Chapter Twelve

Art parked the car and turned off the engine, spending a moment looking out of the window at the scene in front of him. A tow truck was backed up to the lake, chains running down the bank to a dark shape in the water. Patrol cars and an ambulance were parked on the side of the road. Their blue and red lights threw splashes of colour over the gathering.

"There's the chief," Tim said, and pointed towards the portly figure. "Looks like he's phoning someone."

Rachel gathered the camera and other equipment from the back seat. "Want us to get some details?"

Art nodded. "Yup. Follow procedure. The chief won't like it. Don't listen to him."

"Okay," Rachel said, and slipped out of the car. Tim followed her, leaving Art alone in the quiet.

He sat for a long second, heart heavy. Maybe Raylan really did want to see his folks. Maybe he passed out and ran his car off the road here, he thought, not convinced. Something about this just doesn't feel right. He shook his head and got out of the car, heading towards the chief.

Tim knocked on the tow truck's door, startling the driver. The man wound his window down and leaned out.

"Can I help you?" The driver drawled. "Got a job to do here, son."

Tim flashed his badge. "I'm a deputy US marshal. I need to you leave the car where it is for now. We need to study the scene."

The man bit down on a toothpick and leaned closer to Tim. "That right?" He studied Tim's badge. "And here I thought the US marshal service left investigating crime scenes to the real police."

"I'm just following orders, sir." Tim braced a hand on the truck and leaned towards the driver. "We believe that one of our collegues was driving that car."

The driver raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

Tim nodded. "Yes, sir. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that to yourself."

The driver turned his engine off. "Well, alright, son." He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Just wake me when you need something towing."

Tim walked away. Splashes of muddy water landed on his jeans, soaking through to his skin. He ignored it and jogged to catch up with Rachel. She was already by the side of the lake, camera in her hand as she took photos of the skid marks.

She shot a glance at Tim, then flicked her eyes to a nearby patrolman. The patrolman drifted a little closer to them, straining to hear what they were saying. Tim raised his eyebrows then nodded, content to play along.

"Looks like he never even tried to brake," Rachel muttered, zooming in closer to the tracks.

"Maybe he passed out. Couple of nasty wounds like that, he shouldn't have really been driving." Tim prepared a frame, laying it over the tracks to get a cast.

Heavy footsteps made him look up. The chief scrambled down the bank with Art following behind. Neither of them looked very happy.

"What are you doing to my crime scene?" the chief barked.

Tim snuck a glance at Art, who nodded. He poured a little more impression material into the frame, tapping the metal lightly to knock out any air bubbles.

"Feels like you don't trust me, Art." The chief forced a mirthless laugh.

Art moved up next to him, shrugging. "It's just procedure, chief. You know that."

"I know, I know." The chief groused. "You gotta dot all the T's and cross all the I's."

Rachel snapped another photo, then let the camera drop, hanging from its strap around her neck. "I'm done with the photos."

"Does this happen often?" Art asked.

The chief hooked a thumb through his belt loop. "Yeah... we get a few cars going off this bend a year." He shrugged. "Folks drive drunk... tired... they lose concentration, miss the turn. Next thing they know, the car is in the lake, filling up with water."

Rachel shifted her weight. "They survive long?" She nodded towards the lake. "Water looks cold."

The chief let out a long breath that steamed in the air. "You asking me if I expect to find your colleague alive?"

She held his eyes. "Yes, that's what I'm asking."

The stout man shrugged again. "Night like this? Car's been in there long enough to settle..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't think he has much chance."

A beat of silence hung over the small group. Art broke it. "Well, let's pull the car out. Might as well see what we have."

Tim jogged up the bank to wake the tow truck driver. The older man started the engine, easing the truck forward as the chains took up the slack. Foot by foot, he let the tow truck creep forward, pulling the submerged car onto the bank.

It only took a few minutes to drag it free of the water. They stood back, letting it drain. A fish flopped onto the dirt road. Art scooped it up and tossed it back into the water. The chief shot him a look.

Art shrugged. "No reason to let it die."

"I never said there was." The chief muttered. "I think it's about drained, now."

They approached the car. Rachel snapped pictures as she walked, camera catching a smear of something dark and rusty on the driver's seat. "This looks like blood," she called out, taking a close up of it.

"Well, I'll be damned." The chief muttered. "First time I've seen a blood stain survive under water for that long."

"It wasn't under water. There's some kind of plastic wrapped around the seat. That's what protected it," Tim said. "Looks like that stuff you use in the kitchen."

"What?" The chief leaned closer, peering into the car. "Well, look at that! Why would he wrap his own car seat?"

"That's a very good question," Art muttered. "I have a better one, though. Where's the body?"

The chief pointed to the windscreen. "Glass has been shot out. Looks like he made it out of the car. Could be in the lake somewhere, still." He reached for his radio. "I've got men out searching. I'll get them to check the shore lines." The chief walked off to the top of the bank, radio held up to his mouth.

Art nodded to Rachel and Tim. "Take the photos back to the office. I'll follow you back."

Rachel paused. "What are you going to do?"

Art smiled grimly. "I'm gonna keep an eye on that lying son of a bitch there. He knows something he's not telling us."

"You think this was a set up?"

Art reached into the car and pulled out a brick that had jammed the gas pedal to the floor. "I think it was," he said grimly.