The Professor (2 page)

2

Dewey Newton was hungover and running late.
Not good
, he knew. The goddamn dispatcher had said the rig would be ready by nine but it hadn’t been.
Not my fault.
He shook his head.
It won’t make a damn. Jack will blame my ass anyway.
Dewey had made the Tuscaloosa-to-Montgomery run a couple of times before, and it was no big deal. Straight shot on Highway 82—an hour-and-a-half drive by the speed limit, an hour-and-twenty if you drove a few miles over.

But when you don’t hit the road till ten and you’ve got to be there by eleven . . .

Dewey squeezed the wheel and began fumbling with the radio, trying to find a station that played country music—not the new hip-hop country that Dewey couldn’t stand but good old George Jones/Merle Haggard country. Up ahead he saw a Texaco station and a stoplight. As he passed a faded green “Henshaw City Limits” sign, Dewey glanced down at the clock on the dash.

10:35 a.m.

From experience, Dewey knew that Henshaw was the halfway point of the trip. He had made up some time, but he was still fifteen minutes behind where he needed to be.

Dewey scratched his stubble and wiped sweat from his forehead, thinking about his boss. Seeing the son of a bitch in his mind. Jack Daniel Willistone. Walking the yard, cigarette dangling from his mouth. His face red from exertion, his work shirt damp with sweat. His eyes mean. Unforgiving . . .

“We work longer, we work faster, and we work smarter.”
That was Jack’s mantra, and Dewey knew only too well what it meant. Drivers were expected to drive more than the eleven hours a day allowed by DOT regulations and fix their driver’s logs to show compliance. Drivers were also expected to push the envelope on the road. If a load typically took an hour, Jack wanted it done in fifty minutes.

That was the deal, and every man on the yard abided by it. And Dewey knew things were only going to get worse. There were rumors that Jack was talking merger with several of the big dogs up east, and the deal could be worth hundreds of millions. To get the price he wanted, Jack needed two things. More revenue and more customers.

Which means my crazy-ass schedule is only going to get crazier.

Dewey gritted his teeth, wishing that he could just quit. He had two girls at home. A wife.
I’m missing it
, he knew.
I’m missing their whole life.
But if he quit he’d have to go back to seven-dollar-an-hour gigs, moving from job to job, town to town, without any chance of a future. He and Wilma had talked about it a million times. Jack Willistone was a son of a bitch, but he paid almost double what Dewey could make working anywhere else. After the last speeding ticket, Dewey had wanted to quit. He had even filled out his notice. But Wilma wouldn’t let him hand it in. “My girls are going to college. They ain’t going to be waiting tables like me. We’re going to do whatever we have to do to make that happen.”

I can’t quit
, Dewey knew, glancing again at the clock. 10:36 a.m.

George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning” burst out of the speakers of the radio and Dewey whispered, “Finally,” in approval of the DJ’s choice. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. The highway had dipped a little, but he could still see the top of the gas station and the green of the stoplight.

Stay green, baby . . .

The speed limit was sixty-five miles per hour. Pressing the accelerator down until he reached eighty, Dewey Newton began to come out of the dip on Highway 82.

Bob Bradshaw hated Highway 82. But there was no quicker or more direct route from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa.
And I need this to be quick
, he thought, knowing that the word “quick”—or rather, the concept of a “quick visit”—was foreign to his mother-in-law. Bob shook his head, thinking of Richard T. McMurphy, his partner and boss, who would be riding him hard when he returned to the office tomorrow after eight days at the beach.

“Cows!” Nicole screamed from the backseat, jarring Bob from his fit of worry.

He glanced to his left and saw that they were passing a cattle farm. He could see it and, a few seconds later, could smell the evidence.
Ah, manure. Perfect
, Bob thought, wondering if his mood was going to improve any time soon.

“That’s right, honey. You’re a smart girl. How do cows go?” Jeannie Bradshaw, Nicole’s mother, asked.

“Mooooo!” Nicole answered, smiling.

Bob smiled too. If anything could lift his spirits, it was his little girl. Nicole was really coming along, and her new trick was yelling out things she recognized while riding in the backseat.

“Can you believe she’ll be three in a couple of months?” Bob asked, one hand on the wheel and the other pushing the stop button on the CD player.

“I can’t even believe she’s two,” Jeannie said, sighing. “Seems like just yesterday . . .” But she didn’t complete her thought and she didn’t have to. Bob knew.
It seems like just yesterday we were bringing her home from the hospital.
Life was moving fast, and with any luck, Nicole would have a brother or sister in a year or so.

“Sign!” Nicole yelled from the back as they passed a green sign indicating “Tuscaloosa 50 Miles.” Bob looked at his watch. 10:30 a.m.

“Making good time,” he said, more to himself than to Jeannie, who just nodded. They had gotten an early start that morning and might make it home by 6:00 p.m. Bob grimaced, thinking about all the piles of paper that undoubtedly lay on top of his desk. And again about McMurphy. Lawyers needed vacations just like everyone else.
But it’s a bitch coming back.

Bob sighed and glanced at the gas gauge, which was getting perilously close to “E.”

“Christ,” Bob said, again more to himself.

“Gas?” Jeannie asked, reading his mind.

“Yeah.” And Bob again wondered whether this detour was worth it. He really needed to get back, and Tuscaloosa was not on the way. Ruth Ann would probably be coming to Huntsville soon anyway.

“She’s really excited about seeing us,” Jeannie said. After nine years of marriage, Jeannie had become an expert at telling what Bob was thinking.

“I know, hon. It’s just . . .”

“You’ll get it all done, you always do. But Mom’s been going through a tough time since Dad died, and we promised.”

“OK,” Bob said. He had already lost this battle a couple of weeks ago and there was no use pouting. Besides, he had planned around it. They would visit with Ruth Ann for a while, eat lunch, and try to get back on the road by 2:30 or 3:00 p.m., which would put them in Huntsville by 6:00 p.m.
A quick visit.

Like that’s going to happen
, Bob thought now, feeling discouraged and a little foolish. When Jeannie and her mother got together, the best made plans usually got thrown out the window. It had been over a month since Ruth Ann had seen Jeannie and Nicole. After lunch, presents, girl talk, and God knows what else, they’d be lucky to get out of there by dark. The plan would fail.
Trying to plan around a bunch of women
. . .
He stopped the thought. There was a gas station up ahead.

“Here we go,” Jeannie said, and Bob knew she was talking about the Texaco sign.

“We told Ruth Ann noon, right?” Bob asked. There was a stoplight next to the station, but he couldn’t tell yet if he should go past it to get to the Texaco or turn at the light and come in the back door.

“Yeah”—Jeannie glanced at her watch—“but it looks like we’re gonna beat that. Maybe I should call her.”

Jeannie reached for her cell phone as Bob put his blinker on and began slowing down.

Bob Bradshaw entered the intersection of Highway 82 with Limestone Bottom Road and his instincts said,
Turn at the light
.
He glanced up ahead, saw nothing coming, and
turned the wheel.

“Hello, Mom,” Jeannie said into the cell phone. “It looks like . . . Bob!”

“Truck!” Nicole yelled from the backseat.

That motherfucker is not going to . . .
But the red Honda
was
turning. Coming out of the dip, Dewey had seen the red Honda enter the intersection. It had been going very slow, as if the driver was unsure of what he wanted to do.

Now
he’s turning. The motherfucker is turning right in front of me.

Dewey hit the brakes.

“Oh, fuck!”

He was fishtailing, the trailer moving left.

Come on, move it.

But the red Honda was stuck in the intersection.

We’re gonna hit.

Bob Bradshaw saw the eighteen-wheeler at the same time his wife and daughter screamed.

Where did that truck . . .
 ?

He pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor, and his tires spun.
No!
Jeannie undid her seat belt and lunged for the back, trying to cover Nicole. The Honda lurched forward.

Please make it
, Bob begged, hearing the roar of the tractor trailer.
Please . . .

3

Rose Batson opened her eyes and tried to get up.
How long have I been out?
She rolled onto her side, her neck aching, and saw the trailer. It was in the field across from the station. Burning. “Ultron” was printed on its side.
Ultron
 . . .
Gasoline. Oh God.
She pulled herself up, limped inside the store, and grabbed the phone by the cash register.

“Jimmy. Hey, this is Rose down at Texaco.” Her voice was hoarse and her words came out just above a whisper. “Got us a bad wreck. Real bad. A car and a tractor trailer hauling gasoline. Need an ambulance . . .” Rose stopped to catch her breath. Her ribs hurt when she talked.

“Ms. Rose, are you—?”

“I’ll make it, Jimmy, but I doubt these people will.” She coughed, and the pain in her ribs made her double over. “Call an ambulance, all right? And get Lou and the fire department out here on the double. Trailer’s burning bad and the fire may spread.”

“Will do, Ms. Rose.”

Rose hung up the phone and staggered back outside
. Lord, have mercy.
The Honda lay on its back in a ditch about fifty yards up. It was also in flames. When they hit, the rig had taken the Honda about ten yards down 82 before the Honda had spun off and begun flipping. Rose had seen it all and started running toward the wreckage. She may have taken five or six steps. Then
boom!
Everything had gone black.

Trailer exploding must’ve knocked me out
,
she thought, eyeing the burning cylinder across the road. She rubbed her ribs, which she figured were either broken or badly bruised, and walked as fast as she could down the shoulder of Highway 82. She came to the rig first and opened the passenger-side door.

“You all right?” she yelled into the cab. The truck driver was slumped over the steering wheel, his head bleeding badly. Rose stepped up into the cab and grabbed the man’s arm.

“Hey!” Rose yelled into the man’s ear. Nothing. Rose smelled fuel and knew the rig could blow any second.
Move your ass, old woman.
She wrapped her arms around the man’s midsection and pulled him toward her, dragging him to the edge of the cab. Then she looked down and sucked in her breath.
This is gonna hurt.
Rose planted her left foot on the bottom step and leapt backwards with all her strength, still holding the man around his waist. They landed in a pile on the ground, and Rose felt stabbing pain all over.

“Ahhh, Jesus!” she screamed, pushing the man off her and rolling to her side.
Move, woman, move.
She forced herself to her feet and dragged the man’s body ten yards down the shoulder. When she thought she was far enough away, she leaned over him, her hands and arms now covered in his blood.

“Are you OK?” she screamed. “Are you—?”

But her words were drowned out by another explosion. Rose looked up and saw that the rig was now in flames. The door that she had just crawled out of was gone. She could see the steering wheel melting away, and then it was engulfed in a sea of orange.
Ten more seconds
, she thought, her hands trembling.
If I had waited ten more seconds . . .

“Help.”

Rose turned at the sound of the voice and saw a figure on the ground near the Honda. Rose tried to run, stumbled, then fell. Her ribs exploded in pain, but she got to her feet. Walking now, she made it to the figure—a woman—and knelt beside her.

“Ma’am, are you—?”

“My baby . . . my baby . . .” The woman was whimpering and trying to move. Trying to crawl
toward
the burning car. “Please help . . . my baby,” she said, her eyes glazed over but focused enough to make contact with Rose’s.

“Ma’am, it’s burning. I can’t—”

“Yes . . . you . . . can . . .” The woman had moved a few inches, and Rose stopped her, feeling heat on her neck from the blazing car.

“No . . . please. My baby . . .”

Sirens sounded in the background, and Rose turned to see Sheriff Jimmy Ballard’s patrol car coming toward them. An ambulance was behind him.
Thank God.

“Please . . .” The woman’s voice was softer.
She’s fading
,
Rose thought.

“Hang on, ma’am. There’s help coming. You’re gonna—”

“My . . . baby . . . is . . . in . . . there,” she gasped, trying again to move, her finger pointing at the blazing car. “My baby is . . .”

“Ms. Rose!” Sheriff Ballard was running toward her, a couple of medics right behind him.

Rose Batson stepped back as the medics rushed in to assist the woman. Sheriff Ballard grabbed her arm.

“Ms. Rose. Are there any more?”

She was crying now. Rose Batson was crying, biting her lip hard enough to bring blood. There was a baby in that car.
A baby. Burning up in that car.

Rose impulsively took two steps toward the Honda.
No. No. No.

“Ms. Rose!” Sheriff Ballard grabbed Rose around the waist, but Rose kept moving, and he finally had to take her to the ground.

“No, Jimmy! That woman’s baby’s in there. I should’ve—”

“Ms. Rose, we can’t help anyone in that car. Is there anyone else?”

Rose struggled for a couple of seconds, then stopped.
Snap out of it, old woman.

“The truck driver . . . down the shoulder,” she said, pointing and holding her ribs.

Sheriff Ballard stood and barked instructions to an approaching deputy. Had Rose looked back toward the store, she would’ve seen that another patrol car had arrived. And the volunteer fire department. But she didn’t look back.

Rose sat on the grass, clutching her ribs and staring at the Honda.
No. No. No.