Verona

One

Friday, July 1

So this is how you die.

My God, my God!

Horrible...

He was staring at a car burning furiously in the road ahead. Black smoke swirled upward into the late-afternoon sky like a cyclone, deep-orange flames roiling below. The vehicle had swerved and crashed head on into an abutment of a bridge over a small creek.

Donald Lark, sitting in the back seat of his Escalade, leaned forward and told the driver, “Stop, stop!”

“Yessir.” Evan steered onto the shoulder and braked. He climbed out, telling his boss, “Stay here, sir.”

Lark’s pudgy hand dug for his phone in his suit jacket pocket. He retrieved the Samsung and hit nine-one-one. He gave the dispatcher the details of the accident and the location. The woman said nothing about previous reports, which suggested the occupants were dead.

She said fire and police would be there soon. Lark knew the deserted area well — this was the route to his country house. “Soon” would be at least twenty minutes.

The smoke parted momentarily and Lark was shocked to see on the rear of the burning Subaru a sticker.

Was the girl inside?

Please let her be home! It would be impossible for anyone to survive. The flames were gutting the interior. Fire was a particular fear for Donald Lark. He still bore the scars from the time, at age eight, when he tried to douse burning grease in a frying pan; the resulting explosion disfigured his arms and swiped his mother’s brows clean off. He was more horrified at her disfigurement than his sizzling skin.

How you die...

Lark rolled down the left rear window and leaned out. He debated joining Evan. Lark was in his midsixties, hardly old. But while the former teamster had once been in strapping shape, he was no longer. Muscle was now fat, and the heart temperamental.

The SUV was about thirty feet from the crash and he could feel the stinging waves of heat driving toward him on the summer breeze. His eyes and nose stung from the acrid smoke. Evan — a large man, a steady man, with a shaved head and broad shoulders — was lifting the tail of his black jacket, protecting his face as he moved closer to the conflagration.

He saw his minder slowing, squinting against the smoke. “I can’t tell!” the man shouted. “I can’t tell if anybody’s in there.”

Anybody...

Maybe the girl.

Or maybe someone not so innocent. Maybe tweakers high on meth, driving fast after sucking in the poisonous fumes. They’d bought the car second- or thirdhand.

Maybe young Sarah or Claire or Amy was fine.

Donald Lark, the father of two daughters and a son, blessed himself and prayed that the latter version of the accident was the truth.

Crouching, Evan moved closer yet, disappearing behind the shadow of smoke. Then a shout: “There’s nobody inside. They got out!”

Ah... Thank you, Lord.

Sarah, Claire, Amy...

Lark called, “Any sign of them nearby?”

Evan didn’t answer. The black smoke thinned, and Lark could vaguely see his driver on the road’s shoulder, bending down, reaching for something. He rose.

But... wait. What was this? It wasn’t Evan. This man wore a combat jacket and a black baseball cap, pulled low.

My God. A pistol with a silencer on the muzzle was in his hand.

Lark broke a thumbnail hitting the window-up button and lunged for the front seat, slamming the door lock.

But then he heard the noise he knew he would. Click.

The doors of the Escalade unlocking.

This was why the assailant had been bending down — to fetch the key fob from Evan’s pocket.

The rear passenger door was opening.

This would be another gunman.

Donald Lark sat back and fixed his eyes on the crucifix rocking gently from the rearview mirror.

Ah, but no, I was wrong. This is how you die.