Chapter 7 - The Bridge on Route 9
The flashing red and blue lights of the county emergency vehicles cut through the pitch-black darkness of Route 9, casting eerie, dancing shadows against the dense pine trees that lined the ravine. The air smelled sharply of burnt rubber, radiator fluid, and damp earth.
Dad’s pickup truck skidded to a halt near a state trooper cruiser, and we tumbled out into the cold night wind. Down below the steep embankment, half-submerged in the sluggish, dark waters of the creek, was Grandma’s vintage Buick, its headlights still glowing weakly through the muddy water like dying eyes.
Paramedics and rescue divers were swarming the scene, shouting commands back and forth over the roar of a portable floodlight generator.
We rushed toward the police tape, where a tall, stern-looking state trooper intercepted us. “Are you Arthur Miller?”
“Yes! That’s my mother’s car! Where is she? Is she—” Dad stammered, grabbing the trooper’s sleeve.
“She’s alive, Mr. Miller,” the trooper said grimly, holding up a heavy plastic evidence bag containing a familiar leather handbag and a tangled mess of keys. “Rescue crews pulled her out through the passenger window before the vehicle completely flooded. She’s being loaded into the ambulance right now for observation. But there’s something else you need to see, sir.”
The trooper led us closer to the muddy bank where a tow cable was being rigged to the front bumper of the sunken car. On the grassy slope, illuminated by the harsh white glare of a rescue spotlight, lay a collection of items that had been thrown clear of the vehicle during the crash.
Among them was a heavy, locked metal suitcase that had popped open upon impact.
Dr. Mercer—who had apparently been notified by hospital dispatch and driven out to the scene—was standing by the edge of the slope, holding a flashlight down into the opened suitcase. When he saw us approach, he stood up, his face grim and pale.
“Arthur, Sarah,” Dr. Mercer said quietly. “You need to look at this before they tow the car away.”
May you like
Dad and I stepped closer, looking down into the metal case. Neatly organized inside were dozens of medical files, prescription pads stolen from various local clinics over the decade, several duplicate keys to medical braces, and a spiral-bound diary with Grandma’s jagged handwriting sprawling across every page.
And right on top, resting on a thick stack of unmailed letters addressed to social services containing false accusations against my father, was a photograph I had never seen before.
