CHAPTER 41 MATT

41

Matt

WHEN MATT PASSED THE sign that said LOWER FALLS, 1/2 MILE , he slowed his cruiser. A few moments later, he came upon the abandoned red Honda. Nose down in the ditch, ass up, doors open, tags stripped just as Ellie had said. He slowed further as he drove by the car, tried to get a glimpse inside, but the windows were smeared with mud. He took a few pictures with his phone. About fifty feet beyond the Honda, he came upon a dark blue Buick stripped of its tags, one he recognized as belonging to Lonnie Floyd. Lonnie owned the Gas 'n' Go on the far side of town, near the high school, and usually manned the register on Sundays so his wife could attend church.

Matt passed three more abandoned cars on the left before they began appearing on the right side of the street, too. He photographed all of them. Most had flat tires—not just one flat, but all four—and that kind of thing didn't happen by chance or accident. He slowed his cruiser to a crawl, carefully scanning the pavement ahead for boards with nails or some other kind of hazard. By the time he came upon Ellie's cruiser, he'd passed twelve other cars and had yet to see a single person.

Like most of the others, both front doors were open, and her tires were flat. The cruiser was angled in the breakdown lane, the tail end partially blocking the road. None of her lights were on, not even her flashers, and that was strange because if Ellie was a stickler for anything, it was protocol.

Matt parked behind her, switched off his motor, and took out his gun for the third time today, and that wasn't lost on him, either. Until today, he'd only removed it from its holster twice in the line of duty over all his years in uniform, and now three times in a single day.

Stepping from the car, the air felt oddly still, like stepping out into a void. There was no breeze. He didn't hear any birds or animals scurrying around in the woods on either side of him. All he heard was the gentle hum of Lower Falls about a quarter mile up the mountain to the east and the tick of his cooling engine. Considering all the abandoned cars, none of that made sense.

Where did the people go?

As he neared, Matt realized Ellie's tires weren't just flat, they'd been shredded. Nails hadn't done this. He'd seen this kind of damage before. This was caused by a spike strip or something similar. He had one in his trunk. When deployed, it covered a distance of twenty-five feet and a width of ten inches. It had hundreds of triangular spikes designed to penetrate and tear rubber. He'd never had to use it, but he'd been trained on it in the academy. He had little doubt that's what caused this, and probably the others, too.

Looking back out over the stretch of road, he saw no sign of a spike strip, but he did see fresh skid marks zigzagging the asphalt. They started about a quarter mile back and ended with the abandoned cars.

Matt kept the gun at his side as he came around Ellie's car on the driver's side and bent to get a better look at the interior. Ellie's bundle of keys with the white rabbit's foot dangled from the ignition and the car was in neutral. Her radio was smashed and there was blood on the passenger seat. He didn't think it was Ellie's; most likely it came from the librarian, Edgar Newton, but the sight of any blood in an abandoned car was unnerving. Knowing it was Ellie's car only made things worse.

Blood from Newton was one thing. A smashed radio was another thing entirely.

This was no accident. Someone had done this.

Matt tried to piece it together.

Someone deployed a spike strip, disabled the car, and what? Forced Ellie and Newton out? Took them away? Then put the car in neutral and pushed it off the side of the road and smashed the radio? Nothing else made sense. But who? Why?

Matt stood up and looked back out at the other abandoned cars.

Nearly twenty of them.

At least twenty people, maybe more, all missing.

All of them were at Matt's back. Ellie had made it the farthest. There were no cars beyond Ellie's.

Matt could only see about a hundred feet in that direction. Route 112 crested at a hill, and he had no line of sight beyond the break.

Still holding his gun, he started walking in that direction. He'd only gone about ten yards when the asphalt at his feet burst in a puff of black dust followed a millisecond later by the crack of a rifle.