Page 88 of Unnatural Death

“Maybe Nan knew too much about who and what they were involved with,” Fruge speculates. “And what a great way to get rid of a potential problem. Make it look like Nan killed herself. She didn’t leave a note. Not that anyone has found.”

“The absence of it doesn’t mean much, because not all that many people leave notes,” I reply, and ahead on the left is the grand entrance of Ivy Hill Cemetery. As I’m creeping closer in the thick falling snow I notice a strange dark cloud over my side of the road, undulating and rushing toward me.

“What the hell is that …?” I exclaim.

The cloud closes in, suddenly disarticulating as if made of pixels. It’s as if a swarm of huge bugs with black legs is batting against the glass, blocking my vision. I turn up the speed of the wipers and it does no good. Then I’m slamming into something, the airbag punching me in the head like a boxing glove.

CHAPTER 33

SILENCE. MY HEADLIGHTS SHINE through snow on majestic cemetery monuments and centuries-old trees. I’ve run over the curb and hit the granite sign at Ivy Hill’s entrance, steam rising from my SUV’s crumpled hood. I’m seeing stars as I sit very still, trying to assess my injuries.

Carefully I move my arms and legs, and they’re fine. Taking off my seat belt, I touch the left side of my face and it stings like hell. Nothing seems broken or sprained, but I have a painful abrasion on my jaw and cheek. My wrists, the heels of my hands feel burned.

“Doctor Scarpetta?” Fruge’s worried voice through my car’s speakers. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Should I call an ambulance?”

“Absolutely not.”

I massage the back of my sore neck as I look around for my phone. It’s on the floor in front of the passenger seat. I grope for it, feeling dazed. The steering wheel’s airbag hangs limply like a white pillowcase, and I smell the smoky odor left by its explosive deployment. I see a vague residue of powder on the console and my clothing.

I was walloped squarely on the left side of my throbbing face, and I realize my nose is bleeding. Blood is dripping on my jacket, my pants. Opening the glove box, I grab a handful of napkins.

“I’m pulling up.” Fruge’s disembodied voice sounds as I turn on the emergency flashers. “You sure I shouldn’t call for an ambulance?” Her SUV’s headlights swing in next to me, snow crunching under the oversized tires.

“No ambulance.” I unfasten my shoulder harness. “Please don’t call anyone. It’s not necessary.”

I look at myself in the rearview mirror, dabbing blood, pinching my nostrils together. The left side of my face begins to swell, the skin bright red and raw. Airbags save lives, but I’ve seen the damage they can inflict. Shattered facial bones. Fractured ribs. Blindness. Brain injuries. I’ve gotten off easy.

Plugging my left nostril with a piece of napkin, I climb out of the car. The frigid air, the snowflakes are soothing on my raw flesh. I take note that I’m moving fine and not dizzy. My balance is normal. I don’t feel lightheaded or woozy.

“Did you hit ice?” Fruge walks over to me.

“Apparently I did when I braked. I couldn’t see.”

I’m surveying the damage, trying to make sense of what just happened. The driver’s side of my SUV’s front end is smashed, the headlight shattered. The left front tire is flat, and my state-issue Subaru will have to be towed. There will be a lot of paperwork and I’ll have no choice but to lie by omission. I won’t put in writing that something just ran me off the road.

It was intentional. I probably know who’s behind it, and I’m not spelling that out in bureaucratic forms. Maybe the goal was to cause real bodily harm. Had my car skated in the opposite direction I could have hit oncoming traffic. Or the point may be to inconvenience and intimidate. What I witnessed isn’t explainable, and I have no proof. I’d come across as untruthful or crazy.

“Jesus.” Fruge gets a good look at my face in the glow of the cemetery’s ornate iron lamps. If she leaned much closer, we might be kissing. “I’m sure that hurts like holy hell.” I smell onions and spearmint as her breath smokes out. “I had a wreck once and the airbag broke my nose. I hope yours isn’t.”

“Don’t think so.” Stepping away from her, I reach inside my SUV. I dig a flashlight out of my briefcase.

Snow crunches beneath my boots as I walk to the edge of the street, looking each way. The cold air cuts through my jacket, biting my exposed ears and fingers. Cars slowly pass, everyone staring. When all is clear, I follow my tire tracks to where I lost control, taking photographs with my phone, the flash blinding. Fruge keeps up with me while staying out of the way.

“What are you looking for?” she asks.

“Any evidence of what might have obscured my windshield.” I probe the snow with my light.

“Are you sure that’s what happened?” she asks carefully, not wanting to insult me with the doubts she’s feeling.

“As bizarre as it might sound. The glass was briefly covered by these airborne things. But I’m not finding a trace …,” I explain while shining the light, and then I see it.

Bending down, I brush away a dusting of snow without touching the mini-gimbal camera system. No bigger than a thimble, with two segments of broken wire attached, it’s barely visible on the side of the road. The location is very close to where I turned the wipers on high speed.

“Good thing you spotted it now, whatever it is,” Fruge says. “Because in another few minutes it would have been buried.”

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