The Next Accident Read online

  Kimberly had loved shooting from the first moment she’d cajoled her parents into letting her go. She’d started begging at eight. Her father had done the expected thing and told her to talk to her mother. Her mother had done the expected thing and said, absolutely not. Kimberly, however, had been possessed. Every time her father headed for the practice range, she started badgering. Four years later, on her twelfth birthday, her mother finally caved.

  “Guns are loud, guns are violent, guns are evil. But if you won’t take my word for it, fine! Go shoot yourself silly.”

  Mandy had wanted to go, too, but for a change their parents both agreed that handling guns would not be in Mandy’s best interest. That suited Kimberly just fine. Mandy cried. Mandy got upset. Mandy was a big baby, and Kimberly was more than delighted to have an afternoon with her father all to herself.

  She wasn’t sure what her father thought. It was always hard to know what her father thought.

  At the firing range, he carefully explained the basic rules for gun handling and firearms safety. She learned how to take apart a .38 Chief’s Special, name all the parts, clean all the parts, and then put them back together again. Then came lectures on always keeping the gun pointed at a safe target. Always keep the gun unloaded until ready to fire. Always keep the safety on until ready to fire. Always wear earplugs and eye protection. Always listen to the range officer. Load when he says load, fire when he says fire, and cease firing when he says cease fire.

  Then at long last, her father let her aim the .38 Chief’s Special at a paper target and practice dry firing, while he stood behind her and adjusted her aim. She remembered the muffled sound of his voice next to her ear, more like a deep rumble than words. She remembered being anxious to get to live ammunition after two hours of straight lectures, and her father, exhibiting his typical, maddening calm.

  “A gun is not a toy. On its own, a gun is not even a weapon. It’s an inanimate object. It is up to you to bring it to life and use it responsibly. Whose job is it to use it responsibly?”

  “Mine!”

  “Very good. Now let’s go through it one more time. . . .”

  It had taken four trips to the firing range before he let her fire live rounds. He placed the target at fifteen feet. She hit it with a respectable six shots, four clustered in the middle. She promptly dropped her pistol, jerked off her goggles, and threw her arms around her father’s neck.

  “I did it, I did it, I did it! Daddy, I did it!”

  And her father said, “Don’t ever throw down your firearm like that! It could go off and hit someone. First put on the safety, then set down the gun and step away from the firing line. Remember, you must treat your pistol responsibly.”

  She had been deflated. Maybe even tears flooded her eyes. She didn’t remember anymore. She just recalled the curious change that came over her father’s face. He looked at her crestfallen expression and perhaps he finally heard his own words, because his features suddenly shifted.

  He said quietly, “You know what, Kimmy? That was great shooting. You did a wonderful job. And sometimes . . . sometimes your father is a real ass.”

  She had never heard her father call himself an ass before. She was pretty sure that was one of the words she was never supposed to repeat. And she liked that. That made it special. Their first real father-daughter moment. She could shoot a gun. And sometimes Daddy was a real ass.

  She went with him to the firing range from then on out, and under his patient tutelage she graduated from a .38 Chief’s Special to a .357 Magnum to a 9mm semiauto. As a form of silent protest, her mother enrolled her in ballet. Kimberly attended two lessons before coming home and announcing, “Fuck ballet! I want a rifle.”

  That got her mouth washed out with soap and no TV for a week, but was still worth every syllable. Even Mandy had been impressed. In a rare show of support, she’d spent the next few weeks saying fuck everything, and together they went through two bars of Ivory soap. A curious, delirious month, back in the days when the four of them had been a family.

  Funny the things she hadn’t thought about in a while. Funny the way the memory made her breathe hard now, like someone had socked her in the stomach, like someone was slowly squeezing her chest.

  Dammit, Mandy. You couldn’t stay out of the driver’s seat? Sure, quitting drinking is hard, but you could’ve at least stayed off the roads!

  No more fucking ballet. No more fucking anything. Just a white cross in beautiful, prestigious Arlington cemetery because her mother’s family was loaded with military connections and had somehow earned Bethie and her children the honor. Mandy and war heroes. Who would’ve thought?

  Kimberly had barely been able to make it through the funeral. She had thought the irony might drive her mad, and she didn’t think her mother could take it if she had started laughing hysterically, so Kimberly had spent the whole service with her lips pressed into a bloodless line. And her father? Once again, it was so hard to know what her father thought.

  He’d been calling her lately. Leaving gently inquiring messages because she wouldn’t pick up the phone. She didn’t return his calls. Not his calls, not her mother’s calls. Not anyone’s calls. Not now. Not yet. She didn’t know when. Maybe soon?

  She didn’t like the anxiety attacks. They shamed her and she didn’t want to speak to her overly perceptive father when he might catch the fear in her voice.

  Guess what, Dad? I couldn’t teach Mandy to be strong, but apparently she’s inspired me to be a flake. Whoo-hoo! Lucky you. Two fucked-up daughters.

  She arrived at the shooting club. She pushed through the wooden door into the dimly lit lounge area, and the cooler air swept over her like a welcoming breeze. The club boasted a small, utilitarian lounge, empty this early in the morning, then the door leading to the cavernous shooting range. Kimberly didn’t look at the threadbare sofa or the tall display case filled with shooting medals or the line of animal-head trophies mounted on the wall. She was looking for him. Even as she told herself that wasn’t why she’d been so excited to get here first thing this morning, she was looking for the new gun pro, Doug James.

  Thick brown hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples. Deep blue eyes, crinkled with laugh lines at the corners. A tall, well-toned body. A broad, hard-muscled chest. Doug James had started at the rifle association six months ago, and Kimberly wasn’t the only female who was suddenly very interested in lessons.

  Not that she thought about him that way. She wasn’t like Mandy, always on the lookout for a man. She wasn’t like her mom, incapable of defining herself except through a man’s eyes. Anyway, Doug James was almost as old as her father. A happily married man, besides. And he was a terrific shot, of course. Had won a lot of shooting competitions, or so the rumors went.

  All in all, he was a highly capable instructor, who was working wonders with her stance.

  And a patient man. Kind. Had a way of looking at her, as if he was genuinely interested in what she was saying. Had a way of greeting her, as if he was made happier by her simply entering the room. Had a way of talking to her, as if he understood all the things she didn’t say . . . the nightmares she still had of her sister where she was in the car with Mandy, grabbing desperately at the wheel . . . the sense of isolation that would sweep down upon her suddenly, with her sister gone, her parents fragmented, until she felt like a speck of sand in a vast, uncaring universe.

  The need she had today, to come here and fire a mammoth firearm at a puny paper target as if that would bring her world back together again. As if that would make her strong.

  She walked up to the counter, where the head of the rifle association, Fred Eagen, was bent over a stack of paperwork.

  “I’m ready for Doug,” she said.

  “Doug’s not here today. Called in sick.” Fred flipped over the next document, signed the bottom. “He was going to try you at your apartment. You must’ve already left.”

  Kimberly blinked. “But . . . but . . .”

  “I guess it came
on quick.”

  “But . . .” She sounded like an idiot.

  Fred finally looked up. “If a guy gets sick, a guy gets sick. He’ll see you next week.”

  “Next week. Of course, next week,” she murmured and struggled to recover her bearings. Sick. It happened. Why should she feel this bereft? He was just a gun instructor, for God’s sake. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. Why oh why were her hands suddenly shaking so badly. And why, oh why, did she suddenly feel so desperately, keenly alone?

  She took her gun. She went out to the firing range and set up. Earplugs and protective eye gear. Box of ammunition. Smell of cordite in the air. The fragrance of her youth, the comforting weight of her Glock, loose in her hand.

  She set up targets fifty feet back. She annihilated paper hearts, she shredded paper heads. But she already knew now, that it wouldn’t be enough. She had not come here for the practice. She had come here for a man.

  And more than anything else that had happened in the last month, that proved to her that something wasn’t right anymore. Strong, logical Kimberly wasn’t the person she had always thought herself to be.

  When she left, she was walking too fast again, and even though it was ninety-five degrees out, she fought a chill.

  Society Hill, Philadelphia

  Bethie was nervous. No, she was giddy. No, she was nervous. Okay, she was both.

  Standing outside her stately brick town house in Society Hill on a sunny Wednesday morning, she ran a quick hand over her sundress and picked imaginary lint from the tiny purple flowers that patterned the gold silk. Next she inspected her freshly painted toenails, now colored Winsome Wine, whatever that meant, and peeking out from strappy gold sandals. She didn’t detect any signs of smudging. She glanced at her hands. Fine, as well.

  She’d risen at five A.M.; for the first time in months, anticipation of good things had brought her instantly awake and eager to start the day. With Tristan not due to arrive for another two hours, she’d celebrated her morning with a long overdue bubble bath followed by an impromptu pedicure. She’d even done her fingernails, and it still shocked her to look down and see two well-groomed hands. It had been a while, longer than she wanted to think.

  Now she had a large wicker picnic basket slung over her left arm. She’d bought it years ago on a whim, one of those impulse buys based more upon the life she wished she was leading than the life she truly led. She had thought of it immediately when Tristan had suggested they go for a drive, and had dedicated twenty minutes of her morning to locating the basket in the back of her kitchen pantry. She’d then stocked it with crackers and Brie, grapes and caviar, a fresh French baguette and a bottle of La Grande Dame champagne. Tristan struck her as a man of refined tastes, and yes, she was definitely trying to impress.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten past seven. She grew nervous again. What if he didn’t show? She was leaping to conclusions. After all, last night she’d been nearly twenty minutes late, but she’d still kept their date.

  She wanted him to arrive. She wanted to go on a drive, far away from this house that was too big and this city that held too many memories. She wanted one afternoon when she stepped out of a middle-aged, divorced woman’s skin and lived with the sun on her face.

  Last night, coming home from her first date in years, she had realized that it was time to move forward again. Not easy, but time.

  A short beep-beep broke into her thoughts. Bethie looked down the narrow street to see a little red convertible with New York plates dart around the corner and come flying down the lane.

  “My goodness, what is this?” she asked as Tristan came to a screeching halt, ran a hand through his hair, and beamed.

  “Your carriage, my lady.”

  “Yes, but what is it?”

  “The Audi TT Roadster two twenty-five Quattro,” he announced with pride, “based loosely on the 1950s Porsche Boxter. Cute, isn’t she?”

  He swung open the driver-side door and came bounding around the front, looking somehow flushed, windblown, and dashing all at once.

  Bethie held out her basket, thinking now would be a good time to say something clever, but distracted by the bright, burning light in his eyes, the impact of his smile. “I fixed a picnic lunch,” she stated and instantly felt foolish for the obvious comment.

  “Wonderful.”

  She nodded, still feeling self-conscious. She returned her attention to the picnic basket. “Champagne, caviar, Brie. I didn’t know what you liked.”

  “I like champagne, caviar, and Brie.” He reached for the basket, and his hands lingered on hers. He stood very close, handsome this morning in tan slacks and a deep blue cable-knit sweater. Sandalwood and lemon, she thought and wondered if she’d given herself away by inhaling too deeply.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked, his fingers lightly brushing hers.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I didn’t sleep a wink. I was too busy looking forward to seeing you.”

  She flushed, but couldn’t repress her smile. “Very smooth,” she conceded.

  “Is it? I practiced all the way over.” He grinned. Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She was still reeling when he straightened again and took the picnic basket from her arm.

  “In all seriousness,” he said as he popped the trunk, “I have not looked forward to a day as much as I’ve been looking forward to this one in a very long time. We are going to go someplace marvelous, Bethie. We are going to have an ungodly amount of fun. Are you with me?”

  “I could do ungodly amounts of fun.”

  “Perfect!”

  He closed the trunk, then returned to get her door. The little red roadster really was commanding. Beautiful rounded lines on the outside. A striking black-and-chrome color scheme on the inside. It looked like something a movie star should drive, say Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Bethie was almost afraid to touch it. Tristan, however, took her hand and without hesitation, helped lower her into the low-slung black leather seat.

  “You know what?” he said suddenly. “You should drive.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, yes, absolutely. Everyone needs to drive a sports car once in her life and today, it’s your turn.”

  He helped her back out of the car. She was still protesting when she found herself in the driver’s seat, holding a small, rectangular key fob and wearing a very silly grin. The sleek chrome gauges winked at her. The rounded chrome gear stick felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. Tristan climbed into the passenger’s seat. She barely looked at him. She hadn’t even pulled away from the curb, and she was already in love with this car.

  “See the little silver button?” He pointed to a small button on the corner of the key fob in her hand. “Push it.”

  She did and the tiny silver key shot out of the side of the box like a switchblade. She startled, almost dropped the key, then laughed. “Oh my goodness, who thought of that?”

  “Probably somebody in marketing. Pure gimmick, but highly effective. Now love, put it in the old ignition. Here’s the lights, here’s the windshield wipers, and here’s the hand brake. Give it a whirl.”

  She stalled the car in first. Jerked them into second as she tried to get a feel for the clutch, then finally spluttered down the road. It had been years since she’d driven a standard, not since her college days. But she quickly discovered that some part of her had missed the feel of a gear stick in her hand, the sense of controlling the vehicle as if it were a high-spirited horse, the surge of power as she felt the zippy car respond. She went around the block, grinding the gears painfully, but Tristan didn’t seem to care and she found herself laughing breathlessly. She liked this car. She liked this man. She could do this.

  “Listen to this, Bethie,” Tristan said. “I got it just for you.”

  He pushed a silver panel on the dash. It rose to reveal a myriad of stereo buttons. Two more jabs with his finger, and Miles Davis’s “’Round Midnight” poured
out of discreet Bose speakers and flowed all around her.

  “You remembered.”

  “Bethie, of course.”

  Miles Davis’s trumpet began to wail. She found the proper rhythm for the gears, and the roadster began to purr. Tristan was right, she thought. Everyone should drive a little red sports car once in her life, and this car drove like a dream.

  She took the on-ramp to I-76, feeling the roadster gather beneath her feet. First, second, third, pushing the tachometer all the way up into the red zone. The second turbo kicking in and pressing her back against her seat. Twenty, forty, eighty miles per hour, and still as smooth as silk.

  “There you go,” Tristan said approvingly. “That’s how you drive, Bethie. Go after the road like a speed racer, don’t let anything hold you back.”

  She smiled. She pressed on the gas. She hit one hundred miles per hour and let the wind gather up her dark blond hair and the sun beat down on her upturned face.

  “We’re off like a herd of turtles!” Tristan roared over the rushing air.

  She laughed, she drove faster, and she never bothered to mention that that was one of Mandy’s favorite expressions. I love you, she thought. God, I am so happy!

  Tristan was still watching her with that intent look in his eyes. He had pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. He ran one gloved finger down her cheek.

  “Bethie,” he said after a moment. “Tell me about your second daughter. Tell me about Kimberly.”

  11

  The Olsen Residence, Virginia

  It took Rainie four tries to find Mary Olsen’s house. The first time, she didn’t even notice the narrow driveway off the heavily wooded road. The second time, she spotted the driveway, but couldn’t see any sign of a house through the trees. The third time, knowing she had to be close, she drove halfway up the driveway, saw a freaking mansion perched on top of a circular drive, and hurriedly backed down before some butler loosed the Dobermans on her. The fourth time, she parked alongside the road, got out of her car, and went over to the discreet black mailbox on its ornate wrought-iron post to read the house number.