Abner, the deputy, either didn’t have much information or wasn’t sharing it.
But in answer to a direct question from Maggie, he did say, “East of Buena Vista. Looks like he was on his way to Lynchburg.” The deputy paused.
“Five-oh-one?” J.D. prompted. When the deputy didn’t respond he added, “Sixty?”
“Neither. He was found on Robinson Gap Road. You know it? Six-oh-seven. Crosses the Parkway.”
“Why in hell…? That makes no sense, even for—” He bit it off, not stopping anyone from filling in Rick Wade.
The deputy shook his head. “No sense at all. But that’s where he was. That’s where the sheriff is now.”
“Okay.” Maggie fished out her keys.
The deputy shifted his feet. “I don’t know if Sheriff Gardner would like that, you going out there.”
“He can tell me so when he sees me. Us.” They moved toward the door. “Dallas?”
He shook his head. “But you two young people go ahead, fill me in later.”
“You okay, Dallas?”
J.D.’s question made her focus on the older man. His skin had none of its usual ruddy glow.
“I will be come morning. Just need some rest.”
As she turned toward the outer door, J.D. plucked her keys out of her hand and dropped them in her open bag. “Hey—”
“My truck. I’m driving.”
“I can—”
“You can. You’re not going to. Not that road.”
“Robinson Gap Road? What’s the big deal about that?”
“No big deal. Most useful when VMI — that’s Virginia Military Institute — uses it for a twenty-mile march for cadets. Other than that, you’ll see.”
* * * *
The drive to the town of Buena Vista was uneventful enough that Maggie found herself noticing blooming patches of blue, purple, and white she guessed were wildflowers. Would Jamie or Ally know their names?
She was almost dozing when Nancy called.
When Maggie told her where she was going, why, and with whom, her assistant grunted, then launched into reports on Chester Bondelle of Roanoke — no blots on his record — and Henry Zales. She summed up Zales with, “About as good as you’ll get for a divorce attorney. The files doing any good?”
Maggie expelled a short sigh. “Something about the transcript keeps bugging me.”
“Which one?”
“Which—? Oh, the official one. I only went through the dailies while I was waiting for the official transcript.”
“The dailies are all I’ve got because the prick was too cheap to get the official, but I can see if anything jumps out at me.”
“Thanks, Nancy. I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem. You better appreciate yourself back here soon before Vic pops for real.”
“I’ll be in Monday morning.”
J.D. didn’t comment when she ended the call. Soon they reached Buena Vista.
“That would be the usual route to Lynchburg.” J.D. tipped his head toward the road heading south, while he took one headed east, straight into the mountains.
It started as an ordinary road, with houses spaced out beside it. The houses disappeared. The road narrowed. Trees closed in on either side. The surface crumbled. The slopes going up on one side and down on the other steepened. The curves began.
Gradually at first, but then they came closer together, with a relative straightaway leading to a left hook, a sequence of twists, before what felt like a U-turn. Then smaller curves to the right that seemed destined to take them in a circle. Before they could complete it, official cars clogged the narrow way.
The outpost was an auxiliary deputy from Bedhurst, who greeted J.D. by name and didn’t object to them walking past him and between official cars. After about fifty feet, the ground on the right side — the inside curve of the road — dropped sharply away.
If Wade went over the edge, evidence collection would be a bitch.
They came around a large SUV and saw Wade’s truck hadn’t gone over and neither had he.
Another twenty-five feet away from them, his truck was wedged into the incline on the opposite side of the narrow road, but with the hood facing down, as if he’d driven up the slope, then turned, and started down it. The passenger door was open. His torso was held upright behind the wheel by the airbag, but his head lolled to the side, revealing the blood.
Gardner left a group and came toward them, his face even more haggard. “You made good time. Too good. If you don’t want more tickets, Maggie—”
“Carson drove. Ticket him. Any idea yet on when?”
“Some time after ten and before midnight last night.”
“That tight?”
“A gas station called in when news got out. Pulled their video. He was pumping gas at nine-forty-five. Give him time to drive to here, that makes it after ten, easy. He was found at eleven-thirty. That’s when the call came in, actually, making it tighter on that side, too.”
Maggie’s brain completed each of the computations, but somewhere deeper than her brain was already shouting, J.D. Carson could not have done this.
Could.
Not.
Have.
He had an alibi.
An alibi she could rely on, because it was her.