But …
But now it looked like it wasn’t every car that she was slowing down when it passed the spot where she’d—there was no gentle way to phrase it—where she’d been killed.
No, not every car.
Jerry’s heart fluttered.
Just my car.
The next day, the same thing: Jerry’s car slowed down almost to a stop directly opposite where Tammy Jameson had been hit. He tried to ignore it, but then Dickens, one of the kids in his geography class, made a crack about it. “Hey, Sloane,” he said, “What are you, chicken? I see you crawling along every morning when you pass the spot where Tammy was killed.”
Where Tammy was killed. He said it offhandedly, as if death was a commonplace occurrence for him, as if he was talking about the place where something utterly normal had happened.
But Jerry couldn’t take it anymore. He’d been called on it, on what Dickens assumed was his behavior, and he had to either give a good reason for it or stop doing it. That’s the way it worked.
But he had no good reason for it, except …
Except the one he’d been suppressing, the one that kept gnawing at the back of his mind, but that he’d shooed away whenever it had threatened to come to the fore.
Only his car was slowing down.
But it hadn’t always been his car.
A bargain. Just two grand!
Jerry had assumed that there had to be something wrong with it for him to get it so cheap, but that wasn’t it. Not exactly.
Rather, something wrong had been done with it.
His car was the one the police were looking for, the one that had been used to strike a young woman dead and then flee the scene.
Jerry drove to the house where the man with the basset-hound face lived. He left the car in the driveway, with the driver’s door open and the engine still running. He got out, walked up to the door, rang the bell, and waited for the man to appear, which, after a long, long time, he finally did.
“Oh, it’s you, son,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Jerry had thought it took all his courage just to speak to Ashley Brown. But he’d been wrong. This took more courage. Way more.
“I know what you did in that car you sold me,” he said.
The man’s face didn’t show any shock, but Jerry realized that wasn’t because he wasn’t surprised. No, thought Jerry, it was something else—a deadness, an inability to feel shock anymore.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, son,” said the man.
“That car—my car—you hit a girl with it. On Thurlbeck Street.”
“I swear to you,” said the man, still standing in his doorway, “I never did anything like that.”
“She went to my school,” said Jerry. “Her name was Tammy. Tammy Jameson.”
The man closed his eyes, as if he was trying to shut out the world.
“And,” said Jerry, his voice quavering, “you killed her.”
“No,” said the man. “No, I didn’t.” He paused. “Look, do you want to come in?”
Jerry shook his head. He could outrun the old guy—he was sure of that—and he could make it back to his car in a matter of seconds. But if he went inside … well, he’d seen that in horror movies, too.
The man with the sad lace put his hands in his pockets. “What are you going to do?” he said.
“Go to the cops,” said Jerry. “Tell them.”
The man didn’t laugh, although Jerry had expected him to—a derisive, mocking laugh. Instead, he just shook his head.
“You’ve got no evidence.”
“The car slows down on its own every time I pass the spot where the”— he’d been about to say “accident,” but that was the wrong word—“where the crime occurred.”
This time, the man’s face did show a reaction, a lifting of his shaggy, graying eyebrows. “Really?” But he composed himself quickly. “The police won’t give you the time of day if you come in with a crazy story like that.”
“Maybe,” said Jerry, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Maybe not.”
“Look, I’ve been nice to you,” said the man. “I gave you a great deal on that car.”
“Of course you did!” snapped Jerry. “You wanted to get rid of it! After what you did—”
“I told you, son, I didn’t do anything.”
“That girl—Tammy—she can’t rest, you know. She’s reaching out from beyond the grave, trying to stop that car every time it passes that spot. You’ve got to turn yourself in. You’ve got to let her rest.”
“Get out of here, kid. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t,” said Jerry. “I can’t, because it won’t leave her alone. You have to go to the police and tell them what you did.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t do anything!” The old man turned around for a second, and Jerry thought he was going to disappear into the house. But he didn’t; he simply grabbed a hockey stick that must have been leaning against a wall just inside the door. He raised the stick menacingly. “Now, get out of here!” he shouted.
Jerry couldn’t believe the man was going to chase him down the street, in full view of his neighbors. “You have to turn yourself in,” he said firmly.
The man took a swing at him—high-sticking indeed!—and Jerry started running for his car. The old guy continued alter him. Jerry scrambled into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him. He threw the car into reverse, but not before the man brought the hockey stick down on the front of the hood—somewhere near, Jerry felt sure, the spot where the car had crashed into poor Tammy Jameson.
Jerry had no idea what was the right thing to do. He suspected that the bassett hound was correct: the police would laugh him out of the station if he came to them with his story. Of course, if they’d just try driving his car along Thurlbeck, they’d see for themselves. But adults were so smug; no matter how much he begged, they’d refuse.
And so Jerry found himself doing something that might have been stupid. He should have been at home studying—or, even better, out on a date with Ashley Brown. Instead, he was parked on the side of the street, a few doors up from the man’s house, from the driveway that used to be home to this car. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Did they call this casing the joint? No, that was when you were planning a robbery. Ah, he had it! A stakeout. Cool.
Jerry waited. It was dark enough to see a few stars—and he hoped that meant it was also dark enough that the old man wouldn’t see him, even if he glanced out his front window.
Jerry wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. It was just like Ms. Singh, his chemistry teacher, said: he’d know it when he saw it.
And at last it appeared.
Jerry felt like slapping his hand against his forehead, but a theatrical gesture like that was wasted when there was no one around to see it. Still, he wondered how he could be so stupid.
That old man wasn’t the one who’d used the hockey stick. Oh, he might have dented Jerry’s hood with it, but the dents in the garage door were the work of someone else.
And that someone else was walking up the driveway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a blue leather jacket, dark-haired head downcast. He looked maybe a year or two older than Jerry.
Of course, it could have been a delivery person or something. But no, Jerry could see the guy take out a set of keys and let himself into the house. And, for one brief moment, he saw the guy’s face, a long face, a sad face … but a young face.