Part 3 (2/2)

”Several of our teachers are running late,” Benton or Benson said in a hushed tone. ”Big accident on I-8. Traffic is backed up for miles.”

As though I needed proof, he led me to a portable TV sitting on top of a row of file cabinets. A square-jawed reporter wearing headphones was describing the situation from high overhead in a news helicopter. At the bottom of the screen a banner announced that this was BREAKING NEWS.

The reporter was shouting into his microphone in order to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. ”. . . backed up all the way to the Grossmont summit. As you can see, all four lanes are blocked. Eastbound traffic is at a complete standstill.”

While the reporter described every commuter's worst nightmare, the camera panned, providing a jittery view of three long lines of cars. At the front of the line a lone vehicle was engulfed in flames. The inferno generated a column of black smoke that stretched to the heavens.

”. . . battling the fire. The flames have been so intense, the firefighters have had to back away. All they can do now is let it burn itself out. As you can see, a second crew is just arriving . . .”

A fire truck with flas.h.i.+ng red lights could be seen inching its way up the emergency lane, slowed by onlookers who had gotten out of their cars to see what was going on.

”When we first arrived at the scene, we witnessed several bystanders attempting to fight the flames with handheld fire extinguishers in a valiant attempt to rescue the driver. The intense heat drove them back. (Ronny, see if you can zoom in on the men standing beside the truck.)”

The picture on the screen bounced crazily, then zoomed toward three men staring helplessly at the inferno. Their shoulders were hunched. ”As you can see, they're still holding the spent extinguishers in their hands.”

Zooming in closer, the camera swung toward the vehicle. Flames feasted hungrily on the car's interior.

”Poor devil . . . never had a chance,” Benton or Benson commented beside me.

A few feet from us a large woman in a floral print blouse gasped loudly, then again, as though she was trying to catch her breath. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared with disbelief at the television. ”Oh . . . oh . . . oh!”

A coworker rushed to her side. ”Roberta, what is it?”

Like a fish out of water the distraught woman gasped repeatedly. ”The . . . the . . . plates!” she cried. ”Look . . . look . . . at the . . . license plates!”

All eyes in the room squinted at the television screen, trying to see what Roberta saw. Gasps and wounded cries exploded across the room.

”One of your teachers?” I asked Benton or Benson.

The vice princ.i.p.al stood motionless. Tears ran down his cheeks, which was just downright scary. Vice princ.i.p.als don't cry, they make people cry.

The woman who had a.s.sisted Roberta now turned her attention to him. ”Mr. Benson? Maybe you'd better sit down.”

Stone monuments aren't easily moved. It appeared Benson hadn't heard her. He stood with his jaw slightly askew as though its hinge was broken.

I glanced again at the television to see what would have this kind of effect on him. Centered on the screen was the blackened license plate of the burning car. Even though it was charred, the raised letters were readable.

CA TCHR.

Benson was weeping openly now and it was painful to watch. ”The Kiwanis gave him that license plate when he was voted teacher of the year,” he said to me.

I felt a chill.

”Who?” I asked.

I already knew, but I had to hear it.

”Shepherd,” Benson said. ”Myles Shepherd.”

CHAPTER 3.

The pillar of smoke from the burning car could be seen from the high school parking lot. Myles Shepherd dead. I couldn't believe it.

Usually when people say that, they haven't yet come to terms with reality. I really couldn't believe it. Not after what I'd seen yesterday in his office. I had to see for myself.

I started the car with one hand while the other checked my phone messages.

No messages. No missed calls.

I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. Why wasn't anyone returning my calls? It was as though Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., had been wiped off the face of the planet.

Heading west on Madison Avenue, I was in sight of the freeway overpa.s.s at Second Street within a few minutes.

I pulled into a gas station convenience store on the opposite side of the street as the off-ramp. Throwing the gears.h.i.+ft lever into park, I took off across the street at a dead run.

On any other day crossing Second Street this way would be suicide. But with no cars exiting the freeway, the road was so clear of traffic it was spooky.

I sprinted up the deserted exit ramp, drawn toward the black column of smoke. The smell of burned rubber stung my nostrils. I crested the ridge and entered the scene I'd viewed on the television minutes before.

No one paid attention to me. Crowd control focused on the side of the accident with all the cars.

I watched as firemen encircled the burning car frame, hoses shut off, but at the ready. The three would-be heroes stood off to one side holding spent fire extinguishers, their slumped posture unchanged.

Moving in as close as I dared, I did what I came to do. I peered inside the burning car, the driver's side. It took me a moment to sort out all the black-on-black shapes amid the smoke and flames, but eventually I made out the head of the driver. It was featureless and slumped to one side, as though he had nodded off. There was nothing to suggest a desperate attempt to get out of the car.

But was it Shepherd?

The body was burned beyond recognition.

The uncertainty of not knowing gnawed at me. I found it impossible to believe that the blackened corpse in that car was the same man who less than twenty-four hours earlier had burst into Technicolor.

Then again, as the effect of yesterday's fireworks dimmed, I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe it had actually happened.

I stared again at the blackened human form, almost daring it to prove me wrong, to do something unexpected, unexplainable, something supernatural like turning into a raven and flying away.

The blast of a horn nearly brought me out of my skin. Behind me a white news van was rumbling up the exit ramp. As I stepped aside bold letters scrolled in front of me-KTSD Channel 2 Today's News When You Need It Most. It rocked to a stop. The front cab doors flew wide and the side door slid open as the van disgorged its human contents.

A thin man in khaki shorts scurried up a ladder to the roof, where he began preparing a satellite dish for transmission.

A husky, red-bearded lumberjack of a man tumbled out swinging a video camera onto his shoulder like it was some sort of weapon. He began shooting as he advanced on the burning wreck.

From inside the van a foot appeared wearing stylish leather sling-back pumps. It was an attractive foot attached to an attractive leg. And then another.

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