Burned Page 13

  “Dispatch from Rescue Forty-Three. Go ahead,” Jackson said into the radio.

  “RP has stated the car is south of the ranch at three-four-six-three Woods Road,” the female dispatch operator said. “Off the side of the road and down the hill.”

  “Copy that,” Jackson said as he strode through the narrow white-walled hallway.

  Inside the bay, he pulled his bunkers from his locker and proceeded to don them.

  Once they were in the red rescue rig with Griffin behind the wheel, they exited the bay to head to the call.

  The medic unit followed next. The engine trailed behind.

  Jackson lifted his radio to his lips and said, “Dispatch, this is Rescue Forty-Three, en route to Woods Road MVA.”

  “Rescue Forty-Three en route to Woods Road MVA,” the dispatch operator repeated.

  Jackson clipped the radio back on his coat lapel and glanced at Griffin. “You know where Woods Road is, right, Grifter?”

  “Do I know where Woods Road is,” Griffin said with a snort. “How long have I lived here? Singer Springs cain’t be that big.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a pretty lonely road. A lot of losers and users up there. Wasn’t there a meth house bust up there a few years back?”

  “I think so,” Jackson said. His mood had shifted when the tone sounded. Every time he got toned out, he focused on the moment. His adrenaline pumped, and it was “all hands on deck” patient care until the patient had been loaded for transport or else determined to not need to go to the hospital.

  They sped through downtown, past the tastefully painted and artfully decorated mash-up of buildings old and new, and headed toward the neighborhoods tucked in the verdant green hills.

  Griffin turned the rescue engine up Black Mountain Road. They wound their way up into the hills. Then, he turned left on Woods Road, a narrow, windier street.

  Jackson peered out the window, trying to read the address on a metal mailbox. “This is three-four-five-four. Three-four-six-three should be next. Keep your eyes peeled for any sign of an accident.”

  Griffin leaned forward, squinting, and pointed. “Like a broken fence and tire tracks?”

  “That’s as good a sign as any,” Jackson said.

  Griffin pulled the rig off the road and hopped out of the driver’s side. Jackson followed him.

  “Dispatch from Rescue Forty-Three,” Jackson said into the radio after pulling it from his pocket.

  “Rescue Forty-Three, go ahead,” the female said.

  “We’re on scene at Woods Road,” he said.

  Dispatch repeated back what she heard.

  Then, he said, “Initiating command and investigating.” He turned to Griffin and said, “Get a TIC. I’ve got some cutters in my pocket for the valves, and I’ll grab a fire extinguisher.”

  As he and Griffin made their way down the steep incline, both the engine and the medic rig lumbered up the hill. Both vehicles parked. Within minutes, the area was flooded with light.

  Jackson swept his flashlight beam down the hill. Ahead lay a mangled four-door sedan. The nose of the vehicle was wedged up a Douglas fir. The hood of the car now sported a “V” where the tree collided with the vehicle. The windshield had been shattered. The driver’s side door had been crushed.

  This one, he knew, was going to be bad. His job was to bear witness and provide next steps to help the victims find their way out of the tragedy that had ensnared them. If tragedy befell Blaire, he didn’t know if could remain so calm. He hoped he didn’t have to be tested in that way. But if his life thus far was any predictor, he knew he’d be dragged through the wringer.

  Chapter 16

  Jackson shoved all thoughts of Blaire and his currently derailed relationship from his mind and gazed at the mangled vehicle a few yards ahead. He and Blaire would have time to sort things out. The occupants of this vehicle might not have that luxury.

  Chilled silence shrouded the woods. Overhead stars twinkled, providing soft illumination to a tragic event.

  He turned to Griffin. “You take the outer perimeter. I’ll be on the inside.”

  “Got it,” Griffin said. He moved the thermal imaging camera side to side away from the vehicle, checking for a heat signature indicating a body.

  Jackson eyed the vehicle. It seemed securely wedged in the tree.

  He cut the valves on the back tires with his pocket knife to deflate them and stabilize the vehicle. The car rocked slightly as the air whooshed from the rubber. The back bumper settled into the grass and mud.

  “I’ve got one body, Hollerback,” Griffin shouted from the woods. “It’s got no pulse.”

  Jackson shone his light inside the vehicle. Another body—a young kid—lay lifeless in the back seat, eyes open, staring at nothing. Blood seeped from his chest.

  Aluminum cans littered the seat and floor, and the stench of beer wafted into the air. A minuscule line of smoke trailed from what looked to be a joint on the floor.

  A third body stirred in the driver’s seat, slumped over the wheel. Directing the beam at the driver revealed a young kid, maybe thirteen or so. Blood covered his face. Faint movement in his chest let Jackson know he was still alive.

  Damn, no way this kid is driving age.

  “I’ve got two inside the vehicle,” he said to Griffin. “You find any more out in the woods?”

  “Nope. Just the one. Still looking.” The brush swished, and branches snapped from Griffin’s movement. “We’ve got another one.”

  “Status?”

  “He’s got a pulse.”

  Another voice near Griffin rang out. “Where am I? What happened?”

  “You’re going to have to tell us,” Griffin said.

  “Oh, shit, we’re in so much trouble,” the youngish sounding voice said. A loud crash sounded, and a preteen boy lurched out of the woods, limping. His denim jacket bore several tears. Blood streaked his shirt and pants. He spied the car, and his hands went up to his head. He whirled around. “Oh, shit. We’re in so much trouble,” he repeated.

  “Calm down, son, I need to check you out,” Griffin said. “Can you just sit here with me until we can look you over?”

  “Oh, shit,” the kid said, for the third time. His legs gave way, and he slumped to the ground.

  “Can we get a couple of medics down here?” Griffin shouted up the hill. He turned to the youth and said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  The kid shook his head over and over. “No way. We’re in so much trouble.”

  Mark and Cassandra appeared at the top of the hill and began making steady progress down the wet grass, medical kits in hand.

  “Can you tell me how many kids were in the car?” Griffin said.

  “Four of us. There were four of us. You can’t tell the cops. Please don’t tell the cops.”

  “I’ve got to do my job, son,” Griffin said. “And my first order of business is to make sure you’re okay.”

  Cassandra and Mark closed the distance.

  Cassandra crouched and said, “Hi, I’m Cassandra.” She held out her hand to shake the youth’s hand. “I’m going to check you out, okay? Let’s see what’s going on.”

  Jackson turned away and lifted his radio to his lips. “Dispatch from Rescue Forty-Three.”

  “Rescue Forty-Three, go ahead.”

  “We’ve got two black patients, one yellow, and one red patient at Woods Road.”

  Dispatch repeated, “Two black patients, one yellow, and one red patient. Do you need additional?”

  “Not at this time,” he said. He wiggled the radio back inside his pocket and then turned to the firefighters up the hill. “Let’s get this vehicle stabilized with struts. Bring the Hurst tool, too.”

  “Struts and Jaws of Life,” one of the firefighters repeated. “You got it.”

  Jackson lifted his illumination higher to direct it inside the driver’s shattered window.

  “Can you hear me?” he said to the youth in the front seat.

  The y
outh’s head lolled to the side.

  “Just stay put,” Jackson said. “Don’t move. We’re going to get you out of here. Do you know where you are?”

  “At camp,” the kid mumbled.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Jackson said.

  The kid grunted.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  The kid moaned.

  “Can you hear me? Where do you hurt?”

  Random words, like, “pizza, milk, and cheese,” emerged from his mouth.

  “Okay, son, just hang tight. We’re going to get you out of there and get you to the hospital.”

  The kid made no more noise. His face appeared pale, and his breathing grew rapid.

  Firefighters tromped toward the car with stabilization and extrication tools.

  A volunteer firefighter and EMT, Lieutenant Campbell, made her way down the hill with her bag.

  A whistle came from above. “Hollerback!”

  Jackson pivoted.

  His duty officer, Chief Menendez, stood at the top of the hill. “Come on up and report in.”

  Before laboring up the steep incline, Jackson turned to Lt. Campbell and said, “The kid is incoherent, and looks like he’s in shock. I’ll bet he’s crashing. You can see to him once they’ve stabilized the car, okay?”

  Lt. Campbell nodded. “He’s pretty young to be driving a car.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jackson said.

  He trundled up the hill. Once he reached the top of the rise, he caught sight of Captain MacHugh emerging from his department pickup truck. Jackson’s stomach clenched.

  MacHugh limped as he made his way from the vehicle. He always limped. God only knew why. Probably some old war wound or something.

  Since joining the department, Jackson had heard tirades about MacHugh’s brother who “never had to work a day in his life to earn his fucking wealth,” and the world in general—“these millennials and their sense of entitlement.” As a result of whatever circumstances MacHugh had endured but refused to let go, he seemed to derive pleasure in eliciting either pity or fear from those around him. In Jackson’s mind, he was a bitter old washout who should be fired.

  MacHugh employed an old school approach to discipline and training. When Jackson studied to become a firefighter at the fire academy, MacHugh had often berated him, telling him to “drop and give me twenty.” Any protests from Jackson about being certain he hadn’t signed up for the Army resulted in phrases like, “Pull up your big boy britches, O’Halloran, and act like a man—oh wait, you’re barely out of diapers,” or, “I knew you wouldn’t make it. You’re hanging on by a thin thread.”

  Jackson had graduated at the top of his class, but to MacHugh he was nothing but a loser. Complaints to the chief had resulted in an uneasy standoff between Jackson and MacHugh. MacHugh ignored Jackson, and Jackson ignored MacHugh, as much as one could ignore hate vibes being directed his way.

  Jackson beelined for Menendez, making an obvious show of disregarding MacHugh all while being aware of his every move.

  He stopped next to Menendez. “Chief.”

  MacHugh stood to Jackson’s left, and his skin crawled. He could feel MacHugh’s gaze slithering along his face.

  “Hollerback,” Chief Menendez said. “Give me the skinny.”

  “Oh, yes,” MacHugh said. “Tell us what you’ve done this time.”

  A frown flitted across Jackson’s face. What the fuck does that mean? “You mean, how did I do my job, sir?”

  “MacHugh,” Menendez said.

  “It’s okay, chief. MacHugh takes great pleasure in knowing how good I am at my job since he was one of my instructors at the academy.” Jackson allowed a cold smile to form on his face. He directed it at MacHugh. Then, he began his report, filling Menendez and MacHugh in on what they had found and what had been done to date.

  A beat-up pickup truck sped down the road in their direction, shattering the tension between Jackson and MacHugh.

  “Holy shit,” Jackson exclaimed, glad his rig stood between him and the chief and the lunatic driver.

  The truck screeched to a stop, and the driver’s door flew open. A skinny man with a balding head leaped from the seat.

  “Where’s my boy? Where is he?” His arms flapped wildly all around. He glanced down the hill. “Oh, Lord. That’s my car. I knew he done got into trouble.”

  A plain-looking woman, dressed in baggy pants and an overcoat, slid from the passenger’s seat. Her mousy brown hair had been pushed back with a scarf. “Martin, this is your fault.”

  “How is it my fault?” He whirled to face her. His cheeks turned red and mean-looking.

  “You don’t hold him accountable. You let those boys run wild like a pack of feral dogs.”

  Jackson cringed at the “accountable” word. There it was again. Same as with the drug dealer Jovantay, same as with that prick Karlos, and same with Jake—people had to be held accountable for their actions.

  Martin’s arm cocked back.

  The woman cringed and put her hands in front of her face.

  Jackson lunged and caught the man’s wrist before they added domestic violence to the scene. The fire department advised safety first in its members, but instinct was instinct. And hitting women was something Jackson abhorred. Which makes me want to castrate the asshole who harmed Blaire.

  “Sir, let’s cool our jets for a minute,” he said.

  The Jaws of Life motor cut through the air, along with the verbal noise of his team.

  Chief Menendez slid behind the bumper of the Rescue Truck, probably to contact law enforcement.

  Martin wrestled out of Jackson’s grip. “I need to see my boy. Is he okay?”

  The woman stood wringing her hands, staring down the hill. Her face held so many bottled up emotions, it was difficult to tell which one was going to prevail.

  Jackson knew the look well. He’d grown up with it. Each person in the Port Coyote trailer park bore that expression. Indulging in feelings was a luxury when people were that poor.

  “So, what happened? Is my boy okay?” Martin said.

  The woman began to weep.

  “Hush,” Martin said sharply, giving her an intense glare.

  The woman’s face reddened, and she choked her display of emotion down somewhere deep inside.

  Jackson eyed them both, hoping law enforcement arrived soon. “We’re working on getting your son out of the vehicle and to the hospital. We’ll do our best to make sure he gets the care he needs. Can you tell me why he’s in the driver’s seat, sir? He doesn’t look driving age.”

  Martin’s wife glanced at her husband.

  He made a subtle shake of his head.

  Jackson exhaled slowly, willing himself to calm. “I’m not the police, sir. They’ll be here shortly, however. I’m just trying to get an accurate picture of what happened.”

  Martin directed a beady-eyed gaze at Jackson. “He helps around the farm, some with chores and such. He ain’t allowed to take the car on the road, though.”

  Silent tears tracked down the wife’s cheeks. She wrung her hands so hard, Jackson thought she might extrude blood and bone from her cracked skin.

  “Well, it seems he took the car on the road tonight with three other kids,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” the wife wailed.

  “Martha,” Martin said in a clipped voice. He directed his attention toward Jackson. “Who else was in the car? Are they okay?”

  “Two of the passengers didn’t make it,” Jackson stated.

  Martha fell to her knees and dropped her head in her hand. “Oh, those poor boys.”

  “Martha,” Martin repeated in the same harsh tone.

  This time she ignored him.

  The throbbing flash of red lights indicated the local police had arrived. The police vehicle pulled up next to Jackson. A guy Jackson didn’t recognize emerged from the vehicle.

  “Evening, folks,” he said, inclining his hat.

  “Officer,” Jackson said.

  “I’v
e got this,” Menendez said. “You get on down to the vehicle and assist with extrication.”

  Jackson nodded, glad to get back to the scene rather than deal with the grief and rage of the kid’s parents. As he made his way toward the accident, he allowed himself one brief moment of thought about his situation with Blaire. Tonight’s activities proved, yet again, about the importance of accountability. People had to own up to their mistakes and, sadly, sometimes pay for them with the lives of their loved ones. The thought of anything or anyone harming Blaire felt like a rusty knife to the gonads. In that split second, he vowed to do whatever it took to set things right—if, she still wanted to talk to him. And, given his luck earlier today, that option might not be available to him. He couldn’t help but wonder if his shitty upbringing and emotional scars would prove a liability to going the distance in a relationship. Time would only tell.

  Chapter 17

  Jackson stared at his bleary face in the mirror of the station bathroom. His eyes were lined with dark rings of fatigue.

  I look like hell.

  He’d only slept for about three hours, but his shift was over soon. Last night’s call weighed heavily on his mind.

  The kid who had collided with the tree died on the way to the hospital at around one in the morning. His brain stem, which had been partially severed in the crash, had completely detached from the jostling up the hill on the backboard and the bumpy ride to the emergency room. Jackson told himself that the kid wouldn’t have made it anyway, but a failure like that always nipped at his soul.

  At least his parents got to say goodbye.

  There would be investigations into the accident, reports filed, blame cast, and excuses made. But no one could erase the grief the parents of the dead kids would be faced with, nor the lingering sorrow the lone survivor would have to live with for the rest of his life.

  Jackson wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed when he got home at nine-thirty in the morning and fall into oblivion.

  But sleeping would have to wait. He’d texted Blaire sometime during all his chaos and told her they needed to talk and he needed to apologize.

  She’d texted back one letter: K.