She Tries To Forget Ch. 18

Passion in James County XVI

Martin Flannigan was just getting off the Interstate when alert tones began coming from the two-way radio mounted in his car.

"Emergency Operations dispatching Medic One, Ambulance Twelve, Engine Twelve, Rescue Two," the dispatcher said. "We have a report of a vehicle over the bank on Route 11, about a mile up the mountain."

"Operations to James County Five and Seven," the sheriff's department dispatcher said, immediately after the fire department dispatcher finished. "We have a reported MVA, vehicle over the bank, Route 11, about a mile up the mountain. The State Patrol is responding, their officer has an ETA of ten to fifteen minutes."

"Damn!" Martin thought while he listened to the fire and police units acknowledging the call. "Hell, that's not more than a couple of minutes from here! I can get there before anyone else does!" He grabbed the radio mike. "Operations from James County A-1," he said.

"Go ahead, A-1," the dispatcher replied.

"I'm near that MVA," Martin said, "I'm responding."

"Copy, A-1," the dispatcher said.

Martin pressed down on the accelerator and flipped the switches that activated the flashing blue warning lights on his unmarked car. He probably wouldn't need them at this time of night, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Two minutes later, his headlights swept around a sharp curve and he saw a motorcycle parked beside the road. The person standing beside it saw his car's flashing lights and began waving.

Martin braked, drove past the motorcycle, pulled to the side of the road, and stopped. "Operations from A-1," he said into the microphone. "I'm off at the scene. I'll have a report for you in a minute."

"Copy, A-1," the dispatcher said.

He grabbed his portable radio and flashlight and got out of his car. A short, stocky, bearded man wearing a black leather jacket came running up to him.

"There's a truck down there!" the man yelled, waving toward the side of the road.

"Is there anyone in it?" Martin asked, starting toward the spot the biker had indicated. He swept the beam of his flashlight along the side of the road and saw the skid marks, and the spot where the vehicle had gone over the bank. In the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens and air horns. The sounds were faint, though. It would be several minutes before the fire department arrived.

"I...I didn't check," the biker panted. "I...I saw the skid marks, spotted the truck, and went down to town and called you guys."

Martin played the beam of his light down the hill. He could see the truck, badly damaged, laying against a tree over a hundred feet from where he stood. The bank was steep and rugged. He debated trying to get down to the truck and decided it would be better to wait for the firemen, who had ropes.

He put his portable radio to his mouth. "Operations from A-1," he said, "Confirming we have a vehicle, a pickup truck, over the bank at this location. Unknown whether it is occupied or if there are any injuries at this time."

Martin had just completed his report when he heard what sounded like a little "Poof!" He glanced down the hill and saw tongues of flame licking out from under the wrecked truck. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed. "Operations from A-1, tell fire and rescue to step on it. The vehicle is on fire!"

"10-4, A-1," the dispatcher responded.

Without thinking, Martin started down the bank, even as the sounds of sirens drew closer. If that fire got too much worse, anybody in that truck had no chance whatever. Maybe, if he could get down the bank in time, he could do something.

Martin slipped and slid down the bank, barely keeping his balance most of the time, oblivious to the branches that tore his clothes and ripped his skin.

By the time he reached the truck the fire was burning brighter. The fire, while presenting a very real danger, did help light the scene for him. He peered into the truck and saw a body slumped over the steering wheel, held upright by the seatbelt and shoulder harness. The driver looked like a young man, and the side of his head was bloody.

Martin tried the door, but it was jammed. The window was broken, so he reached in and fumbled for the seatbelt latch, but couldn't find it. He could feel the heat of the fire on his right side, and reached into his pocket for his folding knife. He got the knife out, opened it, and slashed at the seatbelt once, then twice, and finally felt it snap free. The truck was leaning to the right, and the minute the belt was released the unconscious driver began sliding in that direction, but Martin grabbed him.

"Damn!" he thought as he struggled to get the driver out of the truck, "He's a big one!" He pulled on the limp man, trying to get him up and out through the truck's window. Slowly, the bulky body began to slip through the window. Martin braced his feet against the side of the truck and kept pulling frantically.

"Hang on, we're coming down!" someone yelled from up above.

The flames licking at the back of the truck were much brighter now. All of a sudden there was a loud explosion as one of the truck's rear tires, or maybe the spare, exploded from the heat.

The shock of hearing the bursting tire gave Martin a burst of extra energy. All of a sudden, the limp person he was tugging on came shooting out of the truck's cab. Martin lost his footing and went over backwards. He hit the ground and felt the breath being forced from him when the man he'd pulled out of the truck landed on top of him.

The next thing Martin knew, men were yelling and the man lying atop him was being removed and laid next to him. The face of a man in a firefighter's bunker gear loomed over his. "You OK?" the man asked.

"As...as soon as...as I...as I get my breath back I-I will be," Martin gasped. He looked around. Other firefighters were spraying water on the burning truck, quenching the flames.

"Stay where you are," the firefighter told Martin. "The paramedic and EMT's will be down in a second."

"I'm fine," Martin said. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I just had the wind knocked out of me when he fell on me." He looked at the man lying next to him. "How's he doing?"

"Hard to say," the firefighter replied. "He sure as hell don't look too good."

"Can you give me a hand getting up the hill?" Martin asked.

"Why don't you wait for the medics?" the firefighter asked.

"Because I don't need them," Martin said, "I need to get up the goddamn hill!"

"Yeah, OK, be cool," the firefighter said. "Come on. We got a rope over there, I'll give you a hand."

It was almost as hard getting back up the bank as it had been coming down, and it took a lot longer, but Martin made it. He found Sheriff's Deputy Linda Tate and Sergeant Mick Norris waiting at the top.

"Hey, Cap," Mick said, "You shoulda waited until we got here. You're too old for this shit."

"Tell me about it," Martin panted. "You ID the driver or vehicle yet?"

"Registration on the truck comes back to Walter and Wilma Ames, Jamestown," Deputy Tate told him.

"Ames?" Martin said. Why did that name sound so familiar? "Damn!" he exclaimed.

"What's the matter, Cap?" Mick Norris asked. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Martin said. "I think I may know who that is down there."

"He a friend of yours?" Deputy Tate asked.

Martin shook his head. "A friend of a friend of mine," he told her. "Damn," he thought, "If that's Lonnie Ames down there, Ann's really going to be destroyed. I wonder if that Lewis guy had anything to do with this?"

"The fire department guys will have him up here in a minute, Cap," Mick Norris said, "I'll see if I can get ID off him once they do."

A loud roaring, slapping sound, accompanied by a shower of brilliant light interrupted Martin's thoughts as the Trauma Flight helicopter clattered over them and swept it's powerful searchlight over the crash scene. The chopper moved up the hill a short way, then settled to earth in the scenic overlook next to the road, the rotor kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

Mick Norris walked over to Martin. "Got the driver's ID," he said.

"He's Lonnie Ames, right?" Martin said.

Mick nodded. "How'd you know?"

"How is he?" Martin asked.

Mick shook his head. "Medics say it looks like he might have a fractured skull," he said, "And they figure he could be pretty messed up inside, too."

Martin watched the fire-medics lay Lonnie on the ambulance stretcher, then they slid the stretcher into the ambulance and drove the short distance up the hill to where the helicopter sat waiting, it's rotor turning slowly. Before long, the helicopter's turbine engine began whining, the rotor began spinning faster and faster, and eventually the flying ambulance began to rise from the ground.

While the helicopter clattered overhead, enroute to the University Medical Center Trauma Unit in Jamestown, one of the fire-medics walked over to Martin. "You OK, Captain Flannigan?" he asked. "Guys said you were down there, looked pretty banged up."

"I'm fine," Martin said. "Just a little bruised, you know?"

"Why don't you come over to the ambulance so we can check you out?" the medic asked.

When he climbed into the lighted patient compartment of the ambulance, Martin realized for the first time how badly he'd damaged his clothing. His pants and shirt were both ripped, and he had bruises and scratches all over his arms and legs, and even a couple of pretty big scratches on his face.

"Ow! Damn!" he complained while the EMT's cleaned his injuries off with antiseptic pads. "Can't you guys find something to use that doesn't hurt?"

Mick Norris came over to the ambulance. "State Patrol finally got here," he said. "The troopers going to take over the investigation. I'm going to leave Linda here to help him and go notify the family."

"If you don't mind, I'll do that," Martin said.

Mick laughed. "Have you taken a good look at yourself, Cap?" he asked. "You go to their door looking like that, they're gonna call the cops on you."

"There's a clean pair of coveralls in the back seat of my car," Martin said, "go get them for me, will you Mick?" He pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to the deputy. He wasn't sure why he felt a need to notify Lonnie Ames' parents in person, but he did. And there was one more person he had to notify, too, and he dreaded that even more than telling Lonnie's parents.

A half-hour later, Martin pulled up in front of the darkened house where Lonnie Ames lived. He advised operations where he was and what he was going to do, then he shut off his car, then he picked up the cellular phone hanging next to the two-way radio and dialed the hospital phone number.

"Trauma Center," a female voice said after the hospital's operator had connected Martin to the emergency department.

"This is Captain Martin Flannigan, James County Sheriff's Department," Martin said. "I'm about to make notification to the parents of the young man the helicopter brought in from Route 11. Can you give me an update on his condition?"

"Just a second, Captain Flannigan," the woman said, "I'll get Dr. McGee."

There was a brief, humming silence after she put the phone on "hold," then a male voice came on. "Dr. McGee, here, Captain Flannigan?"

"What can you tell me about Lonnie Ames, doc?" Martin asked.

"He has a fractured skull, and severe internal injuries. He's in surgery right now," the doctor said. "There was a lot of internal bleeding. If he hadn't come in by chopper, he wouldn't be alive now."

"What are his chances?" Martin asked.

"I'd say it's iffy right now," the doctor replied, "Even if he makes it through surgery, the head injury doesn't look good. We won't really be able to predict his chances for at least twenty-four hours."

"I'm at his folks' house right now," Martin said. "I'll tell them and bring them down."

"Don't fool around," the doctor said. "I'm not sure how well the kid's going to do. The sooner you get them here, the better."

Martin put the phone down, took a deep breath, got out of his car, and started up the walk to the Ames house.