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forced their way up.
    There had to be something wrong with his eyes. Michael knew he couldn’t have just witnessed that. Had the driver done it on purpose? It sure looked that way. What kind of person would do such a thing? He had to be wrong. People don’t do things like that.
    Michael opened his own door and jumped out before Joe’s vomit smell overpowered him enough to attack his ownchurning stomach. Scrambling up the ditch, he joined the group of onlookers surrounding the crash scene.
    Several cars had stopped in the middle of the highway, including the Mack truck and the enraged driver. People got out of their vehicles, but they didn’t know what to do. Most of them stood around with bewildered expressions on their faces. Someone brought out a camera and started taking pictures.
    The biker was dead. His body was sprawled in the road, leaving a thick trail of blood from where he’d skidded across the pavement. His helmet was still protecting his face, and Michael was glad he didn’t have to look at the guy’s eyes. Turning his gaze away, he searched for the driver of the car. If Michael had been the one to do something like this, he’d be a complete mess. Probably ready to go toss himself off the nearest overpass. A few months ago he’d hit a deer by accident and he still had nightmares about it. Hitting an animal was one thing; he couldn’t imagine the guilt of hurting a human.
    The road-raged driver had parked his car a ways down the road. He moved back toward the crowd, his face bright red and breathing heavily. Talking to himself, he paused once to scream at an elderly couple cowering by their car.
    The guy walked past the crowd of stunned onlookers, sidestepping the ruined motorcycle, and stopped in front of the body. He began to scream at the dead man, hurling a wrath of insults, while kicking at the motorcycle helmet.
    The crowd froze. No one knew what to do. Someone started to cry, whimpering sounds mixing in with thudding sneaker kicks. Finally the trucker stepped forward, grabbing the guy by the back of his jacket and pulling him away. He spoke calmly considering the situation, but his words had little results. The enraged man turned his focus on the Mackguy and began attacking, scratching at the trucker’s face as if he wanted to rip the poor guy’s eyes right out of their sockets.
    It was enough to make Michael jump into action. He caught the attention of another man several feet away. The older guy, with a receding hairline, nodded at him. Both of them stepped forward. Michael pushed the insane man backward while the other grabbed him by the arms to try and stop his advances.
    But the guy wasn’t going down without a fight. In the end, it took six of them to get him on his stomach, with both the trucker and a burly guy sitting on top of him. The enraged guy continued to scream, spittle flying from his lips as he cursed at anyone who got too close.
    “Don’t move,” the balding man said. “I’ve got a phone in my car. I’ll call the police.”
    Michael glanced over at Joe, who was sitting on a rock by the side of his truck, his face pasty. A few other people had joined him, mostly women and the elderly couple. Everyone was making an effort to stay as far away from the insane man as possible. Although he was momentarily subdued, Michael didn’t blame them.
    “Phone’s out,” the guy said, returning to the scene. He was holding an iPhone. “I’m getting a signal, but I can’t get through. Anyone else have one that works?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” the trucker said. He nodded back in the direction behind them. “Cops are coming. I can see the flashers.”
    In the distance, Michael could see the red and blue lights as the police car tried to make its way through the group of onlookers. It seemed a little strange; the accident covered all four lanes of traffic, but there were fewer than a dozen cars stopped along the road. Shouldn’t there be more? Wherewas everyone? Had the police