Trust With Your Life. M.L. Gamble
hand beneath the holster to do chest compressions. Suddenly the man’s body jerked, and he inhaled and began to gag.
Molly turned him on his side so he wouldn’t choke, which was when she saw the hole. It was about the size of a pencil, neat and clean, right in the center of his left shoulder blade. Blood soaked his entire back.
“We’ll take over, miss.”
The paramedic’s hand on Molly’s shoulder made her gasp. She stood. “His pulse is low, about thirty-three. I’ve been doing CPR for three minutes. And I think he’s got a bullet in the back,” she added.
Hearing this information, the paramedic didn’t even blink, but turned and ordered, “Get me an IV and plasma. Possible gunshot.”
A uniformed cop beckoned Molly and the two coeds. They followed, and Molly saw there was now an entire fleet of police and rescue trucks. The authoritarian honk and blinking lights of a fire engine clogged her senses along with the sounds of radios, dispatchers, air brakes and the whacka, whacka, whacka of a hovering news helicopter. It buffeted the group below with hot gusts of air.
“Hell of a job, ladies,” offered a smiling highway patrolman, his beige uniform impossibly clean. “We could have used you after the last earthquake.”
The group stood silent, watching as the ambulances loaded up their badly battered or lifeless cargo. One of the policemen, a man about sixty with a precision salt-and-pepper haircut and a fat polyester tie, took Molly aside to ask a few questions.
“Molly Jakes. I work for Pacific Communications,” she answered.
“Phone number?”
She gave him her work number, craning her neck to look at the firemen, all yellow jackets and boots. They were spraying foam on the Bronco, and she thought of herself sitting next to it five minutes before.
“What were you doing out at 3:00 a.m., Miss Jakes?”
“I was going home. I live just up the road, in Mission Verde.”
He stared at her. “Didn’t you have something to do with the Brooker murder case?”
Weakly she nodded, cursing the fact that she was now so well-known by the authorities in her own town. She had preferred her law-abiding, anonymous life. Being known by sight by a cop gave her an odd feeling. She explained that she was a witness, though only a material one. For a moment, she was afraid he was going to make her go to the station. But he let it drop.
Molly gave him her address, telling herself that the edge in his voice wasn’t really thankless. Molly had a tendency to apologize for other people; it was her way of retaining her optimism about the human race.
This guy is obviously tired, she told herself. He seemed to be near retirement age, and Molly imagined he was sick of being called out on these middle-of-the-night disasters.
“Where were you coming from?”
“Summer Point Towers. Eighteen ten Summer Road. I got a call that there was an emergency at that location where my phone crew was doing an installation.”
“How long were you there?”
“Not long. It turned out the call was a mistake by the dispatcher.”
“That happen often?”
“No, thank God.” It had never happened before, not to Molly anyway. But she wasn’t going to get into that with the cops. She was going to raise hell with dispatch, but it certainly wasn’t a big deal.
The cop raised his eyebrows, then glanced in the direction of her parked car. “You went alone?”
“Yes.” She swallowed the words “I’m a big girl, Officer,” and with this little defiance felt her equilibrium take a turn for the better.
“Okay, Miss Jakes. We’ll be calling you tomorrow, I mean later today, to get you to come in and give a complete statement of what you saw here tonight.”
“Fine.” She wanted to ask what he thought had caused the accident, but the cop took a couple of steps toward one of the coeds, probably to ask her the same basic questions. Molly clasped her hands over her forearms and looked down to see why they felt so dry and tight. She had brown splotches on her T-shirt and skirt, and all over her arms. For a moment, she was nauseous, but forced herself to breathe deeply and headed for her car.
A red-haired patrolman nodded as she passed, his eyes flickering over her. More than anything, Molly wanted to go home and take a hundred-and-fifty-degree shower, then soak in a bubble bath.
“You can go ahead and get back on the freeway, ma’am,” the officer told her. “They’re setting up barricades so they can get the fuel hosed off, but you can make it if you go now.”
Molly smiled and kept walking, wishing someone could drive her home, wishing she had someone waiting for her there. Now that the emergency was over, that initial rush of strength was dissipating and her bones felt like rubber.
Sliding into the car, Molly sat for a moment and stared in disbelief at the ignition. Her key ring, holding house keys, office keys, the whole shebang, was hanging there. She never left her keys in the car! If it had been stolen, the insurance company wouldn’t have paid off, good samaritan acts notwithstanding. So much for patting herself on the back earlier for following safety rules, she thought.
The car started immediately. Molly buckled her seat belt and hit the door-lock button. Accelerating, she turned right at Verdugo Boulevard and headed for home. She wanted off the freeway. Out of this scene of mayhem that was much too real to ever forget as one could an upsetting movie or even a tragic news show.
* * *
AS MOLLY DROVE AWAY from the accident scene, the man in the blue mechanic’s jumpsuit gave his name and telephone number to Lieutenant Cortez. He was also thanked and sent home.
The man returned to his car, but before driving off, he reached for his cellular phone and punched in a number.
“Hello,” a male voice snapped in his ear.
“Nothing went down as planned,” the slight man reported, wiping a bead of sweat from his thin mustache. Despite the cool night air, his being that close to a cop had made him nervous. “I was waiting for your guys, but all hell broke loose. They were ambushed or something. Both of your vehicles were in a wreck. When the girl arrived, she dived right in to help. By the time I got out of the car, there were three other cars stopped and I never got a clear shot.”
“Why didn’t you take them all out?” the man on the other end demanded. “I would have covered you for the extra work.”
“It never would have worked. There were too many people.”
“Well, where the hell is Steele? Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Two guys are. The two live ones I saw were an old dude and a black guy. He ain’t either of those, I guess.”
“Well, at least he’s dead. That changes things, but...” The man’s voice trailed off. “Well, tomorrow I’ll send someone for the girl. You go back home. I’ll be in touch.”
The man in the blue coveralls hung up without answering and drove off. He saw the girl’s car up ahead, wondered if he could get a clean shot through the window, but discarded the thought. Too chancy with all the cops around.
He’d get her later. Or someone else would.
* * *
A BLOCK AWAY FROM the accident scene, Molly leaned back into the seat. It was then she noticed the dash light on. The tiny red diagonal line in the box indicating the silhouette of a car was blinking brightly, Detroit’s high-tech way of telling her that one of the car doors was ajar.
“For criminey’s sake,” she muttered, feeling the driver’s door with her left hand. She thought she had closed it tight and realized she was more wiped out than she feared.
“Put