by Bartlett, LL
"Some real slick detective work on his part," I grumbled.
"Did you get a feel for what they know or don't know?" he asked me.
"I'm pretty sure McFadden believes I didn't do it, but he doesn't know who did, either."
Richard took a pull on his drink. "After the cops left, I found an old phone book behind the bar downstairs, went out on the patio, and I tried calling every lawyer listed. Thanks to the holiday weekend, I couldn't get hold of anyone. In desperation, I called my lawyer in Buffalo. He said he'd find someone to represent us by nine tomorrow. I told him I'd call back in the morning."
"Thanks."
I sipped my gin. The headache was still with me, and it wasn't wise for me to be drinking. Right then I preferred gin to my headache medication, even if I'd regret it later.
"So," Richard asked, "what happened?"
"Interrogations aren't fun. I needed someone in my corner, so they put in a call to Detective Hayden back home. He told them about my talent, and they put me to a test."
"Did you pass?"
"In spades. I think I freaked the sergeant. I nearly freaked myself." I told them about the vision. "After that, they left me alone. A while later, they let us go. But you know, I'm still shaking."
He raised his glass in salute. "Hear, hear."
"I'm hungry," Maggie said. It sounded so out of context—so incredibly normal.
"We've got the cheese and crackers," I suggested.
She shook her head. "Let's go someplace where there's lots of people and noise and comfort food, like soup and maybe a couple of rolls."
"Wouldn't you rather have a hot fudge sundae?" Richard asked.
"Maybe that, too," she sheepishly admitted.
I smoothed the hair around her face. "I'll bet the restaurant we went to last night could handle that."
"Are you up to driving yourself?" Richard asked. "After we eat, I'm going to hit the drugstore again."
"No problem. Come on, pretty lady. Your dinner awaits."
"I'll catch up with you at the restaurant. I want to change clothes and get cleaned up, too," Richard said.
"Okay. See you there.”
He closed the door on us and we headed down the hall.
Kay Andolina sat in one of the wingback chairs in the lobby. She looked up from her book, craning her neck to see us as we headed for the front door. She shook her head in disapproval, as though the police must've made a mistake by letting us go.
I ignored the old witch, too weary to care what anyone—with the exception of Richard and Maggie—thought of me.
The rain came down in sheets. Maggie covered her head with her arms as we ran for the car. I was thankful I hadn't locked it. Once inside, Maggie tried to fluff her flattened hair. She looked absolutely ridiculous. I couldn't help but laugh.
"Hey," she protested as I leaned over to kiss her.
"You make me happy," I told her.
"You make me happy, too. But I'm hungry. Let's go!"
"Okay, okay."
I started the car, feeling better than I had in hours. We buckled up and I pulled onto the road.
I like to drive without distractions, but prolonged silence unnerves Maggie. She turned on the radio, playing with the scan button, trying to find a station. My attention was focused on the road when suddenly bright headlights appeared uncomfortably close behind us. Richard doesn't drive like a maniac, and the blinding lights were too high up to be the Buick. Right on my ass, they obliterated everything else in the rearview mirror.
Then it bumped us.
"Hey," Maggie cried, bracing herself against the dash.
I gripped the wheel, pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor and sped up, but the vehicle leapt forward and tapped my bumper again.
A car whipped by in the oncoming lane. The vehicle behind me made to pass, or so I thought. Instead its driver rammed me in the side.
"Who's doing this?" Maggie wailed.
I recognized the make as it smashed into us again—a Chevy Blazer 4x4. I held the steering wheel in a death grip, but the wet pavement and the force of the blow sent us skidding. Then we hit that spot in the road that I knew so well. Suddenly we were airborne, shooting like a projectile off the asphalt and into infinite space.
The Chevy hit the ground nostrils first, and then somersaulted ass over end. Papers and maps flew wildly around us. The Chevy righted itself before smashing into the earth, momentum gouging a trench as it carried us along the bottom of the embankment. A utility pole loomed. Maggie's screams seemed endless until the squeal of tearing metal and shattering glass obliterated them.
Chapter 14
My senses returned one at a time.
Sound registered first—a hissing noise. The radiator?
The car listed at almost a forty-five degree angle. I hung from my seat belt and shoulder harness like a snagged parachutist. It had kept me from going through the windshield, but my neck and chest were on fire, and my insides felt jumbled, like they'd gone through a Cuisinart. The interior of the car was dark, but the beam of the left headlight cut a narrow shaft through the darkness outside.
"Maggie?" I croaked.
There was no movement from the seat beside me. I grasped her elbow. She didn't react.
"Maggie!"
The driver's door was wrenched open, the dome light flashing on. "Jeff? Jeff, are you all right?"
I moved my head and winced. "Rich?"
"Are you okay? Is anything broken?"
"Get me out of here." I struggled with the seat belt but it wouldn't release.
"Hold on. Let me make sure you're all right before—"
"I'm okay—Maggie's hurt!"
He grabbed me by the waistband of my jeans, reached around me and wrestled with the seat belt latch, then hauled me out before I could fall onto Maggie. He leaned me against the rear door, held up two fingers. "How many?"
"You asked me that last night. It's still two!"
"Okay!" He went in after Maggie.
The dome lamp shed scant light. I watched him gently pull back the hair from her face. Blood stained the crazed glass on the passenger side window.
"Got a flashlight?" he asked.
While I fumbled under the driver's seat, Richard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Carrying them was a habit he’d gotten into after attending to an injured man some three months before. The threat of HIV still hung over him. It was something we didn’t talk about.
Hands shaking, I gave Richard the flashlight. He moved back inside the car and peeled back one of Maggie's eyelids and shined the light.
"Maggie? Maggie, it's Richard. Can you hear me?"
She showed no reaction.
"She's got a pulse and she's breathing." Richard unbuckled her seat belt, checking her over for broken bones, careful how he touched her head. "So far nothing seems to be out of place.”
Richard reached for her right leg and swore. The flashlight's beam ran across the twisted door. "We've got a lot of blood here, but she doesn't seem impaled." He set the flashlight on the dash.
"Where're the seat controls.”
"In the front somewhere.”
He fumbled with the seat in the dim light.
The odor of gasoline grew stronger. Except for sparking wires dangling from the pole above us—telephone or power?—I couldn't see a damn thing in the darkness.
"Rich, the gas tank's ruptured.”
"As long as there's no fire, we should be all right. The rain will help dissipate it." He pulled the lever and the seat jerked back an inch or so—no more. He gave up, crouching over Maggie and swearing. I strained to see what he was doing when suddenly he sat back, fumbling with the belt at his waist.
"What're you doing?"
"There's too much blood. We've got to stop it.”
My insides churned. "Shouldn't we get her out of the car first?"
"There’s no time.”
I watched helplessly as he stuck a hand under her thigh, brought the belt up,
shoved the loose end through the buckle and pulled it taut—an instant tourniquet just I above the knee.
"Is there a hospital or a fire station nearby?" he asked, his voice remarkably calm.
"The fire department is in the village—next to the police station.”
For a split second, his face registered indecision. Then, "No time to wait for help. We'll put her in the back of the wagon. The keys are inside. Go open the gate. Put the back seat down.”
I turned, running—stumbling up the embankment and practically skidded to a halt in front of the old car. I yanked the keys from the ignition, and then slipped on the wet gravel on my way to the back. The gate flew open, but I had no clue how to get the back seat to lay flat.
"Jeff!"
Frantic, I hopped inside. Searching the seat's top and sides, I finally found the catch and folded it flat.
"Jeff!"
I slid on my backside down the muddy hillside to the hulk of my car. The Chevy had shifted. Above it a power line writhed like a snake, with sparks dancing from it.
My God—the ruptured gas tank!
Cradling her head and neck, Richard backed out, pulling Maggie's dead weight across the shifter, then stopped, struggled out of the car, reached back in, and then dragged her some more.
"Help me! Careful of her leg.”
Richard took most of her weight, frantically trying to support her neck as we half-dragged, half-carried her up the rain-slick embankment. A whoosh broke the night as the Chevy went up in a huge, orange fireball—the force of the explosion rolling over us like the concussion from a bomb.
I stumbled and swayed.
"Jeff," Richard hollered, his voice keeping me alert. We staggered the last ten feet to the back of the wagon. "Support her head," he ordered, as he transferred her weight to me before he crawled inside the back of the car. He took her from me and carefully pulled her inside. Scrunched alongside her, Richard shoved a hand into his pocket, grabbed his clean handkerchief, caught my hand and slapped it against Maggie's mangled calf.
"Hold this.”
When he removed the belt, her warm blood gushed into the cotton.
"What're you doing?" "Moving the tourniquet farther down her leg." He struggled out of his jacket, tucked it around her head like padding, then reached for her throat to take her pulse.
"She's in deep shock. We've got to get her some help—now!" He looked up at me. "Can you drive?"
"Yeah," I answered automatically.
He pushed my hand aside, taking the sodden handkerchief. "Do it!"
I slammed the gate, jumped into the car, jabbed the key into the ignition and started it, then fumbled with the controls on the dash until I turned on the dome light.
The flames from my car reached into the dark night as I shoved the Buick into gear and took off, gravel flying, heading for the center of town.
We flew down the road, past hotels with no-vacancy signs and deserted strip malls with all the stores closed. Traffic was sparse. I ran a red light, turned the corner and gunned it until I saw the fire station lit up like a beacon in the night. A police cruiser sat under the sodium vapor lamp. I pulled in, braked and honked the horn.
"I'm going in," I told Richard, then I jumped out of the car and ran.
The lady cop who'd driven Maggie and me back to the inn sat perched on the edge of a desk, drinking coffee with a uniformed fireman. Her face went blank as I skidded to a halt in front of them.
"We were in an accident! My girlfriend's hurt bad." They spilled their coffee as their cups hit the table with a thunk.
The cop shoved me back outside. "They're on a call," she said, her sweeping hand taking in the empty station as we ran.
"My brother's a doctor—he's with her.”
The cop ducked into the still-open driver's side of the wagon. "What've you got?"
"Lower extremity—possible torn artery, and a head injury. "
"Jesus," she breathed.
"Can you give us an escort to a hospital?"
"The nearest one's in Morrisville—about nine miles north of here.”
"Have they got a c-collar or gauze inside? I need a pressure bandage!"
I yanked the keys out of the ignition once more, ran to the back of the wagon and opened the gate.
The firefighter pushed past me, bogged down with a big tackle-box-like first-aid kit, a backboard, and a couple of blankets.
Richard grabbed a blanket, shoving it under Maggie's injured leg.
I stood back, feeling useless.
The fireman donned surgical gloves before he opened the back door. He secured the collar around Maggie's neck while Richard set up the dressing on her leg.
I couldn't take in their shorthand conversation, spoken in medical jargon. The rain and the chill air seeped straight into my bones. I peered through the rain-dotted window. Maggie's pale, slack face looked bloodless under the eerie yellow light. Usually she's an extension of my soul—a calming influence that's a pleasure to glom onto. My connection to her was now shattered. She breathed so shallowly I was scared to death she might stop.
"What happened?" the lady cop demanded of me.
I tore my gaze from Maggie. "We ... were forced off the road. A black Blazer four-by-four. We got her out of the car—it blew up."
"Fire?"
I nodded.
"Where?" she demanded.
"A mile or two back up the road."
"The Mountain Road?"
"Yes."
"I'll call it in and alert the hospital we're coming in." She dashed back into the building.
Richard and the fireman maneuvered Maggie onto the backboard.
I stood there, soaked by the pouring rain, feeling stupid and useless.
The officer was back. "Whenever you're ready," she told Richard.
"Let's go!"
“Good luck,” the fireman called as we took off.
The drive to Morrisville was the longest twenty minutes of my life. Richard and I didn’t speak—I was too scared to ask any questions, but he spoke to Maggie, telling her she’d be okay, his voice calm and reassuring, though I doubted she could hear a word. By the time the lights of the town appeared, the muscles in my arms were quivering from my death grip on the steering wheel.
The police cruiser slowed and cut its siren. We pulled up in front of the hospital's emergency entrance. A team of people in scrubs descended on the car, their voices a tangle that was impossible to comprehend.
Richard squirmed out the back of the wagon. In a fluid motion, they transferred Maggie to a gurney and whisked her inside, with Richard still holding onto the pressure bandage.
"You can park over there," the lady cop told me.
Still on autopilot, I did as I was told, yanked the keys from the ignition and sprinted for the emergency entrance. The automatic doors whooshed open—the bright fluorescent lights stung my eyes. The cop was waiting for me.
"Do you need help, sir?" The urgency had left her voice.
"What?"
"Were you injured in the crash?"
"I ... I don't know. I don't think so."
"Sit down." She pushed me into a chair. A minute or so later she returned with a nurse.
The matronly, gray-haired woman in a white polyester pantsuit held a clipboard in one hand, and a pen in the other. "Are you a relative or friend of the patient they just brought in?"
"She's my girlfriend.”
"I need to ask you some questions. Are you okay to answer?"
"I think so.”
She sat beside me.
"Was it a car accident? Was she wearing a seat belt?"
I nodded and winced. "Yeah. "
She asked me about the accident before getting to Maggie's name, age, and address. Did she have allergies? Was she taking medication? Alarmed, I found I couldn't answer even the most basic questions on her medical history.
The nurse studied my face. "You look pretty shook up. Our staff is small, but we'll check you out as soon as we can, okay?"
; I nodded, grateful for her kindness. She smiled, patted my shoulder, and disappeared.
The policewoman was back at my elbow, pressing a cup of vending machine coffee into my hand. Double sugared, it tasted terrible. Shaky, I sipped it anyway.
She sat beside me, a notepad in hand. "Where exactly did the accident take place?"
It took a moment for the facts to assemble in my brain. "Route 108, about two miles north of the fire station.
"Do you think you could identify the car that hit you?" For a split second the Blazer's back end had been illuminated in the glow of my headlights. Until that moment I hadn't made the connection between the vision and reality.
"Colorado," I whispered, closed my eyes and remembered in photographic detail what I had seen. "Colorado license plate FWP-284.”
"Are you sure?" she asked, sounding skeptical.
"Yes.”
"Because Vermont and Colorado plates are similar—both green and white.”
I shook my aching head. "There were snowy mountains. It said Colorado.”
"And you say the truck deliberately hit you?"
"It was a Blazer. Too bad my car went up in flames—you'd have seen the black paint on the driver's side.”
She asked me where we'd been headed, if I knew a reason why someone would do this, and I don't know what else. The interrogation exhausted me. Finally, she promised she'd call a wrecker to tow what was left of my car. Someone would follow up on our case tomorrow.
Great, now we were somebody's case.
She patted my shoulder, wished me luck and left me alone.
Time dragged.
My heart pounded endlessly. Could that much adrenaline pumping through you for hours on end be detrimental?
Half an hour passed and Richard hadn't reappeared.
That was okay. If he were with Maggie, he'd make sure she got the best care ... professional courtesy and all that.
I looked down at myself. Maggie's blood stained my shirt and pants, making me look like I'd dived into the slops of a slaughterhouse. I got up and asked the woman at the reception desk where to find the men's room, then staggered off in that direction.
Leaning against the counter, I avoided looking at my reflection in the mirror. As I washed the blood from my hands, my gaze strayed. Red-rimmed eyes looked back at me. My stiff neck and chest ached like I'd gone nine rounds with a heavyweight champ. I raised my shirt. Red and purple welts—the beginnings of bruises where the seat belt had saved me—were livid.
