tired,” she said.
They passed auto dealership after auto dealership pressed shoulder to shoulder along the road that cut through this ravine in the west hills surrounding Portland. She glanced at her watch. “It’s kinda late. Shouldn’t he be off work by now?”
“He said he was working late, and that was a little over an hour ago. If he’s not there, we’ll check his apartment, and if he’s not there, we’ll go home.” Hudson ran through a yellow light and drove the remaining quarter mile to a cross street where Mike’s Garage was located.
The low, flat stucco building that once had been a gas station looked empty. The lights in the building were out, the Closed sign visible, not a soul in sight. But Mitch’s black Tahoe was parked in a spot at the side of the building.
“He must’ve gone with someone, gotten a ride,” Becca said as Hudson pulled up next to the big rig and parked, cutting the engine.
“Maybe.”
“The place is closed.”
“I know.” Hudson opened the glove compartment, retrieved a small flashlight, then stepped out of the pickup, leaving the driver’s door open. He punched out a number on his cell phone and walked toward the garage, listening. “It’s ringing.” He nodded toward the garage. “Inside.” Becca heard the faint sound of some downloaded tune.
“Maybe Mitch left it by mistake.”
“Left his truck and his cell phone?” Hudson was already walking around to the back of the garage as Becca shoved open the passenger door and hopped to the ground, catching up with Hudson. By the time they reached a slightly ajar back door, the cell phone was still playing a song from the eighties. “Mitch?” he called into the darkened interior, his voice echoing slightly. “Mitch?”
“He’s not here,” Becca said again, but even as she stepped over the threshold of the garage she felt that something was wrong. No security lights were lit and country music was playing softly from speakers. But there was a strange, eerie quietude to the place that caused the hairs on the back of her arms to lift. Her stomach knotted as she kept up with Hudson. They picked their way through the parked cars in various states of disassembly, the scents of rubber and grease mingling with the odor of dust. The beam of Hudson’s flashlight slid over the open hoods and raised carriages.
“Mitch, you here?” Hudson said again and Becca shivered.
This time Becca heard a low, nearly inaudible moan.
Her heart glitched. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Mitch!” Hudson shone his light in the direction of the sound. The beam tracked over a stained cement floor to a man’s legs poking from beneath the weight of a sporty red car crushing his chest, pinning him beneath. “Shit!”
They ran to the mechanic’s—Mitch’s—side. “He has to be alive. Has to,” Becca whispered, trying to convince herself. As she peered beneath the car and caught a glimpse of Mitch’s face, a mask of death, his eyes closed, only the raspy sound of his breath indicating there was a bit of life in his body.
Hudson was kneeling by Mitch’s side. “Hit the lights!” he ordered Becca, shining the beam of his flashlight onto the far wall where a switch was visible. “And call for help.”
Becca was already on her feet, fumbling in her purse, retrieving her cell, dialing 911. She hurried across the concrete, nearly tripping on a drain before she reached the switch and threw it. Immediately, flickering fluorescent overhead lights cast a bluish glow over the garish scene.
“He’s still alive,” Hudson said as the 911 operator answered.
Becca wasted no time. “I need an ambulance immediately.”
“What is your name and the nature of your emergency.”
“I’m Rebecca Sutcliff and I’m at Mike’s Garage, off Canyon Boulevard. There’s been a horrible accident, Mitch Bellotti—he’s trapped under a car, he’s bleeding and…and…send someone to…” She turned anxiously to Hudson.
“The cross street is Eighty-sixth or seventh!” Hudson had jumped to his feet, heading for the roller jack.
“Did you hear that? Eighty-sixth or seventh and Canyon. Send someone quickly.”
“The victim is alive?”
“Barely. Send an ambulance now!”
“There’s a squad car in the area, if you’ll please stay on the line. Ma’am, please stay on the line and—”
Screw that! Becca hit the speaker option on her phone and left the cell on the hood of a Ford Escape. She couldn’t waste time talking.
Hudson’s hands grabbed the jack’s lever and he rapidly pumped it upward. Slowly the car began to rise off Mitch’s broken chest. In tandem they grabbed the creeper and pulled him from harm’s way.
Blood covered the front of Mitch’s garage jumpsuit where metal had punched through his skin, smearing his name. His entire abdomen looked as if it had fallen in on itself.
The sound of sirens split the air and Becca thought she’d never been so relieved in her life as she and Hudson eased Mitch out from under the car’s carriage. Hudson found the button to raise the garage doors and hit it. The doors on all three bays began grinding upward as a squad car—lights flashing, siren screaming—flew into the lot. The driver stood on the brakes and two officers emerged.
“What the hell happened here?” the taller of the two cops asked. Another siren sounded—the ambulance, thank God!
Hudson said grimly, “We found him this way.”
“Alive?” the shorter officer, a woman with a blond ponytail, looked at Hudson from beneath the brim of her hat.
“I think so, but he’s in bad shape.”
While her partner knelt at Mitch’s side, she was on the phone, barking orders, talking to the EMTs as the ambulance roared into the parking lot. A crowd had begun to gather, traffic slowing and snarling around Mike’s. Within minutes another squad car arrived, and while the first officers interviewed Becca and Hudson and the EMTs worked over Mitch, the newly arrived cops worked to hold back the crowd and keep the traffic moving.
Becca and Hudson were asked to stick around while Mitch was placed on a stretcher, wheeled into the ambulance, and whisked away. The owner of the garage was called and the area roped off with crime scene tape.
Hudson and Becca, standing beneath the overhang, were barraged with more questions but finally allowed to leave. They headed directly to the hospital, and on the way, Becca called as many of their friends as she could. The EMTs hadn’t given them a diagnosis, but both Becca and Hudson realized that Mitch was hanging by a thread. Hudson didn’t say it, but Becca read it in his eyes. He didn’t think Mitch would make it through the night.
“Glenn…Renee…and now Mitch?” Becca whispered to Hudson.
“It’s not a conspiracy,” he said, but she sensed he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
“What is it, then?” she asked, but he
