The Santa Ana freeway is no place for an automobile without a driver. Especially at four-fifteen pm. About that time, the vast population of the L.A. basin is heading home. Outside of Norwalk, traffic had been flowing relatively quickly from the downtown L.A. area to the sprawling suburbs basking in sun under an auburn southern California sky. But an ancient '75 Impala had thrown a rod in the fast lane just past the first Recida exit. Hemmed in by other cars, and unable to get off the freeway, the driver had been forced to stop his car, spewing oil, coolant, and smoke, in one of the middle lanes. Traffic began to back up rapidly.
Joe Weston was playing tail end charley. Coming over a low rise, he groaned to himself as he was the line of stopped traffic stretching at least a mile ahead of him to a faint smudge of smoke. Why, he wondered, today of all days? The last month had been hell. His company, Softmark, had just begun shipping its new database software. As product manager, he was the guy with his ass on the line. It had meant weeks of lost weekends, of leaving the house at 6:30 am and returning after midnight. Finally his wife had given him an ultimatum. Come home early tonight, she had told him, and take me to dinner and a movie, or find either another job or somewhere else to sleep. And now it looked like he was going to be late.
He pulled the car to a stop twelve feet behind the vehicle in front. Other cars we stopping in the lanes beside him. He hit the steering wheel with both hands and cursed. In the corner of his eye, he saw a white flash as the man in the next car turned to look at him. Joe glanced over and then turned eyes front. The guy had looked like a real flake. God knows, he thought, there were enough of them in Southern California these days. Probably has a gun in the glove box and would just love for an excuse to use it. Well not on me. I'm not even gonna make eye contact with the sonofabitch.
He reached down and turned on the radio. He was definitely in trouble now. Mariah had probably taken the kids over to Danielle's an hour ago. He could picture her sitting in the living room, waiting. And getting mad; Mariah had a temper that could flay the skin off a man, and he wasn't looking forward to bearing the brunt of it.
"She's gonna kill me," he said out loud. "And dammit, it's not even my fault." He pounded the wheel again. Suddenly a cacophony of horns caught his attention. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he saw a BMW coming up behind him too fast -- much too damn fast. He had no time to do anything but brace himself for the impact. In the last second, he looked into his mirror. And froze with disbelief. There was no driver in the car! His view through the BMW's back window was uninterrupted. Then there was an impact and the world seemed to splinter and fly apart. It was funny, he thought, that he didn't feel any pain, just a gentle letting go, a drift into oblivion. When the darkness reached up to take him, he gratefully surrendered to it.
Officer Joe Walters had seen a lot of crashes on the Santa Ana freeway, most of them much worse than this one. Just last week, a devastating wreck had happened just in front of him when a open-top Miahta had run ito the back of a semi, decapitating the driver. Walters had found his head on the seat, the mouth still moving and the eyes blinking. But what had made the scene surreal had been the radio of the Miahata, tuned to a local big band station, still playing Benny Goodman in the mangled car.
But this one had been clean in all but one respect. No fatalities, a few injuries, none of them particularly serious--mainly broken bones and a concussion. The guy who was hit had been particularly lucky. Fortunately his gas tank hadn't exploded and his air bag had popped out to sandwich him between the dashboard and the seat. He hadn't been thrown about too badly, but he'd wake up with a hell of a headache. But what was strange was the car that had caused the accident, a 2008 BMW 650i. The car must have been doing fifty when it hit the Lexus. But there was no sign of a driver. No one had seen anyone leave the wreck, but the car was empty and the cruise control was on. Was it, he wondered, some new kind of manifestation of the sickness that crawled along these freeways with the cars? First shootings and rocks thrown off overpasses, even rapists attacking women in stalled cars as the lemmings drove by, pretending not to see, crawling through the vast network of roads to their homes. Now probably some sick shit has a bad day, takes an attitude on the freeway, pops on the cruise --- and then what? Jumps out at fifty miles per hour? It just didn't make sense.
Walters stared at the accident report forms in front of him. There was enough here to keep the insurers and lawyers busy for a long time. He wasn't sure himself if he'd ever understand just what had happened. On the face of it, the whole thing seemed impossible and it seemed doubly so after his visit to Harry Carpenter's house.
The BMW hadn't been reported stolen, but was registered to a Harry Carpenter, who lived in Anaheim. Carpenter owned a small printing business, and the neat, modest house with the carefully-maintained perennial border was a typical American middle-class dream. The BMW was a down payment on the good life he felt he had earned.
Naomi carpenter had been both alarmed and relieved by Walters' call. Alarmed because of his uniform, and his news of the accident, relieved and puzzled because Harry hadn't been in the wreck.
Over coffee, Walters questioned her about her husband, as the two children, a tow-headed boy, and a girl as dark and exotic as her mother, had peeped around the kitchen door, excited by this change in their daily routine. Naoimi had shewed them to their room.
"Please excuse them," she had told him, 'They're rather excited. I try to keep them on a shedule; I think it's very important for children to know exactly what's going to happen, and when, don't you?" She had seemed calm, but fidgeted with her coffee spoon. Walters had agreed. There was enough uncertainty living in this L.A. hellhole and he found himself liking this woman for trying to make a difference for her own family. Her husband was similarly regular in his habits. Home around the same time every day, or he called from the office or car if it looked like he was going to be late.
Walters had glanced around the pleasant kitchen, and with some appreciation at the slim form of Naomi. No Carpenter wasn't the kind of guy to do something like this. His wife had heard nothing from him since a mid-afternoon call from the office. Walters waited around for a while, and then left, asking her to call him as soon as she had news of her husband.
Later that evening, he was still puzzling it over at the station house. Suddenly, the phone on the desk disturbed his thoughts. He picked it up:
"Walters."
"Officer Walters. This is Naomi Carpenter."
He had been half expecting this call. He looked at his watch. 11:30 pm. She was just about on schedule--bedtime, he guessed, at the Walter's house
"What can I do for you Mrs. Walters? Have you heard from Harry?"
"No. That's what I'm calling about. He's still not home."
"Have you tried the office again?"
"Yes. He left just after 4:30, as I told you. He didn't go back to work. I'm so worried. What has happened to him? Should I file a missing person report? Nothing like this has ever happened to us before."
Walters calmed her down. Even though a host of unpleasant possibilities crept into his mind. He discouraged her from filing the missing person report, telling her to wait until morning, and then call him again.
"Try to get some sleep," he advised her, "and I'll drop by before lunch tomorrow."
As he hung the phone up, he had the uneasy premonition that Naomi Carpenter would never see her husband again.
