Page 98 of Cold, Cold Bones
“What are you doing there? Are you in trouble?”
“… now!”
Three beeps.
Dead air.
I sat a moment, heart hammering. A call after midnight does that to you.
I scrolled to check the incoming number. It was listed as unknown. Might Katy have used someone else’s phone?
Without further thought, I flew across the room, threw on yesterday’s discarded jeans and sweater, and hurried to my car.
Racing along I-277, speed limit be damned, my mind was crowded with questions, each elbowing and jockeying for primacy.
Had the caller really been Katy? The voice was so garbled I couldn’t be sure.
If not Katy, who?
If Katy, what was she doing at a steel plant in the middle of the night?
Should I be charging out on my own? Easy one. Of course not. But no way I’d phone Slidell in the wee hours on a Saturday night. Sunday morning.
Newbie Henry?
Nope. Admittedly, it was reckless, but I’d assess the situation first. If it was merely Katy needing another winter storm rescue, no harm no foul. If it was something more sinister, I’d leave and call for reinforcements.
The defroster blew hard and the wipers slapped fast, both struggling to overcome the icy drops pummeling the windshield.
I knew the plant. Had visited only once, years back. Remembered it as a massive complex of low-rise buildings surrounded by concrete and bordered by swatches of lawn. Knew the Catawba River flowed somewhere off to the east.
I took Wilkinson Boulevard past the airport to Old Dowd Road. No planes were taking off or landing at that hour. Few cars were on the road. Probably due to the threat of black ice.
In minutes, I saw SWI on my left. Turning onto a small perimeter road, I made my way to the front entrance and stopped. Buildings loomed dark and empty on both sides of the car. Frigid beads pinged its roof and hood.
Now what?
Having no plan, I pulled to the end of the structures, turned right, and circled to the back of the property. Steel beams lay in piles around the acres of concrete, either awaiting fabrication or outbound transport.
Here and there sodium lamps threw down ill-defined cones of light, shimmery pink in the icy rain. A wet oval glistened on the pavement below each. In between, the night was dark as a crypt.
I scanned the lot.
Nothing moved. No one called out.
My eyes did another sweep, straining to pick out details.
The heater and defroster hummed. The wipers beat their steady cadence. Slushy drops sparked white in my headlights.
My gaze roved the mounds of steel and the gaps between. At last I discerned a shape in the mist, a dense cutout against the fleecy backdrop of forest beyond. Silent and still at the far edge of the lot.
More steel? A vehicle? An animal? All detail was obscured bydarkness and the icy drizzle. If an animal, it was of extremely large parentage, and very still.
I crept several yards closer, instincts clamoring for retreat.
From my new position I could tell that the shape was, indeed, a car. Through its fogged and water-streaked glass, I could make out two silhouettes, the driver and a front-seat passenger.
As I wiped the windshield with the back of my hand to improve visibility, the other car’s engine started up, the sound muted by my closed windows and the distance between us. Its headlights came to life, glimmering in the frosty drizzle.
