Driven Read Online Free PDF Page B

passenger looked away in apparent disgust. Krogan laughed loudly, with
     meat still hanging out of his mouth, until the mortified couple passed from earshot. He made note of the sailboat’s name,
     written in script on the stern:
Playdate.
    “Enjoy it,” he said. “It’ll be your last.”

6
    G avin stood under a large shade tree on a small hill less than a hundred feet away and watched. He was alone. He clenched his
     fists as the gravediggers tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the hole and he heard it land on Grampa’s coffin. He wondered
     how many others associated with the crash had heard that same sound.
Thud… thud…
    Gavin was no stranger to cemeteries and coffins and mounds of dirt being shoveled into holes. His father had died of pneumonia
     when he was six, his mother of cancer when he was sixteen, and his fiancée of one day on a motorcycle ten years ago.
    Earlier, while the casket had still straddled the hole, a lone priest had arrived to pay his respects. Gavin had briefly thanked
     him for coming but aside from that had nothing to say to him. Finally, the priest had mumbled a short prayer and left. Gavin
     had not prayed. He had done his praying while Grampa was still alive. Grampa didn’t need prayer anymore. Gavin had no doubt
     Grampa was with God and heaven was a better place with Grampa there.
    The two gravediggers had waited patiently a short distance away while Gavin spoke with the priest and said his good-byes to
     Grampa. When Gavin finally stepped away from the gravesite, they had moved in and lowered the coffin into the cold, dark cavity.
     From the lack of mourners, they must have thought Grampa was just another nobody, unloved and forgotten. Gavin wanted to tell
     them they were wrong. He wanted to tell them Grampa was known and loved and would be remembered… and avenged.
    The thought of Grampa’s death still had not set in, and from past experience, he knew it would take a while. Three days ago,
     when he had first heard, awakened by the phone call at one in the morning, he had not believed it. There must be some mistake,
     he’d thought. He had just been with the old man twelve hours earlier and the doctors’ and nurses’ smiling faces had assured
     him Grampa was stable. He’d even been developing an appetite. The doctors, who had at first braced Gavin for the worst, had
     upgraded his grandfather’s status, raising Gavin’s hopes from doubtful to questionable to probable. The outrage of the crime
     had become almost tolerable when Grampa began winking at Gavin while being pampered by the young nurses.
    But suddenly Grampa was dead. Assassinated by a blood clot. Dead without Gavin being there at his bedside.
    All the rage tempered by Grampa’s progress had returned. Stronger. Grampa had not just died; he had been killed—intentionally
     murdered. The blood clot could just as well have been the impact of the truck itself.
    Gavin blinked. The workers were gone and the grave filled. An afternoon breeze cooled the sweat on his brow and leaves came
     to rest on the fresh dirt mound. Except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other around the trunk of a big maple tree
     and a few sparrows hopping on and off an old thin tombstone pecking at seeds, there wasn’t a sign of life amidst the shallow
     rolling hills of this humble cemetery.
    Suddenly, unable to contain his emotions, Gavin let out a sustained yell. How could God have allowed this to happen to Grampa
     and those others? In his rage, Gavin almost kicked over the tombstone, but caught himself. No. He needed to leave this place
     and focus his anger in the right direction. He needed to get to headquarters and check his messages. Maybe Rogers had called.
     If not, Gavin needed to get in touch with Detective Chris Grella, who hadbeen on vacation for the last couple of weeks. Chris was Nassau County’s answer for Brooklyn’s Detective Rogers. Unless the
     accident was related to a previous case that belonged to another