Picture Me Dead

Ashley glanced at her quickly. “They don’t die naked except for their underwear, on the highway, every day,” she countered.

“Did he come from one of the cars?” Jan asked.

“Maybe, but how?” Karen said.

“Perhaps he was in one of the passenger seats and was thrown out when the accident occurred,” Jan said.

“He was riding around in his underwear?” Ashley said.

“Hey, this is South Florida. Spend a little more time at the clubs on South Beach,” Jan said. “He might have been riding around stark naked, who the hell knows?”

“I don’t think he was in one of the cars,” Ashley said, remembering the relative positions of the cars, and the body.

“So he was walking across the highway in his underwear?” Jan said.

“Maybe there will be something on the news,” Karen said, switching the radio channel from the popular rock frequency they’d had on to the twenty-four-hour news station. The commentator was giving a rundown of events in Washington, but then switched over to local traffic.

“There’s been an accident on I-95, northbound, a pedestrian struck by oncoming traffic,” a pleasant female voice said over the airwaves. “Both left-hand lanes are now closed, so use caution and slow down while approaching the turnpike interchange. For all you folks traveling from north Dade and Broward on your way to work in the downtown Miami area, be on the alert for slowing traffic on the southbound side. The turnpike is still running smoothly to that point, but to the south, we’ve got an accident on the off ramp from the Palmetto to Miller Drive.”

The traffic report ended, and then a different newscaster came on to give a report about boating conditions.

By then they had reached the entrance to the turnpike. Ashley threw her coins into the bucket at the toll booth and moved into traffic, aware that Karen was staring at her.

“We’re going to put it out of our minds and have a good time,” Karen insisted firmly.

Ashley nodded. She tried to keep silent, then said, “It’s just too bizarre. What was a man doing running across the highway in his underwear?”

“He must have been doped up,” Jan said from the back.

“That must be it,” Karen agreed. “Why the hell else would you try to cross at least ten lanes of traffic—dressed to the teeth or half-naked?”

“Ashley, when you go back to the academy Monday morning, I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone who knows something about it,” Jan said.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“And until then, there’s nothing you can do,” Karen said.

“Yes, there is,” Ashley said.

“What’s that?”

“Stop at the first rest station, buy a big cappuccino, a horrible, greasy breakfast sandwich and stop shaking,” Ashley said.

“All right, I’m up for that,” Jan said. “I’ll stick with regular coffee and these cookies, though.”

They reached the service plaza less than thirty miles later, still subdued, but trying to rekindle the light mood that had been with them as they’d started out. While Ashley and Jan stood in line for coffee and food, Karen gathered brochures for Orlando and its multitude of tourist attractions. When they were finally seated, Jan pounced on the brochure for Arabian Knights. “I’ve never been there. I loved Medieval Times, though, and this place has horses, too.”

“And men,” Karen said. “But I thought we were going to go dancing? You know, to Pleasure Island or someplace like that.”

“One night dancing, one night watching gorgeous men on horseback,” Jan said.

Ashley was barely listening. She had taken out a pencil and was sketching on her napkin.

A hand fell over hers, stopping the movement of her pencil mid-slide. She looked up and met Karen’s. “That’s chilling—too close to what we just saw,” Karen said.

Jan drew the napkin from her and shuddered. “What are we going to do, Ashley? You’ve got to let it drop.” She gazed down at the sketch again. “Thank God I was busy looking at pants that would look good on people with fat thighs,” she said, trying to draw a smile. “I’m haunted just by the picture.”

“You should have stayed in art school,” Karen said. “A drawing on a napkin…and it’s just like the real thing. Please, Ashley…”

Ashley crumpled up the napkin. “Sorry,” she murmured guiltily. Her friends were right. There was nothing she could do about what had happened.

And she was destined to see much worse during her career as a cop.

“You haven’t really given up on art, have you?” Jan asked her. “I mean, you’re good. Really good. I’ve never seen anyone who can sketch people so well.”

“I’ll never give it up,” Ashley said. “I love to draw. It’s just that…”

“She likes the concept of a paycheck,” Karen told Jan with a sigh.

“You could have gotten a paycheck as an artist. I know it,” Jan said.

“Art school just cost too much,” Ashley said.

“You didn’t take that scholarship because you were too afraid Nick would want to help you and he couldn’t afford it,” Karen mused sagely.

“Nick would never stop me from pursuing any dream,” Ashley said a little defensively. And it was true. She knew Nick had been disappointed when she turned down the scholarship that had been offered to her by a prestigious Manhattan art college. But even with the scholarship, the money necessary to live and study in New York—even in a dorm—would have been too much. She could have gotten a part-time job, but it wouldn’t have been enough. Nick would have tried to help, but with tourism suffering, he would probably have just about sent himself into bankruptcy.

“Look, I love art, but I always wanted to be a cop. My dad was a cop, remember?”

“None of us really remembers,” Karen said. “It was so long ago.”

“I remember that I loved my folks and admired my dad,” Ashley said. “And police work is fascinating.”

“Yeah, real fascinating. You’re going to be in a patrol car, trying to chase down speeders, like Karen,” Jan said.

“Cute, Jan, really cute,” Karen said.

“Sorry.”

“Honest to God, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing,” Ashley said.

“So, horses or dancing tonight?” Karen said.

“Let’s just flip a coin—we’ll fit them both in,” she promised. She crumpled up the wrapper from her sandwich along with the napkin on which she’d been drawing. “Ready to hit the road?”

“Want me to drive?” Karen asked.

“Good God, no!” Jan piped in. “She’ll be arresting you—or giving you a warning speech, at the very least—from the passenger seat. Hey, can you write a ticket if you’re sitting next to someone who’s driving your own car?”