Fall Into Me (23 page)

“I know.” Tick bounced the radio against his thigh, his jaw tight. “I want Troy Lee in between them and this idiot from Whitman County, to make the stop. And then I want that asshole’s badge.”

He brought the radio to his mouth, but the Whitman deputy keyed in. “Whitman 806 to Chandler, approaching the curves on 3. 10-20 on assistance…oh, shit!”

Mark’s gut heaved to his feet, sending a surge of adrenaline into his chest.

“Chandler, Chandler, Whitman 806. Suspect vehicle is 10-50. Repeat, suspect vehicle is 10-50. Chandler unit 10-50 also. Did you hear me? 10-50, suspect vehicle and Chandler unit.”

“Holy hell,” Tick muttered. Mark punched the accelerator. Shitshitshit…that had to be Troy Lee. It had to be.

Chris’s unit screamed by at the intersection, his voice calling in ETA to dispatch as Deb reported ambulances and wreckers en route.

“Try to raise Troy Lee. See if he’s all right.” A 10-50 accident call could be anything, including Troy Lee merely putting the unit in the ditch, but Mark didn’t like the ominous absence of Troy Lee’s voice on the radio.

“C-2 to C-13, copy?” Only Deb’s voice and that of responding emergency personnel crackled on the frequency. Tick’s mouth tightened, the skin around it pale, and he keyed the mike again. “C-13?”

Nothing. Mark held the wheel tighter.
Damn
it.

Ahead of them, Chris swooped around the first of the curves. His brake lights flared. Mark slowed as he entered the curve and the short straightaway before the second curve, the wicked one with the dip in the road. Blue lights atop Chris’s car and the Whitman County unit sparked in the watery winter sunlight.

The scene, what he was seeing, twisted metal and smoke, broken glass and still-spinning wheels, slammed into Mark’s brain.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tick whispered.

The salon door squeaked as Angel pushed it open. Peroxide and hairspray tickled her nose, but something else entirely made her eyes burn. She was hollow and hurting, and sometimes a girl just needed her mama. She dropped her bag on the bench under the window.

“Hey, baby.” Mama looked up from organizing her roller tray. Her gaze sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

Angel walked into her embrace and buried her face against the neck that always smelled like Avon Night Odyssey. A sob tried to escape and she closed her raw throat, holding in the wail. “Oh, Mama, it’s been the day from hell.”

Mama rocked her side to side and patted her back. “Trouble with that young man of yours?”

“No, he’s fine. He’s great.” With a rough sigh, Angel pulled back and knuckled fresh tears from under her eyes. “It’s just…stuff. Is Daddy home?”

“Not yet.” Still eyeing her with maternal concern, Mama went back to sorting rollers and rods. “He should be here soon. I’ve got a perm to do before supper.”

The door leading to the hallway between the salon and the house swung open, and Hope’s oldest daughter Brittany flounced through, her arms full of folded towels. “You’re mean, Mama.”

“Yes, I am,” Hope agreed, settling a load of empty color bottles on the shelf over the sinks. “Get used to it.”

“We were just going riding at the river.” Brittany shoved towels in the baskets by each salon chair. “You could have let me do that.”

“And
you
could just follow the rules.” Hope snapped her fingers sideways for emphasis.

“I am so going off to college, just to get away from you.”

“Great. In two years, I’ll help you pack.” Hope pointed toward the hallway. “Right now, go vent your teenage resentment in the laundry room and fold the rest of those towels.”

Brittany huffed through the doorway. Hope sank into her salon chair. She graced Angel with a saccharine smile. “Don’t you wish you had one of those?”

Angel wasn’t touching that one. She perched on Mama’s chair. “What’s she mad about?”

“She told us she was at one of her friend’s houses the other night. Turns out, she was riding around with Paul Bostick. Darryl ’bout had a fit. So she’s grounded and she’s pissed at the world, especially since he called her earlier, wanting her to go to the river with him and some other kids.” Hope shook her head. “I don’t like the idea of that boy around her. He’s a senior and way too fast for her, if you get my meaning.”

Mama slid an ironic look in her direction. “Chickens do come home to roost, you know.”

Hope rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot, Mama.”

A big diesel engine growled outside, followed by the thump of boots on the hall floor. Mama tilted her head to the side with a smile. “There’s your daddy.”

He burst through the door, his beloved scanner in hand. “Marie, where’s my power cord? Damn batteries won’t hold a charge.”

“In the basket on top of the refrigerator.” He disappeared back down the hall. Angel and Hope exchanged a look of affectionate amusement. Mama called after him, “What’s going on, honey?”

“Bad wreck out on 3.” He came back, fiddling with the cord. He plugged the scanner in and finessed the tuning until it squawked and emitted Chandler County’s dispatch. “Jeannette was talking about it when I stopped at the Tank and Tummy. Said it just happened.”

“Do we know who it is?” Mama stacked racks of rollers in the cart.

The scanner emanated a steady stream of rapid conversation, a series of ten codes and terse voices. Daddy raised the volume. “Jeannette thought it was Bubba Bostick. Said there was a deputy involved.” Brows lowered in sudden concern, he looked at Angel. “Your boy’s not working today, is he?”

Angel nodded, nerves fluttering in her belly. She strained to make out the voices coming from the black rectangle. That was Tick, calling in arrival-on-scene codes for him and Cookie. She thought that was Chris Parker’s voice responding. If it was a bad-enough wreck, all officers on duty would respond, unless they were busy elsewhere. That was it, Troy Lee was busy.

That’s the only reason she didn’t hear his voice.

Instincts and experience overrode the fear and horror. Mark angled the unit to the side, blocking traffic but leaving room for emergency-response vehicles. He popped the trunk and jumped from the car before Tick finished calling in their arrival. He caught a flash of fluorescent orange—Chris pulling a vest over his head, hazard triangles in hand. Tick met him at the rear and Mark shoved the second first-responder kit at him. “Check the truck. I’ll get Troy Lee.”

Kit in hand, Tick jogged toward what remained of the red pickup. Sirens screeched closer. Mark took in a quick scan of the scene, committing the details to memory. The truck, pointed north now, wrapped almost in a U around the base of a large oak in the stand of trees on the east side of the road. Thick black skid marks slid sideways over the pavement. Another shorter set marked the road just south, deep ruts scarring the shoulder where Troy Lee had left the roadway.

Mark hurdled the run-off ditch and sprinted across the rutted field. His heart thudded in his ears. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream, worry and fear threading tight tentacles around each nerve. The mangled white sheriff’s unit rested upside down, yards from the highway, slowly spinning tires giving it the air of a toy car carelessly discarded by a child. Scars and gashes marred the earth, evidence of the number of times Troy Lee had rolled. Glass from shattered windows glittered in the dirt and squad-car paraphernalia strung a path like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs—black Maglite, metal ticket book, blank report forms, handcuffs.

Smoke curled in a lazy stream from the engine compartment. A powerful green tractor idled in the field, and a jeans-clad farmer sprinted toward the car. Mark drew closer. The driver’s window no longer existed. An arm extended onto the dirt, vulnerable fingers stained with blood curling upward.

Please don’t be dead. God, Troy Lee,
please
don’t be dead…

More engines rumbled beneath the scream of sirens. Voices shouted at the roadway. Mark dropped to his knees. He fumbled the kit open and snapped on gloves. Ah hell, this wasn’t good. He slid his fingers over Troy Lee’s wrist. The pulse beat beneath his fingers, uneven but there. “Troy Lee?”

“Is he alive?” Dale Jenkins, who farmed the surrounding land, knelt by him.

“Yeah.” Penlight in hand, Mark rested on his shoulder to get a better look at Troy Lee. God. The seatbelt remained intact, holding him in the seat with his neck and head at an awkward angle, but blood spattered his uniform and the deflated airbag, covered his face, dripping down to soak into the headliner. Small bubbles popped through the crimson with each labored breath. The dash crushed inward, the steering column pinned against his chest.

They had a pulse and he was breathing. That much was good.

“He did it on purpose.” Dale’s gruff voice seemed breathless with shock. “I saw it.”

Mark pulled the lock on the door but didn’t attempt to open it. “What?”

“That’s Bubba’s boy in the truck, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean, he did it on purpose?” He wedged his arm farther into the cab and shone the light on Troy Lee’s face and torso. Was all that blood coming from his mouth? That wasn’t good.

“The truck was on his side when he came around the curve. He went off the road to keep from hitting it.”

“The pickup didn’t hit him?” Hell, he couldn’t assess him like this. They had to get him out. He tried the door, but as he’d suspected, it was jammed shut and wouldn’t open.

“Nah, he hit the broken culvert and flipped. I swear, I didn’t think he’d ever quit rolling.” Dale patted both palms against his thighs in a nervous tattoo. “What can I do to help?”

The trunk had popped loose during impact and more equipment littered the surrounding area. “There should be a crowbar. Find it.”

Behind him, the muted roar of the Jaws of Life ripped the air. He glanced over his shoulder. Two EMTs ran toward them across the pitted dirt. Firefighters and more EMTs swarmed the truck. He caught a flash of blue plastic, recognized Tick’s dark head in the mass of county officers and state troopers. They tarped the vehicle, shielding the interior from the view of passersby, usually a sure sign of fatalities.

A wet groan burbled at his ear. He jerked his gaze back. “Troy Lee?”

No response. Mark curved his hand around Troy Lee’s neck, supporting but not moving. “Hold on for us, Troy Lee. Just hold on.”

“Daddy, I don’t hear him.” Angel forced a false calmness into her voice. A rising panic gripped her throat, but she refused to give in to it.

“Now, honey, that doesn’t mean anything.” Mama rubbed her shoulder. “He could be busy somewhere else.”

“You’re right.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to laugh at her own fear. She was overreacting, probably because her nerves were stretched thin. “Stupid, isn’t it, getting worked up over nothing?”

Mama’s comforting rub changed to an affectionate pat. “You just care about him, that’s all. We worry about the ones we love.” Reflected sunlight flashed through the window. “That must be Sue, for her perm.”

“No, it’s Darryl. He just ran over Mama’s daylily bed.” Hope rose from her chair. “What on earth…?”

Running footsteps thumped on the steps and Darryl slammed the door open, his face set in lines of frozen fear. “Where’s Britt?”

“Darryl, what is wrong?”

“Where’s Brittany?” He grabbed her shoulders, his voice cracking. “Where is she, Hope? Tell me you didn’t let her go anywhere.”

“Of course not.” Eyes wide, Hope twisted one arm out of his grasp and gestured behind her. “She’s in the laundry room, folding towels.”

“Oh, thank You, Jesus.” He collapsed, leaning on the counter with a hand over his eyes. A weak laugh escaped him and he looked up. “I tell you, I ain’t been so scared since…hell, since I don’t know when. I was at the hardware store and heard about that wreck. All I could think about was Brittany, her wanting to be with that Bostick boy. Lord, I didn’t even think about calling. I just left my stuff on the counter and came on.”

“So it was Bubba’s boy?” Sympathy loaded Daddy’s sigh.

“That’s what they’re saying. You know Eddie Stowles is a volunteer firefighter. He went running out of the store. Said the kids in the truck were dead. That’s all I had to hear.” Darryl levered away from the counter and opened the small fridge beneath it to retrieve a bottled Coke. The cap popped off with a small hiss. “They’re saying it’s a bad one, that a deputy was killed in it too.”

Panic flushed the back of Angel’s neck with heat, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird at the base of her throat. A small sound pushed past her lips.

Mama’s firm hand came down on her shoulder. “Now, Angel, we don’t know it’s him.”

“Oh shit.” Darryl paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Is he working today?”

Hope nodded. “She didn’t hear him on the radio earlier, either,” she whispered, half-turned into her husband as though that would protect Angel from the truth.

“He’s probably just…” Darryl motioned with the Coke. “You know, working or something.”

Did that sound as weak to the others as it did to her? Angel slipped from the chair. “You know what? I’m just going to call him, see where he is.”

She snagged her purse from the bench. Her skin crawled with the weight of all their eyes on her. This whole thing felt weird, like standing on the sidewalk with Cookie had, the way everything after that confrontation with Jim had seemed like a movie. She pawed through her purse. Where was her phone?