me.
âCan I offer you a little drink?â he said. His eyes were slightly unfocused.
The man was as drunk as a skunk.
Chapter 3
D r. Fletcher Mendenhall, I realized, had used the twenty minutes he had to wait for me to visit the airport bar. In fact, as I looked at his bleary eyes, I became convinced that he hadnât visited only the airport bar. Heâd had a good head start before his plane landed.
He was leaning ever closer to meâbarely restrained by his seat beltâand was still offering me the old-fashioned flat metal flask.
âJust a little drink?â he said.
âNo, thank you,â I said. âI donât drink while Iâm driving.â
âOh.â He sounded terribly hurt. âA little one wonât hurt you.â
âI need to concentrate on driving my husbandâs truck,â I said.
Dr. Mendenhall leaned back in his corner and sighed. Maybe he was going to be a docile drunk. Maybe he wouldnât be a problem while I drove him to Warner Pier, an hour away down a wintry Michigan highway. Maybe.
How should I handle this? Was silence the best method? Or should I use casual talk to give the drive a semblance of normalcy?
I never really decided which was the best method. I simply couldnât sit there without talking. So I began to tell Mendenhall why my husband hadnât picked him up. I managed the story pretty well, except that I said Joe was in a meeting with the âatonal generatorâ instead of the âattorney general.â And maybe I emphasized the word âhusbandâ more than necessary. I wanted to make sure Mendenhall knew I had one.
My talk made no difference to Mendenhall. He leaned back in his corner and didnât seem to be paying attention. I began to relax. After all, as Johnny Owens had said, Mendenhall was just a little shrimp. I was six inches taller than he was, even if he was a lot bigger around. And he was acting quite meek. I tried to convince myself that I could deliver him to Sarajane Fosterâs B and B with no trouble to either of us. Then heâd be her problem. Or could I do that to Sarajane?
That plan might have worked, if it hadnât been rush hour. Just after we merged onto Interstate 196, which leads south to Warner Pier, traffic came to a complete stop.
The lack of movement seemed to rouse Mendenhall. He sat up. âWhere are we?â
âSouth of Grand Rapids. Traffic is heavy this afternoon.â
He offered me the flask again. âNow that weâre stopped, you can take your hands off the wheel and have a drink.â
âNo, thanks.â
He unbuckled his seat belt. âAt least I can get comfortable.â
âPlease keep your seat belt on, Dr. Mendenhall. Michigan is very strict about that. I donât want to get pulled over.â
âA pretty girl like you could talk your way out of a ticket.â
âI wouldnât want to try. And if I have to stop in a hurry, I might toss you through the windshield.â I didnât add that that prospect sounded quite enticing.
Mendenhall slid toward me. âYouâre too pretty to be so standoffish. Have a drink.â
âNo.â
At that moment traffic began to move again, and I concentrated on the clutch and the gearshift of the unfamiliar truck. I ignored Mendenhall. Maybe heâd get the idea.
Once traffic began to move, it accelerated fast. For a mile I was fully occupied in driving. Then my lane slowed suddenly, and I had to downshift.
That was when I realized that Mendenhall had moved toward me, sliding across the seat. I was too worried about a semi on my left to look at him, but I spoke firmly. âDr. Mendenhall, please buckle your seat belt.â
âOh, come on, young lady. I canât be friendly clear over on the other side of this truck.â
I was downshifting from third to secondâwith both hands and both feet extremely busyâwhen he ran his hand along the inside of my