Rituals of the Season

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10

The white sedan was later than expected, so late that the driver of the nondescript car parked on the shoulder was beginning to wonder if something had already happened to her. Then suddenly, there she was, zipping along in the fast lane of the interstate, her usual ten miles an hour over the speed limit, as if North Carolina’s traffic laws did not apply to her.

You’d think somebody in her position would be a little more observant of the law, the driver thought wryly, pulling back onto the highway. After all, she’s sent people to jail for stuff not much more serious than speeding.

In half an hour, the daily reverse flow from Raleigh would start to clog this stretch of highway, but right now traffic was still light, and in less than a minute both cars were side by side, traveling at the same speed.

The thirty-something woman appeared to be singing along with her radio when the second car pulled even. She glanced over casually, then her eyes widened in recognition and she smiled as she powered down her side window with a motion for the other to do the same.

“Hey!” she called cheerfully, her eyes flicking back and forth from the road ahead to the car beside her. “How’s it going?”

“Going good right now.”

The revolver came up to shoulder level and the woman’s eyes widened in disbelief. Before she could flinch or dodge, a single shot pierced her jugular just above the small green-and-red cloisonné Christmas wreath pinned to the collar of her white cashmere sweater.

There was one quick glimpse of jetting blood, the sound of screeching brakes, then her car swerved away and crashed headlong into an overpass abutment.

The other driver touched the accelerator and sped on through the early twilight without a single look back in the rearview mirror.

Traveling north on the interstate in his unmarked sedan, Colleton County Sheriff’s Deputy Mike Castleman had his eye out for Judge Deborah Knott’s car. Word had come through the dispatcher from Major Bryant that the judge was unaccountably late and not answering her cell phone, so if anyone should happen to spot her . . .

No sign of the judge’s car, but up ahead Castleman did see one that matched the profile of the more brazen drug traffickers who frequented this stretch of interstate through North Carolina. Only one person in the car, so he didn’t bother calling for the usual backup. He had just switched on the blue lights hidden behind his radiator grille when a second call came through that a white Lexus had crashed into the abutment where Possum Creek Road crossed over I-95.

He immediately thumbed his mike. “I’ll catch it, Faye.”

The suspect car ahead had obediently pulled over, but with his blue lights still flashing and his siren now wailing as well, Castleman gave a go-ahead wave to the sullen-looking Hispanic inside, made a U-turn across the grassy median, and headed south.

At the crash site, several civilian cars had stopped. Their passengers milled around, trying to keep warm while they waited for professionals to arrive and take charge. A tall man strode forward when he spotted the badge on Castleman’s heavy leather jacket.

“I was a medic in Iraq,” he told the deputy. His warm breath made little puffs of steam in the chilled air. “The driver’s dead but there’s a baby girl in the backseat that looks to be hanging on by her toenails.”

Baby girl? Oh, Jeeze! thought Castleman, who had not noticed the car seat until that moment. The bottom fell out of his stomach. His own daughter was nineteen, but he never came upon a situation like this without immediately thinking of her, and he was stricken by the sight of that lolling head.

More sirens and flashing lights lit up the darkening evening as an ambulance and a patrol car swerved to a stop. Red and blue strobes flashed over the car’s bloody interior and made the white leather seats and steering wheel look as if they had been splashed with chocolate syrup then dusted with powdered sugar when the air bag popped open.

In the backseat, several gaily wrapped Christmas packages lay jumbled by the impact. The medic pointed to a small one about six inches square.

“I don’t know what’s in it, but it’s heavy as hell and it was on the kid’s chest when I got here. Probably what knocked her out.”

A large bruise had begun to darken the forehead of the baby girl buckled into the car seat. Otherwise, she did not move.

The driver’s face was obscured by the deflated air bag and the front end of the car was so badly smashed that the baby was already on an ambulance to the hospital before they could get the car pried open enough to get her out.

“Oh dear God!” said one of the deputies when the dead driver’s face came into view. “Y’all see who this is?”

“Christ almighty!” swore Castleman, peering over his shoulder. “I was in court with her just this morning.”