The Liar

And the truck rammed him again faster, harder, sending him into a skid that had his tires smoking over the rough shoulder. Griff fought his truck back, but the next hit, right at the curve, sent him careening off the road, skidding over the shoulder and into the oak tree green with spring.

He heard the crunch, had a moment to think, Shit! Shit! before the airbag deployed. Still the impact slammed his head against the side window. He saw stars, and the red eyes of the truck’s taillights as it stopped, idled, then punched it to round the curve.

“Not hurt,” he mumbled, but the stars, and they had jagged, pointy edges, circled his vision. “Not too bad, nothing broken.”

Except his truck.

He groped for the phone, watched his vision waver like he’d stuck his head underwater.

Don’t pass out, he ordered himself.

In the dash light he managed to find the name he wanted, and pressed Dial.

“Where’s my sister?” Forrest asked.

“Home. I’m not. I’ve got trouble. In case I pass out, I’m on Black Bear Road, about two miles from my place. You know that turn where the big oak stands?”

“Yeah.”

“My truck’s in that tree. Somebody ran me off the road. I could use a cop.”

“Sounds like you could use a tow truck. You hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Jagged, pointy stars circling. “Hit my head. Bleeding some.”

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

“Truck’s in the tree. Where am I going?”

But Forrest had already hung up.

He sat for a moment, trying to get a fix in his mind on the truck that had run him off the road.

Chevy, yeah a Chevy, he thought. Half-ton pickup. Older model. Maybe four, five years. Something fixed on the front grille, like a . . . plow?

It hurt his head to think, so he stopped, fumbled off his seat belt, and discovered when he fought open the door and shifted, everything hurt a little.

The best he could do right now was sit on the side of the seat, breathe in the cool night air. He swiped at the wet on his face, saw blood smeared on his hand.

Fuck.

He’d have a bandanna in the glove box, but he wasn’t going to try to get to it, not right at the moment.

Nothing broken, he reminded himself. He’d broken his arm once when he was eight and the tree branch he’d been swinging on snapped. And his wrist at seventeen jumping out of Annie’s window.

So he knew what a broken bone felt like.

Just banged up, shook up and rattled around some.

But his truck—and goddamn he loved his truck—was a different matter.

He made himself stand to make sure he could. A little bit dizzy, but not bad. Bracing himself, he walked around to check out the damage.

“Shit! Fuck. Fucking shit!” Furious it was as bad as he feared, he shoved a hand through his hair. And saw stars again as he smacked against the wound.

The grille was toast, and the way the hood had accordioned, he thought the same there. And Christ knew what that meant for essentials under the damn hood.

He was no mechanic, but he was pretty sure he had a bent axle to top it off.

He’d hit hard, hard enough to spiderweb the windshield.

His feet crunched on broken glass as he circled around to get both the bandanna and a flashlight out of the cab. Flares, he thought. He should’ve pulled out the emergency flares straight off.

Before he could get anything, headlights cut through the dark.

Forrest pulled a police cruiser behind the wrecked truck. He got out, sized up Griff with one long look, then looked over to study the truck.

“Your head’s bleeding, son.”

“I know it. Son of a bitch.” He kicked the rear tire, which he regretted as the quick violence pinged something in the back of his neck.

He did not have whiplash. He would not have whiplash.

“You been drinking, Griff?”

“I had two glasses of wine all night, and the second one a good hour before this. I got run off the damn road, Forrest. Fucker came up behind me, rammed me, kept doing it until he caught me on this curve and sent me into the tree.”

“What fucker?”

“I don’t know what the hell fucker.” He pressed the heel of his hand—ouch!—to the throbbing wound because he was tired of blood running into his eye. “Half-ton Chevy, four, maybe five years old. Some sort of plow or farm tool—something hooked to the grille. Red, I think it was red. The truck. Plow was yellow, mostly. I think.”

“Okay, why don’t we sit you down a minute? I’ve got a first aid kit in the cruiser. Be best to stop that bleeding.”

“I’ll just lean here.” And he leaned back against the tipped back of his truck. “Ah, something else . . .” He dug for it as Forrest went back to the cruiser. “He slowed down after I crashed. Just for a couple seconds, like he wanted to make sure I hit good and proper. Saw his taillights, and . . . bumper sticker! Some kind of bumper sticker on the— What hand is this?”

He lifted his left, studied it for a moment before he could remember right from left.

“Left, the left side of the tailgate.”

Griff closed his eyes, found that eased a degree or two of the throbbing. “He wasn’t drunk. It was purposeful. I’m not sure when he pulled up behind me, but it wasn’t long after I left Shelby at your parents’ front door.”