The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “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.

  4

  As the phone rang in the work trailer, Jack Willistone leaned over his desk and grimaced at the words “Ultron Gasoline” flickering across the caller ID. He knew he would have to handle this call with care. Dispatch had already told him about the accident, and he had two messages to call the local television station for comment. First things first, he thought as the phone rang a second time. Then a third. Jack coughed and lit a cigarette, glancing down at his metal desk, where the signed merger agreement still lay open to the section entitled “Terms of the Agreement.” After close to a year of negotiations, Fleet Atlantic, the largest trucking company in North America, had agreed to buy out Willistone Trucking Company, the biggest freight hauler in the South. The sum to be paid Willistone was marked with a yellow highlighter, and Jack gazed at it with satisfaction and pride.

  Two hundred million dollars.

  Four rings.

  The deal was not yet forty-eight hours old, the ink on the signatures almost wet enough to smear. It was set to close in six months. That is if nothing fucks it up, Jack thought, fixing his eyes on the phone and feeling a pang of anxiety as he thought of the accident.

  Five rings.

  Finally, Jack answered the phone.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk.

  “Jack, I assume you’ve heard.” The voice of Buck Bulyard, manager of the Ultron Gasoline plant in Tuscaloosa, blared into the receiver, hoarse and tired.

  “Accidents are like shit, Buck. They happen. I’m sure this isn’t Ultron’s first rodeo.”

  “It’s not, Jack, but we got a problem. Newton didn’t leave the plant until 10:00 a.m. We got two employees that remember it and a bill of lading that has the time stamped on it. Nine goddamn fifty-seven. Due at the first filling station by eleven. There’s no way your boy can make it to Montgomery by eleven without speeding.”

  Silence filled the line as Jack waited for more.

  “It’s a bad accident, Jack,” Buck continued, his voice high and panicky. “Real bad. Young family. The press will be all over it, and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation has already called, wanting a meeting.”

  Jack closed his eyes, knowing that the Alabama Bureau of Investigation investigated all traffic fatalities. “When do the ABI boys want to meet?” he asked.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Buck said. “They’ll be here at eight in the morning. Jack, what if they—?”

  “Just hold on to your panties, Buck,” Jack interrupted, opening his eyes. “What are the names of the two employees?”

  “Willard Carmichael and Dick Morris. Dick goes by ‘Mule.’ They loaded the trailer, so they would know.”

  “Anybody talk to ’em besides you?”

  “Hell no. You think I was born yesterday?”

  Jack forced himself to laugh. “You sure there’s no one or nothing else?” Jack asked, his tone serious again.

  “That’s it. All we got is the bill of lading and what Willard and Mule remember. But, Jack, you know as well as I do that this has been going on for a while. If the ABI folks start digging tomorrow—”

  “What?” Jack asked, his skin turning cold. “Buck, surely to God you don’t stamp the fucking time on all your bills?”

  “We have to, Jack. Our corporate office requires it,” Buck said, the words hitting Jack like a slap in the face. “All bills contain the time of pickup and the time the gas is supposed to be delivered to the station.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack asked. “Buck, you know how we operate. We make more deliveries, so your customers are happy, but there is a way we do it, and you know damn well what it is. Are you telling me you have created a fucking paper trail? Hell, man, if the ABI boys compare those bills to my driver’s logs, we could all go to jail for a long time.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Jack,” Buck said, but his voice shook with fear. “If—”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Buck,” Jack interrupted. “You know what we do and you know how we do it. And you damn well know what’s at stake here.”

  There was silence as Buck didn’t respond. Jack took a drag from his cigarette and pressed his fingers into his temples, working the problem in his mind.

  When the ABI investigators came to Buck’s office in the morning, they would see the bills of lading, which would show that Jack put his drivers on a schedule that forced them to speed—a violation of the federal motor carrier regulations. Worse, if they compared the bills to Jack’s driver’s logs, the documents would not match. The logs would inevitably show a Willistone driver certifying that he was in the sleeper berth or off duty when one of Ultron’s bills would show, for the same day and time, that driver making a delivery for Ultron. The ABI would alert the Office of Inspector General of the United States Department of Transportation, and the Office of Inspector General would have grounds to launch a full-scale investigation of Willistone Trucking Company and Ultron, Inc. The US Attorney’s Office might then prosecute Jack and all Willistone drivers for falsification of driver’s logs, a felony carrying a penalty of up to five years in prison per violation. Ultron, and specifically Buck Bulyard, could be charged, along with Jack, for conspiracy to violate federal motor carrier regulations, also a felony. Though the relationship with Ultron was fairly young, Willistone had still probably made hundreds of deliveries for Ultron. Which meant hundreds of possible violations, and hundreds of possible counts in the various indictments. Which collectively meant . . .

  We could all go to jail for the rest of our lives, Jack knew.

  Then there was the merger. Jack’s eyes shot down to the terms of the agreement. He flipped over to the section entitled “Termination” and furiously read the words, pausing on the last line of the paragraph, which was printed in bold and underlined:

  If, at any time prior to closing, Willistone Trucking Company comes under any type of investigation for violating federal motor carrier regulations or if a lawsuit is filed against it that could leave the company insolvent, Fleet Atlantic can terminate or stay the agreement pending the conclusion of the investigation or lawsuit.

  “Shit,” Jack whispered. This could ruin everything, he knew. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life . . .

  “Jack, what—?”

  “Shut up, Buck,” Jack said, slowly looking up from the contract. He took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it out, knowing there was only one way to handle this mess.

  “Buck, if someone were to start digging, where would the gold be?” he asked.

  “Here,” Buck said.

  “And where is ‘here’?”

  “The office. You know, the same place we signed the contract.”

  “You mean you’re still in that old warehouse?”

  “Yeah. Faith keeps the current documents—the last six months or so—in a filing cabinet in her office and the rest are in a storage room down the hall. Jack, what should—?”

  “I assume the warehouse is insured in case of certain catastrophes,” Jack interrupted. “Like—I don’t know—wind, rain . . . fire?”

  “Of course,” Buck said. “Why do
you . . . ?” Then Buck got it. “Jack, oh God, no. That’s crazy. We can’t—”

  “Good.”

  “Jack—”

  “Buck, just keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to anyone, especially not the press. I’ll deal with them. And . . . I’d stay away from the office tonight if I were you.”

  “Jack, you can’t. This is your problem, not mine. Your truck and your driver.”

  “Wrong, Buck. If the ABI ever gets wind of those bills, you’ll probably end up in the jail cell next to mine. This is our problem. But don’t you worry. I’m gonna handle it.”

  “The hell you are. You can’t—”

  “I can and I will. And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, Faith and the boys are gonna find out what you like to do in your spare time.” Jack paused. “Michael’s bar on Saturday nights. I know all about it, Buck. I even know what kind of K-Y Jelly you like to lube up with, so don’t fuck with me.”

  “Whh . . . whhhat?” Buck said, barely getting the words out. “How could . . . how could you possibly . . . ?”

  “Money talks, Buck. I don’t ever go into a deal without covering my ass. I got video. I got photographs. I got you sucking cock and whistling Dixie at the same time.” Jack paused. “This conversation never happened, do you understand?”

  Nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Say you understand,” Jack ordered.

  More silence.

  “Say you understand, Buck, or everyone in Tuscaloosa is gonna know you bat for the other team.”

  “I understand,” Buck finally said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Good,” Jack said, hanging up the phone.

  Buck Bulyard felt his bladder give and the warmth spread down his leg. As the phone clicked dead, he dropped it, unable to steady his shaking hand. He looked at the pictures on his desk. Faith, his wife of twenty years. Sons, Buck Jr. and Danny. What have I done? Buck sat down, his backside damp. The smell of urine permeated the room, but Buck barely noticed, thinking of his last trip to Michael’s and the young man he’d spent an hour with afterwards.