Images dans la Nuit

I

It is late in the afternoon. An early Spring this year, he thinks, yesterday's air too cold, today's too warm. Too early for this kind of warmth, too soon for storms so big -- and he wonders: Is something amiss? He is driving on an Interstate, and there is a wall cloud ahead, the hanging cloud an unnatural shade of greenish-gray. Seeing a large freeway overpass ahead, he pulls over to the side of the road, just under the sheltering concrete, and watches the cloud as it falls and spreads. An instant later heavy hail pours from the sky, thunder rumbles overhead, and just a few hundred yards away lightning strikes a green highway sign, the arc transfixed in time for several seconds -- before blinking out of existence.

He leans forward, peers through the hail, and grabs the radio.

"3114, I have a funnel on the ground, I-20 at Spur 4-0-8."

"3114, at 1848 hours."

Seconds later warning sirens pierce the evening, and when hail turns to rain he ventures back onto the highway, paralleling the funnel cloud as it heads for a residential neighborhood...

"3114, notify Duncanville PD they have a funnel working, headed for the area between Clark and Cedar Ridge Road, headed south-southeast."

"3114, at 1851 hours."

The sun is setting and the air radiates green -- everywhere. The clouds are green, the wet streets a series of shattered green reflections, and he watches as high tension power lines twist in the green air over the Interstate, then snap -- showering green sparks as they snake their way down to the grass.

"3114, power lines down at 408, on the roadway; we're going to need to shut down the Interstate..."

"3114, at 1853 hours."

He stops on the left shoulder of the highway, strobes flashing, power lines writhing in agony a hundred yards away, and he gets out in the rain, places large orange cones across the roadway and stops motorists with an outstretched hand. More patrol cars arrive and, like a bleeding artery, the highway is clamped off. Power crews in cherry-pickers arrive, and soon traffic is backed up for miles in either direction.

"3110 to 3114."

"3114, go ahead."

"Duncanville and Cedar Hill are working a reported car washed off the road, Highway 67 just south of Danieldale Road. They're requesting a Rescue Diver, so I need you to clear and get over here."

"3114, code five."

"3114, at 1922 hours."

He cuts across the wide grassy median and runs Code 3, with lights and sirens, to Highway 67, and he heads south a few miles and stops behind a crowd of police and fire rescue vehicles. 3110, his district's evening watch shift sergeant, is waiting for him, watching as he gets out of his patrol car.

"You have your gear with you?" the sergeant asks.

"Everything but tanks," he advises.

"FD has three. Will you need more than that?"

"I doubt it. At these depths and water temps, two will last longer than I will. What's up?"

"Car washed off the road, about a hundred yards upstream from here. Witnesses advised it was a small car, hatchback maybe, red or dark orange. One witness states there are five people inside, two adults, three kids. Officers are walking the banks, and have found several deep holes where a car could get hung up."

He nodded, looked at the swollen river, the fast moving currents. "I'll need a couple of men holding a safety line..."

"Already got it rigged. But, well, there's a lot of stuff ripping through the water, branches, things like that. And, uh, it looks like there are a bunch of water moccasins in there, too."

"What?"

"In the first deep hole. I saw about fifty moccasins."

"Well, shoot the goddamn things! Run 'em off. I can't get in the water with that many snakes...I won't last a minute in there."

"Can they bite underwater?"

"They can bite anywhere they want, and I don't feel like getting' killed by a bunch of goddamn snakes tonight, sergeant."

A fireman, a Chief, walked up, and he was listening to their talk about snakes, then he spoke. "We can dump a few hundred gallons of gas upriver, let it run down; there won't be any snakes in the water for days after that. Fucks up their eyes, bad."

"As long as the EPA doesn't find out, you mean?"

"There could be survivors in the water," the Chief said. "We need to get you in as soon as possible. You think I care about what fuckin' EPA is gonna do?"

"Okay. If you think it'll work..."

"It does. Gimme about ten minutes."

"You better gear up," the sergeant said. "I'll get the tanks coming."

He went to the trunk, slid his duffel close to the edge and opened it, put on his wetsuit and booties, then his hood -- and with the warm, humid air after the storm he immediately broke out in a sweat. He grabbed his mask and fins, then his regulator/vest, and trudged down the road to a steep trail that led down to the river's edge.

"Can you have the firemen bring two tanks down to the hole?" he said to the sergeant, then he started off down the trail to water's edge. It was another hundred or so yards to the first hole, and he looked in the water as he walked along the water's edge, saw perhaps twenty moccasins writhing around in the watery gloom. Men started shining flashlights on them when he stopped at the hole, and he looked down at the water's edge, saw a half dozen white-mouthed, black skinned snakes coiled up on branches just beneath his feet. A patrolman walked up next to him, looked down at the snakes and chambered a round in his 870 pump and fired five rounds into the hive, and he watched bloody chunks break off and roll away in the churning water. He heard men wrestling SCUBA tanks down the trail, hauling them through the tangled brush, and he rigged one to his vest while men started shooting into the water, killing more snakes --

-- then the smell of gasoline became almost overpowering --

More lights shining in the water, no snakes on the surface, so he heaved the tanks over a shoulder and strapped the vest tight across his chest, then slipped his fins on. Someone handed him his mask, and he slipped that on too, and once he double checked his safety line he jumped into the water.

The water's force was remarkably strong, and he felt his body being pulled away from the bank. He turned, saw three men holding the safety line and he went under the surface, turned on his flashlight. The first thing he saw was a moccasin, it's bilious mouth snapping at his hands. He grabbed it behind the head and pulled on the line. Men pulled him to shore, saw the snake wrapped around his wrist, and someone leaned over, cut the snakes head off, and he fell back into the flow, submerged again, then kicked his way to the bottom. He saw a faint glow in the murky water below and swam for it, saw the headlights of an old Toyota in the swirling muck. He grabbed hold of the front bumper and pulled himself close, looked through the windshield, saw four people staring ahead, their eyes cold and lifeless, then he pulled himself around to the right side of the car. The back door had been pulled open and it dangled in the current by a broken hinge, so he went closer and saw an infant car seat strapped in the middle of the rear bench. It was empty, and he choked back a sob.

He swam upstream, against the current as best he could, poking into the branches and limbs that choked off the river in drier times, and after a half hour of poking through limbs he saw an infant's leg poking up out of a tangled mass of branches and garbage. He pushed through the limbs, got hold of the little leg and pulled a little girl's body free, then he pulled on the rope, swam for the surface, cradling the little girl's body to his own while men pulled him to shore.

He passed the little girl's body up to waiting hands, and he could feel the gasoline in the water working into his skin.

"Find anything else?" the fire chief called out.

He spat the regulator's mouthpiece from his mouth. "Yup, right below me, at about twenty feet. Four bodies, still in the car. Let me bring those up, then I'll hook up a tow line. Oh, better toss me a couple more lines while I'm up."

Someone shot him a thumb's up and he slipped beneath the water as soon as he had the new lines in hand, and he swam back down to the Toyota and tied one off to the bumper, then he swam around to the dangling door and reached in, cut away a seat belt and grabbed another little girl before the current could take hold and pull her free. He tied a bowline around her waist and pulled on the line, felt his body being pulled through the water until he broke surface once again, and he handed the girl up, waited for the line to be untied, then he dove, three more times, bringing up the other members of the family. He made one last dive and secured a braided metal tow line to attachment points under the front bumper, then hands pulled him free of the water. He was shivering by then, though his skin felt like it was on fire. The fumes wafted into his eyes, up his nose, causing him to wretch.

He saw them then, in all their sundered humanity. A mother and father, their three kids, laid out on the banks of the river like they were taking a nap. Firemen helped him out of his gear, then up to the highway, and they used a firehose to wash away the gasoline on his wetsuit, then from his skin, then they threw him towels. He had a spare change of clothes in his duffel and changed in the back of an ambulance, then the first bodies were brought up and he saw the little girl, the girl from the infant's car seat, and he had to turn away.

The sergeant was waiting for him outside on the highway.

"Sorry, but you're the only accident investigator working southwest tonight," the sergeant said, "and we've got a bad one over on Stemmons, by Love Field."

He nodded his head, walked back to his patrol car and took out his activity sheet, then checked in with dispatch, wrote down the location of the latest accident. He looked through the windshield, past the beating windshield wipers, as firemen loaded bodies into waiting ambulances, then he checked en route to the accident.

He drove through traffic with images of that kid's leg sticking up through branches down in the darkness, then he felt a snake wrapping around his wrist, saw it's fangs through the green water, snapping away.

II

He is steaming mad, or he is at least acting that way.

He is sitting behind the wheel, waiting for his rookie to get her seat belt on.

"Any time now would be good," he said, not a little sarcastically.

"Yessir."

"I think I meant sometime today."

"It's hung up on my goddamn holster," she said, almost crying.

"Jesus H Christ," he groused, turning to help her. "Here, let me give you a hand."

You weren't supposed to cut rookies any slack, none at all, but this was only his second female rookie, and she didn't look like a cop. For that matter, she didn't act like one, either. She'd been a teacher, and a French teacher, at that, and she looked kind of like a French Poodle. Curly blond hair, deep brown eyes, skinny as hell -- but she was unnaturally nice, too nice to be a cop, but that wasn't what bothered him most. After just one night riding together, one night he'd not soon forget, he was more convinced than ever she should go back to teaching, or maybe social work.

She had been part of the first class at the academy that had focused more on a "being nice" style of policing -- and less on the conventional "good ole boy" approach that had been employed for decades -- a style which, to put it mildly, involved a more physically confrontational approach to dealing with criminals. Old timers regarded the new academy routine as suspect, too "touchy-feely," and most were concerned such an approach would lead to more violence, and more officer involved shootings, not less.

But he'd been an FTO, or Field Training Officer, for a few years, and as such he was well regarded. The rookies he trained went out on their own well-grounded in the art of not just taking care of themselves, but in looking after their fellow officers as well, and that was considered a large part of the job, maybe even the most important part. The first girl he had trained was doing well, too, at least in the eyes of those who mattered most -- his fellow patrol division officers -- and that mattered, to him.

But Deborah Desjardins had come out of academy with with an oddball reputation. Smart as hell, cute as hell, too, she came out with an attitude, the same one she had when she went in, and that was bad.

She argued with everyone. Students, staff, instructors -- it made no difference. If someone said something she disagreed with, she was off to the races. No point of law was too trivial, no street procedure mundane enough -- if she thought it questionable her hand shot up and she started asking questions -- and his first day with her the day before had soon grown into something approaching a living nightmare, a nonstop series of arguments.

Why this, why that, why not do it this way, shouldn't you being doing this instead of that?

And this morning was starting off the same way, and suddenly, he had finally had enough. "Why don't you just shut your goddamn mouth for a half hour, just shut up and listen. Pay attention, and really listen, because it's obvious you aren't learning a damn thing."

"What?"

"Look, you're too busy thinking about how you can object to something to even take in what's being said. You get out on the street and fail to listen to every word being said, every sound in the bushes, and you're going to get killed. And soon."

"I resent being talked to like this!"

"And I don't give a flying fuck what you resent. I do care about how you think. Your job right now is to learn how we do things -- out here, in the real world -- and not to question everything we do. If you can't wrap your head around that one little thing, you need to let me know, and right now."

"Why?"

"Because all I need to do to end your career in law enforcement, right here, right now, is write up one note and get it to the watch commander. You'll be out of here within a half hour. No appeal, no due process, just gone. And as far as I'm concerned, you're about ninety five percent of the way there. Got it?"

"But..."

"Ninety six percent."

--

"We clear now? The gravity of the situation apparent to you now?"

"Yes," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He got on the radio. "3114 to 102."

"102," the watch commander replied.

"Need to 25 with you about a personnel matter."

"Red Bird Airport."

"Code 5."

"What's this all about?" Desjardins said, her voice now defiant.

"I'm writing you up, terminating your training."

"WHAT!?" she screamed.

"Are you deaf, as well as stupid?"

She crossed her arms, her lower lip jutting all the way to the little airport, and he pulled into the parking area by the old terminal building, spotted the lieutenant's patrol car -- parked under a shade tree -- and drove over, parked window to window in the shade.

"What's up?" the lieutenant asked.

"She's not going to make it, L-T. She just doesn't have the aptitude or the attitude, and it's my opinion the department shouldn't waste another dime on her."

"WHAT!?" she screamed, again.

"See what I mean?"

"I sure do. Have you written up her 4301 yet?"

"I was going to right now, sir, but I didn't bring one with me. Do you happen to have one handy?"

"No. Tell you what...let her finish out the day, with you, and you can turn it in after shift-change."

"Yessir."

"How's your schedule look for Monday?"

"I'm free in the morning, sir."

"Oh? Well, why don't you save an hour for me, say around nine."

"Will do, sir."

"Seeya later."

He drove away, turned back to their patrol district and resumed scanning traffic and buildings, not saying a word to her. And after a few minutes of silence, Desjardins was about to explode...

"Did he just schedule you for something?"

"Yup."

"What, if you don't mind me asking?" Her voice was subdued now, and she had relaxed somewhat, too.

"I'm a CFI, a flight instructor, and I'm teaching about a dozen guys in the department to fly. The L-Ts one of them."

"No kidding? Where'd you learn to fly?"

"In the Navy, then I flew commercially for a few years, before the airline went bust. I had a mortgage to pay so applied with the department, and the rest is, as they say, history."

"Do you like it? Being a cop, I mean?"

"Yeah. You know, I do. A lot more than I thought I would, too."

"But you still love flying?"

"I'm a pilot. I guess that's hard to explain, but..."

"No, it's not. My father was a pilot."

"Was?"

"He died, last year. Cancer."

"Sorry."

"I'm a lousy teacher," she said, out of the blue.

"Why do you say that?"

"I couldn't get along with anybody. Not students, not teachers, not admin. It's always the same, wherever I go, too."

"I guess you're wondering why, too?"

"Yeah. Got any ideas?" she said, smiling.

"Yup. You don't listen."

"What?"

"Case in point. I think there's this voice going off in your head all the time, and every time you hear someone talk you aren't paying attention to what's being said. You're trying to find a way to dispute what's being said, or you're trying to remember something you did, but did better than the person talking."

He looked at her, saw her head nodding, then a tear running down her cheek. "I think you nailed that one," she said, "right on the head."

"Look, I don't mean to pile it on, but in my experience when someone cries they're trying to distract, trying to run away from the problem, so why don't you dry up now, try to confront the issue head on?"

"Are you, like, a closet psychiatrist?"

"No, but close."

"Huh?"

"My parents are physicians. My father's a heart doc, my mom's a shrink. We couldn't get away with shit in our house, and they always had an answer for every question."

"So, you're carrying on the family tradition, I see. And I bet you're married, too?"

"Yup. She's in med school now."

"Of course she is. And you'll fly away soon, too. I'd make bet on that."

"Oh, I will one day, but I'll stay in the reserves. It's too much fun out here -- I'd miss it."

"I think I would have liked it too."

"Maybe. Odds are you'd get yourself killed within a year. Or get someone else killed."

"You think if I learned to listen better I could do it?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"What would it take for you to know?"

"I'm in Traffic, I'm an accident reconstructionist and I usually work motors..."

"Motors?"

"Motorcycles. But twice a year I get a rookie, and I spend a month with them. With you, but in this case three weeks and three days don't count."

"Oh."

"The point I'm trying to make is simple. I work with rookies right out of academy, but they only send me the ones that are really questionable, the ones the academy staff just couldn't make up their minds about."

"The borderline cases?"

"Yup."

"That's me, huh?"

"That's you. I know this sounds ridiculous, but it's nothing personal. I'm trying to save lives here, your life. Your life, my fellow officers lives, and yes, even the public. I'm part of the last line of defense, one of the guys the department looks to, to keep our ranks strong."

"I guess flying helps with that, too. Being an instructor, huh?"

"Sure it does, but back to your question, I don't usually make up my mind with a rookie until the end of our four weeks."

"Yet you made up your mind this morning."

"I did."

"That bad, huh?"

"As bad an attitude as I've ever seen, yes."

"Jeez. I'm sorry. I really am."

"3114?"

He reached for the radio. "14, go."

"3114, advise public service."

"14, code 5."

"3114 at 1700 hours."

"What's public service?"

"Call in on a telephone land line. Sensitive information, too sensitive to let it slip on air." He saw a 'stop and rob' -- a convenience store -- ahead and turned into the parking lot, drove slowly by the front, looking at everyone inside, then he pulled up to a pay phone and parked. "Go in and get a couple of cokes, would you?"