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Nick sped down the snow-dusted country road in the early darkness of
a cold December evening, late for his meeting with Harry Nasser.
He shifted his eyes from the Volvo's speedometer to the amber headlights
that reached into the gloomy night, vaguely aware that he was driving
too fast. Trees rushed past in a hypnotic blur of tall, skeletal shapes
and Nick tried to shake off the fatigue brought on by the monotonous
drive across the moonless Dutchess County landscape. To reassure himself
that it was safely hidden, he touched the small microphone that the FBI
had taped to his chest.
Suddenly, he came upon a large branch lying across the road. It had been
brought down by the gusting wind that accompanied the afternoon's
flurries. In his drowsy state he had almost no time to react. He pulled
hard on the steering wheel, avoiding the danger, but the car skidded on
the road's treacherous surface. The Volvo spun around harmlessly once
and Nick recovered control and came to a stop.
He rested his head on the steering wheel and let the moment of fear fade
away. In the silence of the stopped car, he remembered his wife's
advice.
"Don't speed," she said in a quiet voice as he walked out of
their Westside Co-op. "He'll wait for you. It doesn't matter if
you're late."
In his own inept way he had tried to show her that he was truly sorry
for the mess he'd brought upon them. Their argument that night left him
feeling hopelessly alone. But her parting words showed that she could
rise above her resentments. He had put his cheek on hers and they had
lingered together in the open doorway.
Two bright headlights flashed in the Volvo's rearview mirror, and Nick
looked up to see who it was. He didn't like people who blinked their
headlights. It was annoying and it always made him feel as if he were in
someone's way, when in fact he had as much right to the road as they
had.
As he pulled onto the road's shoulder, a maroon Lexus came up quickly
from behind. The car slowed down just enough to navigate around the
branch and Nick caught a glimpse of the impatient driver's grim face.
Then the driver sped off down the slick road and disappeared into the
murky night. Jerk, he thought to himself.
He watched for other debris as he continued down the twisting road.
Ochre leaves lifted by gusts of wind swirled in front of the car like
confetti and then blew past into the dark. Driving at night was like
dreaming with his eyes open. He felt comfortable behind the wheel and
now, after the scare, he was alert. Driving at the speed limit calmed
him and gave him time to think, and God knew, he needed to do some clear
thinking. The diner where he was to meet Nasser was only a few miles
away. He remembered the agent's instruction to make eye contact, answer
questions naturally and above all, remain calm. Reactively, he checked
the hidden microphone again. Relax...just relax.
How had he gotten into this mess? It was careless ambition, and poor
judgment that had trapped him and brought him to this meeting. He
grudgingly accepted that. What he couldn't accept was that he knew a
dozen young investment bankers who had sold insider information to
Nasser but only he had been caught. The unfairness angered him. Nick had
no idea how the FBI had gotten onto him. The first forty-eight hours
after special agent Quinn confronted him with the evidence were the most
difficult.
The next day in the office he managed to take calls, go to meetings and
make small talk as if nothing had happened. Inside, he felt as if his
world were collapsing.
When he had gotten to their Westside co-op that night he found a brief
phone message from Sally, who was in Houston on business. She was
arriving at eight on American Airlines flight #122. She sounded happy-
he felt dread and shame. What would he tell her? He kept thinking if
only he hadn't returned Nasser's first call, if only he hadn't been home
when the FBI knocked, if only he hadn't answered the door, if only....
She was stunned when he told her on the drive in from La Guardia. She
didn't understand why he would do it. They didn't need the money. Things
were going so well for them. Why would he do something so stupid?
Up ahead, coming into view around a curve, Nick saw the diner's dim
light at the desolate intersection. Its fluorescent glow spilled into
the night and lay on the ground like pooled mercury. The diner stood
alone, eerie and still, under an enormous dark sky. A yellow traffic
light blinked off and on.
Suddenly, a dead deer appeared like an apparition
in front of the Volvo. Nick was doing fifty miles an hour around
the curve when he came upon the dead animal lying in the middle of
the road where it had been thrown by a collision with another car.
He pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, towards the
forest, but as he did the Volvo's rear wheels slid in the opposite
direction. He desperately pulled left to avoid spinning out, but
he couldn't act in time. He felt a thud when his left rear wheel
hit the fallen deer and his heart sank.
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The Young Buck by
Doug Lehnhardt
http://www2.ald.net/~dougl/ |
He couldn't believe this had happened, not after the near
miss several miles back.
With his flashlight, he walked back to the grotesquely decapitated
roadkill.
It was a young buck, laying on the road's no passing lines, where it had
been thrown. Other cars would have to swerve to avoid it. It crossed his
mind to drag it to the side of the road, but it was too big and he didn't
want blood on his hands. He moved the flashlight over the Volvo's left
rear fender and was relieved to see only minor damage. Nick's eyes were
drawn to two bright beams that lit the forest. A low, rattling moan unlike
anything he had ever heard emanated from the spot. Then he figured it out.
It was the Lexus. It had hit the young buck and then run off the road.
He didn't have time to get involved in this. One voice told him that the
driver had brought it upon himself with his impatient driving. Another
voice urged him to help.
He reluctantly slid down the soft earth of the small embankment into a
carpet of fallen leaves. The damp smell of an early winter was in the air
and the ground was cold from the afternoon's flurries. Frost had pushed
surface rocks out of the earth like coffins shifting in shallow graves.
He approached the car with caution. The flashlight's narrow beam guided
him over the unfamiliar ground, through the saplings snapped at their
base, to the overturned Lexus. A rotating wheel shuddered and moaned.
He flashed his beam into the rear window but the glare of the glass made
it difficult to see inside.
"Hello? Are you hurt?"
Nick turned the corner and his flashlight revealed the driver spilled
headfirst out of the sprung door. His head was driven into the cold earth
and his eyes stared straight ahead. Crushed eyeglasses lay on leaves
salted with snow.
The driver's upper body hung down from the steering column where his legs
were tangled in the deployed air bag. Nick couldn't tell how badly he was
hurt, but he wasn't moving so he figured he should do something to help,
even if all he did was get the guy out of the car.
As Nick wrapped his arms around the driver's chest he felt the microphone
press into his chest. By lifting him and taking baby steps away from the
car, the driver's legs dropped free. Nick rolled him on his back so he
could be as comfortable as possible.
"Can you hear me?" he asked putting his mouth next to the man's
ear, but there was no response.
Nick shined the light in his face and passed his hand over the driver's
open eyes. They were glazed and dull, like fish eyes in the market. The
man was dead.
Nick's beeper startled him. He looked down at the electronic device on his
belt and then ignored it.
After brushing light snow off a nearby log, Nick sat down and gazed at the
dead man. His face was still frozen in fear. Nick imagined the man's last
conscious moments as the car careened off the embankment and smashed into
the forest. Who was this man, he wondered? Where was he headed in such a
hurry?
A cold wind rustled through the upper branches of the open trees and Nick
regretted that he hadn't taken his jacket from the Volvo. He could be of
no help here. A police car would show up soon enough and deal with the
situation. Strange, he thought, how little he felt in the presence of
death. He heard the beeper again. Its shrill tones floated through the
trees. This time he checked the number. It was Quinn. What now?
Again he looked at the driver's body lying on the cold, unhallowed ground.
His life had been cut short by one random accident. It was so sudden, so
pointless and so hard to grasp. One moment he was driving. The next moment
he was dead. Nick shuddered at the thought. When he had swerved around the
branch the Lexus took his place in the lead. If not for that near miss
Nick might have hit the buck and the driver would be looking down at him.
"Okay," he thought to himself when he was back in the warm
Volvo. "Let's get it over with."
He deliberately put the car in gear and moved the Volvo down the last
empty stretch of road to the intersection. As he drove he punched Quinn's
number into the cell phone. It had begun to snow again and large flakes
gently dropped out of the dark sky.
As he lifted the cell phone, Nick glanced at the brightly-lit diner. Its
fluorescent light spilled into the night and washed over the empty parking
lot. He heard Quinn's agitated voice.
"Don't stop. Do you hear me? It's too dangerous."
Nick stared at the lonely diner into whose lot he was about to turn. He
could see that it was empty except for two waitresses who casually chatted
by the cash register. There was no hint of trouble. It was a sleepy place
where time had stopped. He wasn't certain what to think, or say, when he
heard Quinn add:
"Nasser knows...he flew to Mexico. He hired a hit man..." Hit
man?
Nick was stopped at the edge of the vacant lot. In his mind's eye he saw
the dead driver. Down the road he couldn't see any headlights emerging
from the gloomy night and then he realized, with a start, that the buck
had saved his life.
The Young Buck is Mr. Vidich's second short story to be published
on the web. His first published story, The Quarry, appeared in Electron
Press in 1999. Mr. Vidich partly developed The Young Buck through
the on-line writers workshop conducted by Zoetrope. Mr. Vidich now resides
in New York City.
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