to raise her voice above the toilet paper commercial, blaring at rock concert volume.

Eyes already glued to the set, Aunt Natalie waved a careless hand in acknowledgement.

She opened the hall closet. The phone book—so meager, compared to the ones she was used to now—sat on the shelf. She pulled it out and took it, along with her cell phone, to the front porch. The big glider squeaked softly when she sat. She flipped open the phone book and slid her finger down the cheap paper, finally stopping on a name.

Still here. Still in the same house, his parents’ house.

Would she recognize him after all these years? Stupid question; of course she would. She’d know him even if she turned into Helen Keller and had to run her fingers over his face.

Disgusting thought.

She knew where he’d be after work. All she needed to find out was which shift, and that should be easy enough.

It only took a moment to look up another number, pick up her phone, and dial.

“Mary Beth? Hi, it’s me. Long time, no see, I know. Well, I’m in town visiting my aunt, and she’s in the middle of soap opera heaven. I wondered if I could come over and catch up. Find out what the old gang is up to.”

Her lips stretched into a smile and she pushed back her hair.

“Great. Let me grab my purse. See you in a few minutes.”

* * * *

“Who’s that?”

Frowning, she had stared at the guy standing across the school parking lot. He leaned against the hood of a white Camaro, his crossed arms almost obscuring the Steelers’ logo on his shirt. A chill breeze tossed strands of long brown hair around his face and stirred the thick layer of leaves on the pavement.

Mary Beth pitched her books into the back seat of the green-and-rust colored Gremlin and turned, looking out over the sea of students leaving the building. “Who?”

“Over there, next to Jimmy’s car. Brown hair, black shirt.”

“Him?” Mary Beth squinted, too vain to wear her glasses outside. Johnny Kachmarik still hadn’t asked anyone to Homecoming, and she wanted to be prepared, just in case. “I don’t remember his name, but he graduated six years ago with Bill. Why?”

With a shrug, she shifted her books to her other arm. “I recognize him from somewhere.”

She knew where. She’d never forget that face, that car.

“Oh, yeah?” Sliding into the driver’s seat, Mary Beth buckled her seat belt. “Are you coming, or what?”

She pulled her gaze from him and opened the door. “Ask Bill who he is, okay?”

“He looks like a real loser, but sure.”

* * * *

“I saw the car!” Her voice had caught, and a large hand had pressed on her shoulder, gently pushing her back into the bed. Every part of her body hurt, and she blinked away tears. Tears were for babies; she was eleven, a big girl. She knew what she’d seen.

“Sure, honey.” The hand lifted, and the big policeman picked up the pink plastic cup with the straw and held it to her lips. “Can you describe it?”

She took a sip of water, flat and metallic on her tongue. “White.” She closed her eyes, but the image stood out clear against the blackness. “With a big hood and wheels.”

“And did you see the driver?”

She nodded once, even though her head ached. “A man. With brown hair.”

“Okay, okay. You get some rest now.”

His footsteps sounded loud on the linoleum as he crossed the room.

“Will that help find the car and driver?” Her mom’s voice, a harsh whisper. When they’d wheeled her out of the ambulance and into the hospital, she saw them, her mom and her dad. Her mom had cried, big, fat drops rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. Her dad had just looked sad, like he often did.

“Not really, but we’ll do what we can.” The policeman wasn’t good at whispering. “She was damn lucky that the car didn’t hit her head on, otherwise she’d be dead, too.”

She didn’t open her eyes, and after a while, the policeman went away.

* * * *

“You’ll always be my best friend.” She had popped a handful of Cracker Jack into her mouth, and caramel sweetness had blossomed on her tongue. She crunched the popcorn as the grocery door jangled shut behind them.

“And you’re mine.” Donna dug into the box. “For you.” Sticky fingers pressed the little charm into her palm.

She peered at her hand. A boot. Perfect for the bracelet her mom and dad had given her for her birthday. “Thanks.” She shoved it into her pocket.

A grin behind a curtain of blonde hair. “Race you home.” The flash of a blue tee-shirt and coltish legs starting down Fourth.

“Hey, no fair!” She clutched the bag of potatoes her mom had asked her to get for dinner, and ran after.

At the corner, Donna glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke!”

The car came out of nowhere.

Fast, so fast there was no time to shout, no time to even take a breath. Donna’s small body hit the hood with a thud and lifted, an egret poised for flight.

“Donna!” she screamed. Then the fender struck her left hip and side, and, for an instant, her eyes met those of the man in the car: wide, startled, scared. Then she, too, was flying, but only for a heartbeat. She fell. Her skin burned as she skidded across the asphalt, her head hitting the pavement so hard she felt as if her skull had cracked open. Pain, so much pain she couldn’t tell where it ended and she began, but she forced her head up, willed her eyes to focus.

Donna lay sprawled on the street, yellow hair against black. And red.

The car revved, reversed, and sped away. She stared at the sky, as blue as Donna’s shirt.

Remember the car.

Remember him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carla Coupe is a member of both Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Two of her short stories—“Rear View Murder” in Chesapeake Crimes II and “Dangerous Crossing” in Chesapeake Crimes 3—were nominated for Agatha Christie Awards. Her Sherlock Holmes pastiches, “The Adventure of the Elusive Emeralds” and “The Adventure of the Haunted Bagpipes” appear in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine.