Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

Road Hazard by David Dean

“If there is a theme to this story,” author David Dean told EQMM, “it is the difference betwixt justice and reckoning, and how one can so closely resemble the other.” The situation his protagonist confronts is one many readers will be familiar with, even if not to so devastating an extreme: the need to deal with a socially disruptive neighbor. Mr. Dean is a police captain in a New Jersey resort town, and he’s chosen to make his lead character this time someone from the police.

Rueben had lived in the same house for twelve years and held the same job for two more and considered himself a steady man and a good neighbor, or at least an undemanding one. When, he asked himself angrily on his drive home, had he offended anyone? In what way? Why did he now have to dread returning to his own neighborhood each night after work? When had the comfort of his routine and the blessed placidity of his solitary existence become so threatened?

These were not new questions that Rueben grappled with and, in fact, were rhetorical in nature: a mantra of dissatisfaction, unease, and frustration that was recited nightly on his long way home from the police department where he was employed. Rueben already knew the answers to the why and when of his questions; the agony lay in the what-to-do.

He was a good, even exceptionally good, dispatcher — an important, if unglamorous, profession; the first voice that the frightened, desperate, and irate heard when they dialed for help. When he’d had a few too many at the annual Christmas party, he was often heard to remark proudly, if a little resentfully, that without him (meaning all dispatchers, presumably) help would never arrive. There were few desperate situations that his disembodied voice had not been a party to, and yet, unlike the officers that he sent to the scene, he had never experienced the actual blood, vomit, and tears of unruly life, and in truth, he was glad.

Rueben contemplated the idea (for at least the hundredth time) of asking one of these officers to pay his neighbor a visit and, as always, dismissed the thought. The officers would see it for what it really was: a strong-arm demonstration, shady and gangsterlike, and would refuse. Worse, they would view him with contempt for not being man enough to do his own dirty work. Rueben squirmed at the thought as a sudden gust of wind shoved his car toward the center line.

An oncoming pair of headlights appeared suddenly from around a curve and began to flash high beams in an angry warning. Rueben twisted the wheel to the right, startled from his reverie by an accompanying blast from the other driver’s horn as the car flew by without slowing. Gravel played a metallic tattoo on the undercarriage of his ancient Ford as it rode onto the shoulder at too high a speed. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, twisting the wheel yet again and resuming the roadway. “Concentrate... concentrate.”

The nightscape seemed to reflect his turmoil — wherever his headlights fell, movement and shadow grappled and receded. A small white branch shot out of the darkness and skittered across the windshield like a ghost crab; Rueben slowed the car.

Somewhere far ahead, just beyond the reaches of a lone street lamp, there was movement. At least, Rueben thought he saw movement, though he could see nothing now. Yet, there was something that had drawn his attention. Even now, like a ripple in a pond or a disturbance of the mist, there was the suggestion of something. Rueben strained his eyes in the gloom. Yes, there it was again, on his side of the street! Linear and purposeful... nothing out of nature, certainly, and moving right towards him. Rueben felt a drop of perspiration form beneath his heavy, long-out-of-fashion moustache. “What on earth,” he breathed uneasily. Car and phantom closed on one another.

A figure began to form at the murky outer fringes of the head-lamps: improbably tall and wobbly, a shifting dark kaleidoscope of flapping wings, limbs, and even tentacles, rushing headlong towards the car.

Then it arrived full-blown in the glare of the headlights: face, a rigid, unshaven mask of discomfort; eyes, squinted nearly shut behind dirty taped glasses that returned the car lamps’ brilliance in miniature. The tattered old army overcoat that the man wore waved and flapped about him as he pumped along on the spindly, rusty bike, and his filthy scarf and hair whipped this way and that in the wild wind. He glared at Rueben through the windshield, though it was impossible that he could see in. Rueben feared that he might intentionally collide with the car; he followed the white shoulder line so closely. He rode as if to challenge the oncoming driver.

“You idiot!” Rueben screamed as he swerved to the left at the last moment and the apparition was swallowed up by the night. “You idiot,” he repeated more softly, chancing a backwards glance and half expecting to see the hated cyclist following. He wiped each palm on his trouser legs as more beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip (the real reason he had never shaved the unfashionable face hair).

Him, Rueben fumed, unknowingly picking up speed. Was there no getting away from that demented lowlife? How had he ended up with such a neighbor? And to pop up just when he was thinking about him. What were the odds — out here; in the middle of the night?

It wasn’t always so bad, he mused, steadily picking up speed as he narrowed down to the last few miles. No, it wasn’t that bad before Curt died. Uncomfortable, yes. But now... intolerable.

If Rueben had been less distracted by his train of thought, he might have been forewarned by the events of his drive: the wind, the branch, the other car, even his hated neighbor — the wildness of the night seemed determined to drive all before it. Yet Rueben remained impervious, wrapped in his downward-spiraling thoughts, even as his foot grew ever heavier on the accelerator. The first deer had actually bounded in front of his car and vanished into the darkness of the other side of the road before his brain could signal his foot to brake. The fawn that followed was not so fortunate.

In the split second that it took for Rueben to react, he saw, or more accurately, perceived in a flash of tan and white and just the suggestion of a large, moist eye, the smaller animal attempt to make the same crossing as its mother. The sickening thud that followed was simultaneous with the scream of his tires attempting to grip the asphalt. The deerling was flung back in the direction from which it had sprung.

Rueben managed to stop the car on the shoulder of the road some fifty yards away and clambered out into a haze of burnt, stinking rubber that, incredibly, hung in the air like a fog. It was as if the hideous impact had silenced the very wind and the night world now watched with held breath. By the light of his remaining headlamp, Rueben examined the damage as best he could. Besides the lamp, he could see that the grille was smashed, and with a frisson of horror, that several tufts of fur were caught in it, but as no fluid appeared to be seeping from the car and the engine was apparently unaffected, he had only the tire to be concerned with. A long streak of blood led him to the wheel well. Cautiously, so as not to smear himself, he felt about until he was satisfied that the tire was not damaged or impeded by the crumpled quarter panel. Rueben stood and carefully inspected his palms, but saw only road dirt.

He stumbled along the roadside in the direction from which he had come, scanning this way and that for the injured animal, as small stones skittered from beneath his shoes. He prayed that it was not still alive and suffering, as he had no idea what to do in such a case and doubted that he had the nerve to put it out of its misery, if he did.

No nerve was required, however. Rueben found the small, broken body at the wood line, and even by the phosphorescent moon-light, it was obviously dead. He stared down at it from the edge of the lonely road and was struck with the enormity and finality of death, as evidenced by this tiny, frail, yet once vibrant creature. It already had the deflated look of the absence of life, and even the large, bright eye that he had glimpsed the second before collision was filmed and sticky-looking.

“You were goin’ too fast.”

Rueben uttered a small cry and took several steps backwards, almost losing his balance.

“Way too fast,” the phlegm-choked voice challenged again from the darkness.

Rueben’s dilated pupils were now able to make out the dim figure that stood like a statue in the greater darkness of a nearby oak. He could just discern the bicycle that the figure leaned on and that had brought him noiselessly to the scene. With a fresh outbreak of sweating on his upper lip and a slightly sick feeling in his stomach, Rueben acknowledged what he already knew — that his hated neighbor was now a witness to his crime against nature.

“I... I didn’t see it until... well, it was too late,” Rueben stammered as the figure detached itself from the moon shadow and approached, still wheeling the bicycle. “He just sprang out from the woods.” Rueben hated the wheedling, defensive sound of his voice. Why did this man always elicit this kind of reaction from him? Of course, the fact that he was evidently some kind of demented night crawler might explain some of it, he thought angrily. What was he doing out at this time of night? It was after one in the morning.

“Her,” the neighbor corrected, bending low over the carcass. Rueben had the impression that he might start feeding on the dead thing at any moment.

“It’s a her... a female,” the man repeated without looking up from his careful scrutiny.

With a shock of revulsion, Rueben realized that he had lifted the poor creature’s tail to expose the hindquarters for his benefit.

“Yes, I see... a female,” Rueben acknowledged uneasily.

Still squatting, he turned his face up to Rueben and smiled. This time it was the wan light of the moon that pooled in the grimy lenses of his skewed glasses, hiding the bloodshot piggish eyes that Rueben remembered so well. The same light delineated the face like a stark black-and-white portrait; each detail stood forth from the composite whole as unattractive in its own right, independent of the unpleasant picture they all conspired to create: the crown of the lumpy skull was nearly exposed, with only a few lank wisps trailing down to join the true hairline that began just above the large, furry ears. The rest had been allowed to grow to shoulder length and was so dirty that it looked like the hair of a drowned man — wet and twisted into greasy ropes by the currents. Dirty-looking stubble covered the drawn lower face, and Rueben briefly marveled at how someone could always be unshaven, yet never grow a beard. In the thousands of days that Rueben had watched his neighbor lounge about his property (no, his father’s property, Rueben primly corrected himself), his appearance never changed. The hair, the stubble, the lank, wispy moustache that barely draped the long, thin upper lip, even the glasses always sported some homemade, amateurish repair. He was like some prehistoric insect trapped in amber, Rueben thought meanly — hideous and unchanging.

The face continued to grin up at Rueben as if awaiting an answer that would surely be wrong. Rueben stared back, unable to shift his gaze or just walk away, aware for the first time just how much the man frightened him and how closely that fear resembled hatred.

“That mighta been me,” the neighbor observed as he stood. “Dead, like that.” He nudged the carcass with the toe of his engineer boot to emphasize his point. “Almost was.”

“You were on the wrong side of the street,” Rueben squeaked, outraged and made nervous by the insinuation.

“I’ve been runned over before,” he pronounced proudly, pointing to the left side of his face and turning his small, round head to best advantage in the moonlight.

Rueben was horrified to see a whorl of scar tissue at the man’s left temple that appeared to extend into the eye socket. Face-on, with the glasses, it was almost hidden, but from the angle he presented, it appeared as if a spike had been driven into his head and wrested out many years before. Rueben could barely contain his disgust.

“My God,” he whispered, “how did that...?”

“Speeder... like you,” the neighbor offered pleasantly, his tiny teeth an uneven row of mottled corn kernels. “Left me for dead.” As an afterthought, he added, “But I wasn’t.”

For the first time in the twelve years that Rueben had gone from amused tolerance of the youngster who seemed unable to leave his father’s nest to thinly disguised contempt for the surly abuser that ruled over his ageing parents like a tyrant, Rueben felt a spark of compassion. Was this injury the root cause of such repellent behavior?

“Danny,” Rueben tried the name like a foreign word; he hadn’t used it since Curtis, Danny’s poor, broken father, had died. “When did this happen... your accident, I mean?” He gestured weakly at the scar.

Danny seemed startled at the use of his name, but quickly recovered. “Right about when you moved into the neighborhood.” He stared into Rueben’s eyes meaningfully and smiled.

Now it was Rueben’s turn to be startled. “You’re not insinuating that I...” He stopped, unwilling to complete the implied accusation. “You’re not serious!”

Danny stopped smiling. “Mighta been you,” he opined evenly. “It almost was you tonight.”

“I was nowhere close to hitting you,” Rueben protested, the sweat breaking out on his forehead now as well. “You were on the wrong side of the street!” Rueben thought to take the initiative. “Besides, what are you doing out here at this time of night, any-way? And with no lights or reflectors?” he asked as accusingly as he dared.

“Gimme ten dollars,” Danny countered, taking a step closer.

“What?” Rueben was flummoxed by the sudden change in tack.

“Ten,” Danny repeated firmly. “The Bealwood closes in half an hour.”

The Bealwood was a local watering hole; not the kind of place Rueben patronized. “You want beer money?” Rueben gasped, taking a step back.

“Ten,” Danny repeated and shot out a grimy, black-nailed hand. “Then we’ll just keep this to ourselves.”

“Keep what?” Rueben protested, even as he pulled out his wallet and extracted a five with shaking hands. He was disgusted and ashamed of his easy capitulation, but the nearness of this man, the smashed animal at his feet, and the eerie solitude of their situation all conspired to deprive him of what little courage he possessed.

Danny snatched the five from his grip and instantly returned his open palm for Rueben’s inspection. “I said ten.”

Humiliated, Rueben dug out several more bills to find another five, only to have Danny snatch the remainder from his grasp and crush them into a ball without even bothering to count. Incredibly, he smiled and slapped Rueben on the shoulder.

“Wanna come get a drink?” he inquired amiably.

Rueben shook his head weakly and looked at his feet to hide the tears that welled up in his eyes.

“Aw’right, then,” Danny acquiesced cheerfully. “But I aw’ways shut the place down.” With that, he climbed onto his shaky bicycle and grunted and puffed until he gained enough speed to glide away.

“I could have him arrested,” Rueben told himself as he stared angrily after his antagonist, then just as quickly dismissed the idea. The additional humiliation of explaining to officers, people he saw on a daily basis, how he was robbed without a blow or a weapon was too much. He could easily imagine the sly exchanged glances and barely concealed smirks. No, he would tell no one. It would be unbearable.

Danny had been in his late teens when Rueben had bought the house just next-door, and even then, Rueben had sensed all was not well with his neighbors. Curtis and Dot were quiet, friendly folk who had made a point of welcoming Rueben to the neighborhood with an iced cinnamon cake baked by Dot herself. They had arrived at his door without their son, and never once mentioned him throughout their brief, chatty visit. Rueben might never have known he existed if not for his sullen, beer-drinking presence camped out for hours at a time in their backyard — ensconced in a lawn chair and glaring at Rueben whenever he ventured into his own. Apparently, he did not attend school, as Rueben (who had always worked the four-to-twelve shift) found to his dismay when he wished to enjoy his own yard. It was unsettling to be the subject of such intense and, seemingly, malevolent scrutiny, but Rueben kept his peace, not wishing to upset Curtis or Dot, who obviously bore a heavy, and what must have been disappointing, burden in their son. Rueben’s attempts to break the ice with a friendly wave were ordinarily met with a toadlike stare, the occasional curt nod, and more than once, the “finger.” If things had continued in this manner, Rueben might not have found himself standing on a lonely roadside twelve years later with a dead deer, an empty wallet, and, worse still, a gut-sick fear that was rapidly evolving into murderous hatred.

It was typical, if destructive, boyish pranks at first: a full garbage can left at the curb for pickup turned upside down, the lid vanished; impossible to right without emptying the entire stinking contents into the street. A carefully carved jack-o’-lantern smashed against the siding of the house, orange gore dripping and a stain that took great effort to wash away. A paper bag set aflame on his front step, which Rueben found, after stomping it out, to be full of excrement (he never cared to discover whether it was of animal or human origin). In every case, he could count on looking up and finding Danny watching impassively, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Events grew more alarming, and not just for Rueben. It seemed no one was exempt, even if Rueben was especially singled out. One neighbor got a brick through the windshield of his brand-new automobile left proudly parked on the street. Another awoke to find his newly filled pool fouled in a manner reminiscent of Rueben’s porch incident. There were accusations and recriminations, and even Rueben joined in after he awoke to find his front door spray-painted with the word “FAG” in bright yellow. It took several coats of enamel paint to conceal the epithet and Rueben noticed that several men in the neighborhood were cool to him afterwards.

Rueben was shocked at the appearance of Curtis and Dot when they warily answered his rings on this occasion. He had not seen them except at a distance for several years, so cool had relations become in the neighborhood as a result of their son’s depredations, and he found them shrunken and timid — hollowed out with shame and something else... fear, Rueben thought. They looked ancient. He hadn’t the heart to do anything other than ask them to keep an eye on Danny and beat a hasty, embarrassed retreat.

Danny was sitting on the front steps when he came out and Rueben gave him a terse nod. As he hurried past, a cigarette butt arced past his head like a tiny comet. He spun about to find Danny staring off into the middle distance, making perfect smoke rings.

Rueben’s cat did not return home the following day. A week later, he found the old tom curled up on the patio with his head tucked neatly beneath his tail — frozen solid and slowly defrosting in the blazing summer sun. In the adjacent yard, Danny leaned from his rickety lawn chair and retrieved a cold beer from the refrigerator plugged into an outside outlet that he kept for his convenience, and with slow exaggeration, rolled the sweating can across his sloping brow. Rueben fled into the house, tears of shame and rage choking him in a slow, steady grip.

As Danny could and did roam at all hours (he never held a job, to Rueben’s knowledge) and could, therefore, strike at will and without witnesses, the neighborhood simply hunkered down and tried not to gain his attention. Any complaint to the police resulted in inquiries at Danny’s door, which had the unfortunate result of identifying the complainant. Retribution was sure to follow.

Sadly, it was the hapless Curtis and Dot who suffered the silent scorn and universal condemnation of the community. Though their abhorred son had long ago reached adulthood, it was they who were afforded the status of “non-persons”: They were invited nowhere, spoken to only from necessity, and soundly, firmly, and pointedly ignored. The kindly middle-aged couple shrank from public scrutiny over time and were seen less and less often. Even as their closest neighbor, Rueben only caught glimpses of them as they ran the most necessary errands. After all, the beast must be fed, Rueben thought meanly, on more than one sighting. Yet he could see the toll taken on them. They looked more ill and frail than their years should have made them. Dot died the tenth year of Rueben’s residency, of ovarian cancer, and Curtis followed a scant two years after from a heart attack.

Both funerals were surprisingly well attended, though Rueben suspected baser motives at work than the simple act of mourning might portray. He suspected because he recognized the cowardice at work in himself. But if the crowd expected a softening from the son in the face of their apparent grief, they were sorely disappointed. Danny simply sat at the foot of the coffins like a drugged, though still potentially dangerous, guard dog, and stared out over the uncomfortable gatherings as if he were in an empty room.

The neighborhood was also to be disappointed in yet another way. With Curtis’s death, hope raised its head and happy speculation circulated from house to house. Surely, now, they would be released. The watch for the For Sale sign to appear was a happy and expectant one. It was not to be, however, for the truth eventually supplanted the rumors, and Danny was found to be the sole possessor of a mortgage-free home. If this was not disappointing enough, and infuriating for all those who would work thirty years to attain the same status, it also became known that he was the recipient of some mysterious source of income — not much, but enough to meet his basic needs. The neighborhood fell back in dismay and awaited the next blow.

Strangely, that blow had yet to fall, and this was almost worse than the campaign of depredations. The neighborhood and Rueben existed in a state of tension, an unbearable condition of expectation and dread: Like beaten dogs they seemed to scurry, not walk, always looking back to see who, or what, approached.

Danny’s lassitude only made matters worse. His lizardlike posture on his front porch was ascribed to planning; his seemingly casual forays on his bike were interpreted as reconnaissance, and when lights were seen in the windows of his house in the small hours, it was understood to bode ill for someone.

All of these thoughts raced through Rueben’s head as he stood at the edge of the road, the wind beginning to rise once more, as evidenced in a murmuring of dried leaves.

“Enough,” Rueben hissed. “I don’t deserve this! Who the hell does he think he is?” Rueben kicked the small, broken body that lay at his feet, and stepped back immediately with a stifled cry of horror and disgust at what he’d done. From across the street came an answering report of a snapped branch or twig, and Rueben spun about, fully expecting to find Danny returned — but saw only darkness. Breathlessly, he returned to his car, and hurriedly drove away with but one lamp left to light his progress.

Rueben waited until the following morning to request an officer for an accident report. He reasoned that he would need it for insurance purposes, but as no one had been injured and it had not involved another vehicle, it could wait until after a night’s rest. The officer, an affable fellow named Blaise, arrived at ten to find Rueben hollow-eyed and nervous after a fitful sleep, standing next to his car in the driveway.

“Mornin’, Rube,” Blaise huffed as he bent to examine the damage.

Rueben gritted his teeth in annoyance. Though the nickname was almost universally employed by the officers of the department, and Rueben had come to accept it over the years, it had a particularly demeaning ring this morning.

“Good morning, Blaise,” Rueben returned stiffly, overemphasizing the officer’s unusual name.

Blaise glanced up at Rueben with a small smile. “Somebody cranky this mornin’, Rube?”

Rueben exhaled noisily and tried a strained smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m a little cranky... I hit a deer last night. A baby deer,” he added a little guiltily.

“What were you doin’? Drivin’ drunk?” Blaise inquired pleasantly.

“No! Of course not. I just got off from work! You know that! I was just—”

“Whoa...” The officer held his hands up from his still-kneeling position. “Take ’er easy, Rube! I was just kiddin’. Maybe we should go out and knock back a few and shake the starch from your britches!” He chuckled.

Rueben put his hands to his head and massaged his temples. He did feel like he had a hangover. “Sorry, sorry,” he sighed. “It was all just a little upsetting.” Rueben glanced nervously at the house next-door, and for the briefest of moments considered telling the officer everything that had happened.

Blaise stood up, dusting his knees. “Well, the important thing is that you’re okay, and the car ain’t that bad, really. In any case, I’ll have the report ready by tomorrow and you can pick it up at work. Where’d you say you left the deer?... I’ll notify animal control to pick it up.”

“What...” Rueben mumbled, his thoughts unaccountably jumbled, as if he were trying very hard to remember something. “Oh, yes, the deer.”

After the officer left, Rueben placed a call to his insurance company and then to a garage on their approved list. He got the head mechanic after a half-dozen rings.

“Yeah, sure, bring it in today. Things are kinda slow round here. We should be able to get to it over the next few days,” he offered cheerfully.

Rueben couldn’t believe his good timing; he had off the next two nights and wouldn’t even have to make arrangements for a ride to work. “That’s great...” he began, then trailed off. For the second time that morning he felt his thoughts intruded upon, as if something were moving beneath his consciousness, trying to rise from the gray depths into the light. He cleared his throat. “How about Friday? Could I bring it in then?” That would give him two nights.

“Sure,” the mechanic replied in a puzzled tone. “But we might be busy by then. Could take longer.”

“Well, that’ll be fine,” Rueben assured him. “Friday, then.” And he hung up the phone.

What had lain hidden now burst forth: Bits and pieces of the previous night scrambled this way and that, glowing with import. Rueben stood stock-still and forced himself to examine each telling moment — Danny’s halfhearted accusation, his inadvertent (or was it?) revelation that he always closed the Bealwood, and of course, the fawn. Was that just bad luck... or Providence? He could see it as clearly as if it were already done.

As Danny staggered from the bar, Rueben smoothly accelerated from the dim parking lot across the street and glanced at his watch. It read two A.M. “Right on time, Danny, just like you promised,” he whispered excitedly.

Though he couldn’t know exactly what route Danny might take home, Rueben was certain of one thing: The stretch of county blacktop where they had met on the previous night was unavoidable. It was the only link to their subdivision.

Rueben calculated that he had at least fifteen minutes before the drunken Danny could possibly arrive into what he now thought of as the “kill zone.” Rueben’s plan was simple: Drive up and down the road until Danny was spotted, then, if the coast was clear, run him down. The only real challenge, as Rueben saw it, was that the impact must occur where the car had suffered damage the night before. Not that hard, really, and Rueben felt equal to the challenge.

Since Danny insisted on being a traffic hazard and using the wrong side of the road, it would be a simple matter of swerving to the right at the last possible moment, at a high rate of speed, of course, and then just continuing on. If he happened to survive such a head-on impact, the headlamps would prevent him from identifying the vehicle. Even one headlamp, he felt certain, so long as it was set on high-beam. In any event, Rueben did not expect him to survive.

The wait was not long. In far less than the fifteen minutes estimated by Rueben, he spotted the wobbling bicycle approaching. Even in the gray, hazy light provided by the occasional street lamp, Rueben’s flapping, fluttering, scarecrowlike silhouette was unmistakable. Far from the terror it had inspired the previous night, this time Danny’s presence was welcomed — Rueben felt positively elated, not a trace of nerves. In fact, as he began to accelerate, climbing steadily beyond the fifty-mile-per-hour limit, the sense of inevitability and, yes, invulnerability, that he had first felt grow warm during his conversation with the mechanic now positively blazed. He hit the high beams.

If there was such a thing as a God-appointed mission, then this surely was it, Rueben chuckled. Hadn’t the hated, Caliban-like Danny suggested it himself, even to an appointed time and place? Danny knew what he truly deserved, and like the animal he was, should be put down. Was he any better than that poor little deer, beautiful and unoffending, whose only instinct had been to stay with its mother? The speedometer had passed the sixty-mile-per-hour mark and was still climbing.

Rueben was smiling broadly now, and for just a moment he envisioned himself being lofted onto the shoulders of his grateful neighbors, all shouting his name and praises for accomplishing that which another (and surely it was one of them) had failed to do. No, his feat, however heroic, must remain a secret. It would be enough, he assured himself, to simply gaze upon the relieved and happy faces of the newly liberated and know, with the quiet pride of the champion, that all this was his doing.

He leveled the car at sixty-five, not wishing to risk loss of control. Danny could be seen clearly, one arm raised against the intensity of the light bearing down on him. Rueben eased the speeding vehicle to the right, placing the passenger-side wheels onto the shoulder. Danny remained defiantly close to the shoulder line, waving the oncoming car away with imperious slaps at the air, which infuriated Rueben.

The car struck bike and rider with a metallic clack, and Rueben shouted out at the same moment with a loud “Hah!” The rest followed so rapidly and silently that he was unsure as to what had happened. He sensed, rather than saw, that something large and dark had sailed past the passenger side of his car at incredible speed and vanished into the darkness like a thought. That was it.

With only slight difficulty, largely because he was breathing so hard all of a sudden, he regained his lane and began slowing. Not a single other car was in sight. He reached an intersection a mile down the road and executed a careful U-turn. Within moments he was passing what he was sure was the very spot. There was nothing. The undergrowth by the side of the road had swallowed everything — man and bike. With a smile and the satisfying sense of a job well done, Rueben headed for home.

Since he had accomplished what he set out to do on the first night, Rueben now had the second to get through before he took the car to the body shop. After carefully inspecting his car in the security of his garage, he was pleased, though not so surprised really (he had somehow known it would be like this), to find almost no additional damage to his old Ford. The lamp housing was twisted even more to the outside of the car, but not alarmingly so; he doubted whether Blaise would note the difference even after having previously inspected it.

There was one unsettling moment, though, when he discovered a tuft of what was obviously human hair caught between that same housing and the front quarter-panel. With meticulous care and a gagging disgust, Rueben extracted it with tweezers and disposed of it down the toilet, vigorously washing his hands afterward.

There was surprisingly little blood. Besides the smear that had been left by the fawn, wine-colored droplets spread like a ruby constellation across the passenger side of the car. Warm water, soap, and a brush made short work of both.

Now, as night was upon him once more, Rueben found himself at the Bealwood Bar and Grill enjoying a cold beer. He felt flamboyant, though of course no one there could possibly know that he had slain one of their steady, and, he was sure, unwelcome customers. The day’s paper had made no mention of a hit-and-run. Still, it felt deliciously dangerous, and Rueben thought he had never tasted such wonderful beer in his life. He was a little disappointed, though, that not one person in the bar remarked on Danny’s absence.

After several more beers than was his usual, Rueben set out for home, retracing his victim’s ride of the night before. Humming with the radio, he turned left onto the county road and began to accelerate.

Rueben saw the pulsing red lights reflecting off the trees before he rounded the curve, and for one gut-wrenching moment, considered braking and turning the car around. The chase car parked in the greater shadows to his right convinced him of the folly of that. Swallowing the beery, acidic gorge that rose burning into his throat, he slowed for the roadblock that the police had craftily engineered.

Two patrol cars facing opposite directions sat in the center of the road, the overheads rotating in a riot of red light. Beyond, a second chase car also crouched in the darkness, awaiting anyone from the opposite direction who might wish to avoid the police. Rueben came to a stop behind one other car, and watched as an officer (he couldn’t tell who due to the glare) seemed to chat amiably with the driver. Rueben used the few moments’ respite to collect himself.

No one saw anything, he reassured himself. They must have found the body sometime this afternoon, or evening, and conducted the autopsy. That’s why they’re here now. They know the approximate time he died and this is just a routine roadblock to interview everyone who normally passes at this time. They don’t know anything, otherwise they wouldn’t be bothering with this.

The officer waved the other car on and Rueben eased forward. Damn! He didn’t recognize this kid! He must be a rookie. For Christ’s sake! Of all the times to draw the wild card! He could see the kid’s brow puckering up as he played his flashlight over the damage to Rueben’s car. He shot his hand up, as if to say “far enough,” and began walking the length of the passenger side, his head at a tilt.

A sudden wave of hilarity came over Rueben and he could barely contain a chuckle. “Look, kid. Look all you want,” he whispered.

The young officer had worked his way entirely around the car and had now arrived at the driver’s window. “Good evening, sir,” he greeted Rueben curtly. “May I ask what happened with your car?”

Rueben didn’t like the rookie’s no-nonsense attitude and wasn’t used to not being recognized by the officers — it unsettled him, made him feel like just another civilian, or worse, and his mood quickly evaporated. He tried to smile, but felt his cheek muscles twitching and let it drop.

“A deer,” he replied just as curtly. “I hit a baby deer.”

“A deer?” The young officer looked dubious, and his eyes drifted to the damaged headlamp.

“Yeah... a deer,” Rueben repeated, beginning to enjoy the game, that overwhelming feeling of euphoria returning unbidden. “You know... Bambi.” The smile arose naturally now and he could feel laughter bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He could see the kid didn’t like it, but was powerless to stop it.

“And when did this happen, sir?” The rookie wasn’t going to let it be.

“Night before last,” Rueben replied laconically, the smile threatening to split his face. “There’s a report. Blaise took it... Officer Lamanna, that is,” Rueben added smugly.

The rookie seemed challenged by this and took a step back. “Wait here, sir,” he directed, and marched off toward the other patrol car. Rueben placed a hand over his mouth to suppress the giggles.

Presently, he made out the boy, in the company of an older, larger officer, stumping back. He couldn’t believe his luck (then again, yes he could): It was Blaise! Rueben was so pleased with the turn of events that he shouted out a greeting and slapped the veteran officer on the shoulder as he leaned down to the window.

“Rueben, what the hell are you doin’ out, I’d a’ thought you’d learned your lesson the other night,” he joked. Then he took a sudden step back and began to fan the air in front of his face. “Whoa... so you did take my advice, huh?”

Rueben felt momentarily sheepish and grinned stupidly at Blaise. “I’m on my way home,” he offered weakly.

The older officer leaned back in and grinned at him. “Listen, you’re damn lucky I’m here — I switched shifts with Billy MacDougal as a favor, otherwise, this young lion,” he tossed his head back at the now-sullen younger officer, “would be locking your ass up for DWI... pronto.”

“I appreciate it, Blaise, I really do,” Rueben gushed.

Blaise lowered his voice to a stage whisper and hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Thought he caught a killer when you pulled up with all that damage.”

In just the nick of time, Rueben remembered that nothing had been in the news. “What’s this all about,” he asked innocently, with a sweep of his hand indicating the roadblock.

“Hit-and-run, old son, hit-and-run. Some son of a bitch run down a bicyclist and left him for the flies. Hell of a thing,” Blaise intoned soberly. “Hell of a thing.” He paused dramatically. “In fact, you oughta know ’im. He was a next-door neighbor of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

Rueben’s mouth had gone suddenly cottony and dry. “You’re kidding... who?”

“A scruffy-looking character name of York... Danny York. Know ’im?”

“Yeah, of course I do. That’s a shame.” Rueben did his best to sound sincere.

“Yeah... well, since I’m here, let me do a walk-around to satisfy the rookie,” Blaise announced, and began to walk in front of the car playing his flashlight along its surface.

Rueben almost protested, but stopped short. He felt the eyes of the rookie watching his face. It didn’t matter, he reassured himself, it didn’t matter.

Blaise sauntered along, reaching the far side of the car and beginning to work his way to the rear. He stopped almost opposite Rueben and appeared to be studying something. Rueben felt his breathing get shallow and rapid. What was he looking at? What could he possibly have missed?

Blaise tapped suddenly on the passenger window and indicated that Rueben should roll it down. Rueben leaned over and noticed that his hand was shaking as he worked the crank. He prayed Blaise couldn’t see it.

“What happened to your mirror, here?” The officer tapped the outside rearview and it spun uselessly on its axis. “I don’t remember this, Rueben.”

Rueben shrugged, unable to speak for a moment; he had no idea what his expression must be. “It was there, Blaise,” he lied as steadily as he could. “The day you came over, it was that way.” For the life of him, Rueben couldn’t think how he could have missed it. Danny’s bike, or body, must have struck it and broke the retaining screws, and yet, it somehow remained in place. Hell, rust must have held it in place for a little longer! For all he knew, it came dislodged when he ran over a pebble a quarter-mile back!

Blaise glanced guiltily past Rueben to the young officer waiting and whispered, “Hell, you think I just missed it?” He paused again, his seamed face a mask of concentration. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he exhaled, at last. “I’m not a young buck like that one.” He nodded at the rookie. “Well, straight home, Rueben, I mean it, okay?”

“Okay, Blaise,” he answered quietly, though he wanted to shout to the skies.

With a quick glance of contempt at the younger officer, Rueben put his car in gear. “Seat belt,” the rookie snapped and pointed at his chest. Rueben ignored him and drove away.

As soon as he was out of sight of the roadblock he pressed the accelerator to the floor and began to howl and bang the roof with his fist. “I knew it,” he shouted over the cool wind whistling through the open window. “I knew it! There is a God... There is justice! The meek shall inherit the... sonofabitch!”

The deer seemed to be waiting: standing in his lane as he rounded the curve and gazing calmly at his oncoming vehicle. For Rueben, everything slowed down inside his head: He watched as his hands seized the wheel and incredibly, wrongly, wrenched it hard to the right. It was instinct to avoid something in the road, but it was such a mistake in this case, he thought with remarkable calm. His foot had barely touched the brake when he rammed the elm. Worse, his old car had no airbags, and he had neglected to fasten his seat belt as the young officer directed.

The deer vanished even before Rueben completed his high-speed exit through the windshield.

Copyright ©; 2005 by David Dean.