Chapter 3
He missed the Sunday morning fishing date.
As soon as he’d turned the Cherokee’s ignition over and started to back out of the garage to leave and meet the others, the brakes felt weak under his foot. Soon they’d be gone. Reflexes hammered in during Special Forces training took over. He killed the motor and yanked on the emergency brake as the car rolled backward and downhill toward the road.
The brake issued a grinding sound but held.
His heart pounded in his throat. Sweat dripped from his face. He pulled out his cell and called to cancel fishing, notify the sheriff, and summon the auto club. Then he wiped his face dry on his shirtsleeve.
The detective arrived before the tow truck. It was the same detective in the neatly pressed tan suit and bilious tie from the day before.
