Chat - Archer Mayor [16]
Barrows picked up on his mood, saying softly, “I meant to ask, Agent Gunther: How’re they doing? Your family, I mean.”
Slowly, Joe turned away from the car, where, in the glaring light, he’d just seen some of his mother’s blood on the passenger seat. “They’re hanging in there, Rob. Thanks. And call me Joe.”
Barrows nodded. “Right.” He gestured toward the car. “I checked it out about an hour after we talked.”
He crossed over to a control panel mounted to the wall, and pushed an oversize button. There was a loud whirring sound and a slight trembling underfoot before the car began hovering into the air on a lift. Once the tires were at about eye level, Barrows took his hand off the button, returning the room to its otherworldly quiet.
He then removed his flashlight from his duty belt and crooked a finger at Joe. “I think I found out what happened,” he said, leading the way underneath the battered car and switching on the light.
Once Joe joined him, he pointed to a spot inside the crumpled right front wheel, which was frozen at a grotesquely unnatural angle. “See that?” he asked.
Joe squinted at where the light’s halo was holding steady. He was struck by how much debris was clinging to the undercarriage—souvenirs of its trip down the embankment.
“That’s your tie rod,” Barrows was explaining. “Or what’s left of it. It’s missing the nut that holds it in place. As soon as that sucker drops off and the arm goes free, you lose your steering.”
Joe paid closer attention, now clearly seeing and understanding the mechanics involved. “Christ,” he muttered. “Seems an iffy way to hold something that important together. Don’t the nuts work free all the time?”
“They’re usually locked in place with a cotter pin,” Barrows told him significantly.
Joe cast him a glance and raised his eyebrows.
His guide kept talking. “Of course, cotter pins can break, or rust off, or be forgotten during reassembly. If that happens, it’s just a matter of time before the car’s vibrations or hitting a good bump make the nut do what this one did.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully before suggesting the obvious. “But that’s only true if the car’s old enough to have that rusty a cotter pin, or if the tie rod end’s been worked on by somebody.”
Both men fell silent before Barrows supplied the requisite rejoinder: “And in theory, this car’s too new for either one.”
Joe returned to studying the broken part. “Well, you never know. We should check out the car’s repair history. Leo always had the same folks work on it—Steve’s Garage in Thetford Center.”
“Huh,” Barrows grunted.
“What?”
“Coincidence is all,” the young deputy explained. “Steve’s and this place are owned by the same person.”
Joe straightened, glancing his head against the car frame and instinctively ducking back down, although he hadn’t incurred any damage. “E. T. owns Steve’s? I didn’t know that.”
“That and a dozen other outfits. You just don’t see his name on the door too often. Old E. T. likes his privacy. You know him?”
“Yeah—I grew up around here. Arrested his son once.”
Now it was Barrows’s turn to be surprised. “Andy?”
“Yeah. Down in Brattleboro.”
“You know he’s dead. Killed himself.”
Joe stared at him. “My God. He was just a kid.”
But Rob was studying the damaged wheel again. “E. T. was really broken up about it, and Dan went ballistic. You know Andy’s brother?”
Joe nodded. “Used to be a hothead.”
“Still is. Tore up a local bar when he heard Andy’d died. Spent the night in jail. That’s how I know.”
He reached out and touched the car’s undercarriage with his fingertips. “I bet your name was mud in the Griffis household that night.”
Joe frowned at the comment. “What’re you saying?”
Barrows shrugged. “I’ve lived here my whole life. The Griffis clan makes things personal, which can definitely be good news, bad news. They’re great if they like you, but they got a lot of money and know a lot of the wrong people if they don’t.”
Joe gestured at the car overhead. “And you think one of