Reservation Road Read Online Free PDF

left?”
    “What?”
    “Right or left headlight?”
    “Left—no. Right.”
    “Which is it? Right or left?”
    “Right.”
    “Is that a definite?”
    “Yes.”
    He jotted it down in his notebook.
    “Okay,” he said. “Type of vehicle.”
    “A . . . I guess you’d call it a sedan.”
    “Make?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know much about cars.”
    “Four-door or two-door?”
    I tried to think. He looked up sharply from his notepad. “It was dark,” I said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Four doors. It was a four-door.”
    Sergeant Burke studied me. “That’s a definite?”
    “Yes.”
    He jotted it down. “Okay. Color of the vehicle?”
    “Dark.”
    “Could you be more specific?”
    “It could have been black. Or dark blue, dark green. It was going fast, and you see what kind of light—”
    “Let’s talk about what kind of dark. Was it matte or shiny?”
    “I think there was some light on it.”
    “You mean reflecting?”
    “Yes.”
    “What I’m trying to get at here,” Sergeant Burke said, “is whether it might have been old or new, flat or metallic paint.”
    “I told you. There was some light on it.”
    He didn’t write this down.
    “I don’t know what else to tell you,” I said.
    He shook his head imperceptibly. “Let’s move on. Did you catch the license plate?”
    “No.”
    “None of it?” Sergeant Burke sounded disappointed. “How about state of origin? Was there a picture or design on it? Or any other distinguishing marks on the vehicle you might have noticed—bumper stickers, decals?”
    “No. I don’t know.”
    Bells trilling: the glass door to the office opened and the two young men walked out, their questioning session completed. Sergeant Burke’s young sidekick paused to put his gray felt state trooper’s hat back on—with two hands, just so. The gas-station attendant had tucked in his flannel shirt.
    “Anything else you can tell me, sir?”
    I was remembering something, if he would just be quiet: sprinting down the road after the car, hearing nothing but the blood in my heart and the gathering thrust of the engine, seeing nothing but the small dim shadow of the back of his head above the headrest. Then . . . what? He took his foot off the gas, there was no mistaking it—the engine seemed to die, suddenly the car slowed, and then I was gaining on him. I heard him shout something. His window must have been open, because I heard the sheer force of his voice, but it didn’t make sense, a single word or sound. “Sham!” it sounded like. “Sham!” And through the rear windshield I saw the shadow that was the back of his head and shoulders lean across the front seat toward the passenger side. The car swerved slightly and he shouted it again: “Sham!” or “Sam!” or “Slam!” None of it making sense. And I was still gaining, there was still the possibility of catching him. And then he stopped shouting, and the car pulled away.
    “Sir?”
    “What?”
    “Anything else you can tell me?”
    I made myself focus on Sergeant Burke. “Yes. He shouted something. The man in the car. I was running after him. I heard him. Some sound—‘Sham,’ maybe, or ‘Slam,’ or ‘Sam.’ I don’t know. Some word. I don’t know what it means. He might have been shouting it to himself or to me. I don’t know. All I know is he said it. He said it twice. I heard him. Then he got away.”
    “ ‘Sham’?” said Sergeant Burke.
    “Or something like it. Something that rhymes with it. I heard him.”
    Behind me, a car started up and drove away. It must have been the gas-station attendant. Going where? To a bar for a drink. Home to his girlfriend or his mother. Then the police radio crackled and I saw Sergeant Burke’s eyes dart sideways to the cruiser where his partner sat waiting. Sergeant Burke wanted to leave now.
    He folded his notepad and stuffed it in his back pocket and clipped his pen to his shirt pocket. He took his time about it. And then he was ready to