Chapter 10: The Driver

The detective at the county station read the sheet twice and set it down.

"This is the notes of a private investigator who watched a garage," he said. "It isn't proof of what was done to the car."

"The car is in your impound," Sadie said. "Check the brake lines."

"I will, today." He rubbed his eyes. "But a man in a garage with a wrench is a lawyer's afternoon. I need someone who heard the instruction."

"The driver," I said.

"The driver."

I knew who he was. He had worked for the VanHorne family for eleven years, and he had once let Milo steer the car around the driveway on his lap.

He lived in a gray duplex at the edge of town, two blocks from the bridge.

Sadie drove, and I held the urn the whole way, because I could not leave it anywhere.

The driver opened the door on the chain.

He had a white bandage across his forehead and one arm in a sling.

When he saw me, his face crumpled.

"Mr. Sewall," he said. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."

"Open the door."

He did.

The living room was bare except for a couch and a television that was off.

"I can't sleep," he said. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the rail."

"Tell me about the brakes," I said.

He stared at his hands.

"They went soft on the bridge ramp. I pumped them and pumped them." His voice broke. "He was in the back seat singing. He sang the whole way down."

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