Fall Into Me: Hearts of the South

by Linda Winfree

  “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?

  “Mama.” Tears in her voice, Brittany appeared in the doorway. Instead of folded towels, she carried her cell phone. Her hands shook wildly. “Lyssa just called me. She said Paul and Kaydee and them were in a wreck, and they’re all dead. Mama, that’s not true, is it? It can’t be true, can it?”

  Hope hurried to enfold her trembling daughter. “There’s been an accident, yes, but we don’t know if they’re dead.” With Brittany pressed to her heart, she looked across the room to hold Angel’s gaze. “We don’t.”

  “I just talked to Kaydee this morning, right after I talked to Paul.” A horrified moan erupted from Brittany’s mouth and she covered it. Tears flowed down her cheeks and her shoulders heaved with silent sobs. “Mommy, Kaydee was texting Lyssa from the truck. A Whitman deputy tried to pull them over and Paul wouldn’t stop. She was scared and he wouldn’t…and when Lyssa tried to text her back, Kaydee didn’t answer. She’d answer if she could, right?”

  She dissolved into tears and Darryl joined them, wrapping strong arms about his wife and daughter both. Angel clutched the phone to her chest. Dear Lord in heaven.

  “That’s Sara Davis’s daughter.” Mama sank onto her chair, her face gray. She glanced at Brittany. “Baby, who else was with them, do you know?”

  Brittany lifted her wet face from Darryl’s chest. “Devonte Richardson was coming. Probably Kari and maybe Santana. Lyssa wanted to, but she’s failing math and Mr. Del won’t let her go anywhere. I don’t know…I don’t know if there was anybody else. Lyssa had to go because her mama’s all upset. They heard from somebody that a guy from the sheriff’s department was killed and they don’t know if it’s Lyssa’s uncle or not.”

  Eyes closed, Hope held on to her, whispering quiet prayers into her glossy hair. Angel glanced from her mama’s pale face to her daddy’s. Her heart turned in on itself, but she made herself sit down calmly. She flipped her cell open and scrolled through to Troy Lee’s contact info. “I’m just going to call him and see what I can find out.”

  The phone rang and rang and rang again. On the sixth ring, Troy Lee’s voice filled her ear, strong and resonant.

  “Hey, this is Troy Lee. I can’t take your call, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll call you back as soon as I can…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So are y’all talking about a date yet?”

  “Other than sometime next year? No.” Tori accepted the can of soda Layla extended and grimaced. “Mama wants a big wedding.”

  “Mama wants?” Layla nudged her in the side as they entered the hall leading to the ER. “What about what Tori and Cookie want?”

  “We just want to get married.” Tori dodged a gurney next to the wall. “Although I wouldn’t mind doing so in a really great dress.”

  “And in front of a hundred guests, with six bridesmaids in purple tulle and Cookie in a tux,” Layla teased.

  “That too. Except the purple tulle.” Tori made a moue, then completely ruined it by laughing. “I was thinking eggplant satin instead—”

  “Layla, I need you.” Jay Mackey appeared at the end of the hallway and waved them forward. Urgency tightened his face. “Tori, glad you’re here.”

  Her stomach knotted before the cool ease of experience slid into place. “What’s going on?”

  “Multiple-injury accident, possible fatalities. Ambulances en route, ETA three minutes.” He talked rapidly, holding one push-through door open for them. “Nancy is over in Valdosta at a seminar. Tori, think you could do family counseling for us?”

  “Of course.” Nancy was the new grief counselor, and before she’d arrived to replace her predecessor, Tori had performed double duty by stepping into that role.

  “Great. As soon as we have positive victim identification and patient status, Lorraine will help you get started.” He pulled a thin disposable robe over his scrubs. Layla shoved her arms into a similar garment. While he tugged on gloves, she lifted the receiver on the wall phone, paging doctors. Jay swung open the ambulance bay doors and stepped onto the dock, arms over his chest. Sirens wailed closer and closer.

  The first ambulance turned onto the side street and into the bay. Clark Dempsey jumped from the cab and rushed to open the back doors and assist his partner in unloading the patient. They pushed the gurney inside, Jim Tyre rattling patient information as Jay directed them to a room. “Seventeen-year-old male involved in collision, pulse is eighty-five, BP is one-ten over eighty, respiratory twenty, severe head trauma, fracture to the right arm…”

  Layla appeared and the four of them shifted the moaning boy to the exam table. Layla looked up from checking his airway. “What’s on the way?”

  “Three teens. Critical with prolonged extrication,” Clark replied. “And a deputy. They were pulling him out as we left.”

  Deputy? Unnerved, Tori glanced at him, but before she could ask, a second ambulance thundered into the bay. Jay pulled his gloves and grabbed a fresh pair. “Layla, you know what to do. I’ve got this one.”

  “Do you have his personal effects?” Layla palpated the boy’s chest, her hands moving with gentle efficiency. Jim produced a manila envelope and Layla tilted her head in Tori’s direction. “She needs those.”

  Ambulance doors clanged open, followed by the metallic ring of a stretcher being unfolded. More male voices wafted into the hall as rubber wheels whispered on waxed tile. “Sixteen-year-old female involved in collision, no pulse, no respiration, BP is not measurable. Massive thoracic and skull trauma involved. Intubated at the scene, defibrillation attempts unsuccessful.”

  The plaid curtain separating the two cubicles fluttered. Tori caught a glimpse of Jay checking the girl’s pupils. Tick was there, bagging the teenager, while an EMT performed chest compressions. Blood matted long blonde hair, soaked a Chandler-Haynes High cheerleading hoodie. Shaken, Tori averted her gaze and opened the envelope to extract a wallet. She flipped it open.

  James Paul Bostick. Oh Lord, Bubba Bostick’s son?

  “Tori.” Lorraine touched her shoulder and indicated the hall with a tilt of her head. “I’ve got the girl’s ID. Come on and you can use the phone in the staff lounge.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at the driver’s license in her hand. Kaydee Sierra Davis. She spun to glance back at the girl lying so still while they tried hard to bring her back. That was Kaydee?

  “Tori, are you all right?” Concern creased Lorraine’s broad face.

  “I know her.” Covering her mouth, Tori blinked hard. “I used to babysit her. Her mother is my first cousin.”

  “I’m sorry, hon.” Lorraine patted her shoulder.

  “I need to…” Tori drew herself up, gathering reserves. “I need to start making these calls.”

  More medical personnel rushed down the hall to meet yet another ambulance. Lord, when would it stop? Chris Parker accompanied this gurney, bearing a frighteningly still teenage boy. The paramedic bagging him talked rapidly. “Seventeen-year-old male, no pulse, no BP, no respiration. Massive skull trauma, suspected spinal cord injury…”

  Chris went as far as the exam room, then backtracked with another manila envelope in hand. His eyes wilder than Tori had ever seen them, he jerked his chin at her in greeting and ext
ended the packet. “His effects plus the cell phones we found in the vehicle. They’re ringing and buzzing constantly.”

  “Word’s out in the county then,” Lorraine said. “Worried parents will be calling here next.”

  “Chris.” Tori caught his arm and he flinched. She released him immediately. “One of the paramedics said there was a deputy involved?”

  “Yeah—”

  A new gurney shoved through the doors, Nikki Pantone reciting patient information to a young doctor. “Twenty-six-year-old male involved in collision. Pulse is fifty-seven, BP ninety over sixty, respiration fifteen, no breath sounds on the right side. Nasal fracture, oropharyngeal airway in place with intubation, severe thoracic trauma, suspected haemothorax…”

  As they passed, Nikki still talking, Tori glimpsed dark brown hair and a familiar tan uniform spattered with blood. Swelling and the bag valve mask obscured his face. “Is that Troy Lee?”

  Chris nodded. Mark strode through the bay doors, rifling through another manila packet. He pulled out a cell phone and lifted his head, shuttered gaze tangling with hers for a split second before tracking to the identification she held. “Are you notifying families?”

  She nodded and he pressed the slim silver rectangle into her palm. “This is Troy Lee’s. He’ll have his next of kin programmed in as an emergency contact—”

  “His stepmother,” Chris said. “Her name is Christine.”

  Mark’s fingers curled around hers for a moment, warm and real in the surreal chaos of the afternoon. “Will you call her?”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled his gaze from hers and tagged Chris on the chest. “I need you to come with me. We’ve got to find Angel.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand you can’t tell me where he is.” Desperate fear bit into Angel. She clutched the phone so hard her hand hurt and concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “I just want to know if he was involved in an accident.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Henderson.” A mask of cool professionalism cloaked the dispatcher’s voice. “But I have to follow procedure and it’s against department policy to release any information about an officer to unauthorized persons.”