Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

rolls down the bank and plunges into the water.

 
    CHAPTER 24
    The quarry bank is a sheer drop-off, like that first big plunge of some monster roller coaster. The Explorer jolts as the front tires roll off the rocky ledge. Steam sizzles and shoots out from under the hood. Through the windshield, I see the dual slash of headlights through tea-colored water. The sight of that water washing over the hood induces a moment of mindless panic.
    On instinct, I press my hand against the dash, as if I can somehow prevent the vehicle from the inevitable nosedive. Water pours in around my feet and climbs up my legs at an alarming rate. The smells of moss and fish and mud fill my nostrils. Panic slashes me, a heavy blade busting through bone. I fight to stay calm, but some fears are so ingrained they can’t be overcome by logic or reason.
    Water rises over the dash. The Explorer noses down at a steep angle. Gravity throws me face down in the water. I come up sputtering, suck in a breath, and then I thrust my body across the console. Arms outstretched, I plunge into the water and feel around for my .38. Past the steering wheel. The front of the seat. I touch the floor mat. The brake pedal. Where the hell is my gun? All the while the vehicle fills and begins to sink.
    I jam my hands into the space between the door and the seat. My fingertips brush against steel. I make a wild, blind grab, and my hand finds the barrel. Twisting, I feel my way through the darkness to the driver’s side door. Lungs bursting, I fumble for the latch, yank it hard, but the door doesn’t budge. The pressure of the water, I realize.
    Gripping the .38, I push off the seat with my feet to find air. My face smashes into the cage that separates the backseat from the front. There’s air beyond, but I can’t get to it. I kick the driver’s side window with both feet. Once. Twice. I can’t get enough thrust to break the glass.
    I touch the window with my hand to orient myself. Then I bring up the .38 and fire twice. A muffled plunk! sounds. The concussion brushes against my face. I can’t see; I don’t know if I hit my target. Twisting, I bring up my feet and mule kick the glass. Relief crashes over me when I feel it give beneath my boots. I thrash, snake through the window, and kick clear of the vehicle. For an instant, I don’t know up from down. Then I catch a glimpse of the headlights below me, and I swim in the opposite direction.
    The cold and darkness crush me. My need for air is an agony. Ears bursting, I claw toward the surface. My lungs convulse, and I suck in water. Coughing wracks my body. Water in my mouth. In my eyes and ears. And I know this is what it’s like to die.
    I break the surface, choking and retching. Drowning is not a silent thing and terrible sounds tear from my throat as I struggle to breathe. I’m aware of the vast emptiness of deep water beneath me, my boots and clothing tugging me down. Treading water, I look around, try to get my bearings. I’m a strong swimmer and dog-paddle toward shore. Five feet from land, my feet make purchase on a rocky ledge. I reach out, feel moss-slick rocks. I crawl through a stand of cattails. When I’m clear of the water, I collapse in the weeds and throw up twice. For several minutes, I lay there, gasping and shivering and nauseous. When I can move, I reach for my phone, but it’s dead.
    That’s when it strikes me that Armitage could be standing on the bank, waiting to finish me off. Sitting up, I scan the shore, but there’s no sign of him. I suspect he’s already hoofing it back to the clinic, which is a mile or so down the road, to hide any evidence that I was there. With no radio or phone, my only option is to walk to the nearest house.
    My boots are filled with water so I toe them off, dump the water, and put them back on. I struggle to my feet, but stagger, nearly go to my knees. My clothes are waterlogged. I’m lightheaded and seriously cold, shaking uncontrollably. I don’t care about any of it because I’m alive.
    Waist-high weeds crackle beneath my feet as I stumble up the bank. At the brink, I stop and listen, but the night is silent. I skirt the north side of the quarry and then follow the path back to the road. I’ve gone only a few feet when I spot Armitage thirty yards ahead, running along the shoulder.
    Sticking to the shadows of the trees that grow alongside the road, I follow him. When he reaches the clinic, he cuts through the parking lot and bypasses the