It registered on his mind that the burned area could have been much larger, that the fire from the wrecked Dodge might have spread over hundreds of acres if Harold Zachary, the rancher who owned this property, hadn't been home and heard the crash. He'd notified the county fire department and they'd gotten equipment out as quickly as they could. The Dodge had been an inferno by the time the firemen arrived. I don't think she suffered, Mr. Mallory. Chances are she was … already gone before the gas tank exploded. At least that. It's all any of us can ask for at the end. To go fast, without suffering. Yes, but that hadn't made it any easier then and still didn't now.
They had winched up the burned-out hulk of the car, trucked it away, but the spot where it had landed and the fire had first raged stood out plainly. A blackened pit at the bottom of the ravine. In spite of himself, he imagined the stench that must have been in the air that night, and the sensory perception made his gorge rise. He turned away, stood with his back to the scarred slope.
After a time he grew aware of the road surface. No skid marks. The highway patrolmen hadn't mentioned that fact to him; neither had the account in the Herald. The road was straight here, too—a seventy-five-yard stretch from the oaks above to the curve below. Her car had gone over midway down.
The absence of skid marks didn't have to mean anything significant. Dark that night, no moon, clouds, and she might have been driving too fast or been preoccupied and not paying enough attention to the road. Wheels slid off the edge, she overcorrected or didn't correct in time … that was the way accidents happen. Still, there should be some tire skin on the road, shouldn't there? Or some crumbling along the asphalt edge. There were no marks on the slope close to the road either; the first deep gouges in the grass were at least fifteen yards down—as if the Dodge had sailed off at some speed and landed hard, nose to the ground. As if she had driven off at an accelerated speed, on purpose—
No, he thought, Cecca and I settled that issue. It wasn't suicide. Katy did not commit suicide.
And the highway patrol hadn't questioned the circumstances, had they? Trained investigators, weren't they? Yes, but every accident scene is different and it had been night and they had no real reason to suspect foul play and even trained observers overlooked things, made mistakes.…
How did he get her earrings?
It keeps coming back to that. She wouldn't have given them to him, not those earrings, not under any circumstances. They were her favorites; she wore them all the time; she'd be afraid her husband would notice they were missing.
Took them from her. He must have.
Before he killed her?
Up here alone with her, hit her, knocked her out, put her under the wheel, wedged the accelerator down with the emergency brake on, jerked the brake off so the car would shoot downhill and off the road?
Monstrous … senseless …
Before he murdered her?
Harold Zachary's ranch buildings were old, weathered, in need of paint—a reflection of the difficult times rather than neglect, because the grounds were orderly and the fences in good repair. The woman who answered the door at the house said she was Mrs. Zachary and her husband was probably in the dairy barn. Dix found him there, working from a toolbox on one of the automatic milking machines.
Zachary was a spare man, with a wild shock of ginger-colored hair and sweat glistening in deep creases on his neck. Not unfriendly, and sympathetic enough when Dix introduced himself, but wary at first. “Don't know what I can do for you, Mr. Mallory. The accident happened on my property, but that's a county road out there. Just not my responsibility.”
“I know. That's not why I'm here.”
“Then?”
“I can't help but wonder why my wife was up here that night. As far as I know, she didn't know anybody who lives off Lone Mountain Road.”
“Can't help you there either.”
“There was no one else around that night, no other car, when you reached the scene?”
“Didn't see anybody, no.”
“How soon did you get there after the crash?”
“Few minutes. Not more than ten,” Zachary said. “Knew it was bad as soon as I heard the explosion and saw the flames. Told my wife to call nine-eleven, and lit out in my truck.” His eyes shifted away from Dix's. “Wasn't nothing I could do for her. Wish to God there had been.”
“Thank you. The Herald printed a photo of my wife. Did you see it?”
“I saw it.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“I never knew your wife, Mr. Mallory.”
“No, I mean had you ever seen her before?”
“I see people every time I go into town. Can't remember them all.”
“Not in town,” Dix said, “up here. On Lone Mountain Road.”
“Hard to tell from a newspaper photograph.”
“Does that mean you might have?”
“Might have. Once.”
Dix took Owen's portrait photo of Katy from his wallet. “This is a much better likeness of her,” he said.
Zachary studied it for a few seconds. Returned it without saying anything. His mouth had a pinched whiteness at the corners.
“Mr. Zachary?”
“Couldn't tell much about her car that night, by the time I got there. The fire. Paper said it was a Dodge.”
“That's right. Three-year-old Dart.”
“What color?”
“Burgundy. Dark red.”
“Personalized license plate?”
“KATYDID. Her name was Katy.”
“All right,” Zachary said. He still wasn't meeting Dix's eyes.
“You did see her, didn't you.”
“Once. Just once.”
“When? How long ago?”
“Can't say exactly. Three, four weeks before.”
“Before the accident?”
“Yeah.”
“Driving on Lone Mountain Road?”
“No,” Zachary said. “Parked.”
“Alone? Or with somebody?”
“Alone. Waiting for somebody, she said.”
“You spoke to her, then.”
“Middle of the afternoon, sitting there all by herself. My property. I was on my way to town, so I stopped, asked her what she was doing there.” He paused. “Thought maybe she needed some help.”
No, you didn't. That's not what you thought at all. “And she said she was waiting for somebody.”
“That's right.”
“Did she say who?”
“No.”
“Or why?”
“No.”
“What else did she say?”
“I told her she was on private property and she said she was sorry and she'd leave as soon as her friend showed up. I said all right. Seemed like a nice lady. Polite. None of my business, really.”
“Did you pass anybody on the way down—the person she was meeting?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Where was it she was parked?”
“Right up the road from where the accident happened. Patch of old oaks. Kids sometimes—” He bit off the rest of it, shifted his feet and tried to hide his discomfort by bending and picking up a pair of Channellocks. But Dix knew what he had been about to say.
“I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Zachary. Thanks for talking to me.”
“Shouldn't have, maybe.”
“No, I appreciate it. I needed to know.”
He started away, and behind him Zachary said, “Mr. Mallory? Don't mean much, I guess, but … I'm sorry.”
Dix nodded and went on without looking back. Hearing Harold Zachary's pity was hard enough; he did not want to see any more of it written on the rancher's face.