green wasnât to be missed. A true common area, it had recently been host to sunbathers, picnickers, and stargazers. Now the limbs of maples, birches, and firs hung low to the ground under the weight of the snow, transforming stately trees into weepers.
The sound of an engine broke the silence. At the opposite end of the green, a pickup coasted down from Pine Street and cruised slowly around the oval. When it reached Bree, it stopped.
Curtis Lamb rolled down his window. âJust cominâ from work?â
Bree raised an arm to shield her eyes from the snow. âYeah.â
âWant a lift?â
But Curtis lived downhill, not far from Flash. She smiled, shook her head, gestured toward Birch Hill, just beyond the church. âIâm almost there. You go on.â
Curtis rolled up his window. The pickup went slowly forward, turned right at the bank, and started down East Main.
Bree resumed the hike. She was making good time now, was actually enjoying the snow. It was cleansing, coming so soon after summerâs sweat.
Another engine broke the stillness, with a growing sputter. Bree guessed the vehicle was climbing Birch Hill. Its headlights had just appeared when a second pickup swooped down Pine, far off to her right. It was going fast, too fast. She watched it skid onto the oval, regain traction, and barrel toward her end.
Eager to be out of its way, she quickened her step. At the corner, she turned onto Birch Hill. The car climbing itâa bare-bones Jeepâwas twenty feet off but approaching steadily, so she hopped from the street into the deeper snow at the side.
The pickup kept coming. Alarmed by its speed, fascinated in a horrified way, Bree stopped walking. The pickup looked to be dull blue and old. She figured that whoever was driving was either drunk, inexperienced, or just plain dumb.
âSlow down,â she warned. At the rate it was going, it would surely skid when it turned. And it was going to have to turn, either right onto Birch Hill or left around the oval. If it went straight, it would hit her head-on.
Suddenly frightened, she moved. Running as quickly as she could through the deep snow, she started down Birch Hill, but it was an ill-timed move. Seconds after she passed the Jeep, she heard the crunch of metal on metal. Then the Jeep was skidding back, sliding faster than she could run and in the god-awful same direction.
Its impact with her was quieter. She felt a searing pain and a momentâs weightlessness, then nothing at all.
Chapter
2
T he first hit sent the Jeep skidding sideways and back. When the pickup tried to swerve away, it skidded into a broadside hit that crushed the Jeep against a stone wall. On the rebound, the pickup ricocheted back to the center of the road and sailed off down the hill.
Tom Gates didnât see that. He had only one thought in mind. Heart pounding, he rammed his shoulder once against the Jeepâs door, realized that it was too damaged to open, and scrambled over the gearshift to the passengerâs door. When it wouldnât budge, he raised his feet, kicked out the glass, and tumbled through. He grazed the edge of the stone wall on his way to the snow but was on his feet in an instant, racing back over the wall and around the Jeep.
He searched the road and saw nothing. He fell to his knees beside the Jeep, searched underneath, ran to where it met the wall, and, putting everything he had into the effort, moved the Jeep enough to see that no one was trapped there, not even down by the tires.
Frantic, he looked around. He was sure that someone had turned the corner seconds before the pickup hit him. He had hit whoever it was. He was sure of that, too.
He had just spotted a dark lump in the snow when a light came on in the house deep in the yard. âAnyone hurt?â Carl Breen hollered.
âYeah,â Tom hollered back. âCall an ambulance.â
He stumbled to his knees by the inert shape, reached out to touch