His spotlight beam crept across the broken timber post. It paused on the fresh tire impressions in the mud, then drifted toward the cinder-block wall. The beam tracked slowly along the concrete footing, climbing up the side of the bay door until the white light bounced off the Ford’s shattered driver-side mirror, casting an amber glare across the inside of the roof.
The cruiser's engine clicked into park.
Through the rain, I heard the squad car's driver-side door unlatch. The squelch of Vance’s radio hissed into the wet night air, followed by his heavy boot heels striking the gravel.
"Jesse," Vance called out, his voice calm, deliberate, and entirely devoid of urgency. "I know the truck is in the bay. You took a header through the forestry gate, but you don't have four-wheel drive high enough to clear the washout at the lower culvert. The culvert washed out two winters ago. There's nowhere to roll that rig."
I sat frozen, the thumb drive and the intake log pressed flat against my chest under my coat.
"Your old man spent twenty-two years on county service, Jesse," Vance continued, his boots crunching steadily closer through the weeds near the threshold. "He never missed a pension check because he understood what stays inside the county lines. You walk out here with the clinic envelope Dr. Sterling handed you, and we forget the glass on the tailgate. You can even keep the truck."
He stopped at the edge of the door frame. His silhouette was broad, blocking the faint light from the road. The beam from his shoulder-mounted lantern pointed down at the dirt, illuminating the toe of his right boot and the polished black leather of his service holster, the retention strap already snapped open.
"And if I don't?" I said from the dark cab.
Vance took one slow step across the threshold. The smell of acetone on his jacket was stronger inside the enclosed space, mixing with the damp scent of wet concrete and mouse droppings.
"Then you had a single-vehicle rollover in an abandoned quarry," Vance said. "Just like Arthur Cross. The pass is treacherous tonight, Jesse. Dr. Sterling's going to be very busy writing certifications before the sun comes up."
He brought his left hand up, raising his heavy tactical flashlight to illuminate the interior of the cab.
The beam hit my face like a blow. I didn't raise my arms to shield my eyes. Instead, I held up my right hand where the beam caught it dead center on the steering wheel.
Clamped in my fist was not the clinic manifest.
It was my father’s Mason County Coroner’s Office emergency dispatch transceiver—the old brick-style Motorola unit wired directly to the truck's auxiliary power harness on the transmission hump. The green transmit LED on top of the radio head was glowing solid red, its heavy rubber button wedged permanently into the locked-open position by the brass duplicate key jammed into the casing.
On the dashboard console beside me, the receiver display wasn't tuned to the county repeater Vance’s friends were monitoring.
It was hard-patched into State Police Troop B Dispatch in Blackwood, broadcast across the regional multi-agency emergency net that no local deputy had the security clearance to override.
The voice that crackled back out of the radio's speaker wasn't a county voice. It was crisp, flat, and accompanied by the rapid background chatter of a regional communications room.
"Mason County Unit Four, this is State Police Dispatch Blackwood," the radio blared, the volume knob turned to maximum gain. "We have an open key on State Carrier Three. Identifying caller as County Transport Unit Nine, registered to Thomas Miller. We copy open-air audio reference to fatal incident on Old Freight Road and hazardous material venting at Blackwood Chemical. State Troopers Barrera and Cole are on scene at Mile Marker Ten with lights hot. Step away from the vehicle and identify."