Chapter One - The Sheriff: Wildfire - Charles Fornau

It was just about sundown, and I was near the outskirts of town on the shoulder of a busy state highway. I was writing this insolent little brat a ticket for flying too low over a gas station. I heard a semi come up behind us, a bit noisier than normal, whipping past doing at least seventy. The posted speed limit was fifty-five, and I generally went with the ten percent rule. Sixty-one wouldn’t have gotten a ticket. It allows for mechanical and calibration errors in the speedometers of the older cars. I looked at my dash and saw the forward display on the old VASCAR unit had the trucker going seventy-two. The new dash camera array I had Terry install last month would get his truck info and trailer license plate. This would be interesting.

Just after the truck went over the hill, I heard a screech and a loud crash, complete with crunching metal and breaking glass.

‘Oh, God’, I thought, ‘that cannot be anything but bad.’

I ripped the ticket off the tablet, threw it into Timmy Anderson’s window and told him to “be in my office tomorrow afternoon after school so we can finish our business.” He was beside himself at that point. Star quarterback on the football team, one more year to shine, but he was a pain in the ass to everyone in our little town. He had no real idea what to say, as he was no longer the center of attention. At that point, I almost told him to disappear and slow the hell down. He was ‘only’ doing sixty-eight as he went by the Sinclair station where I was sitting, but I didn’t cave and didn’t let him walk. Now, I’m glad for that decision. He wound up having to testify about the crash later. He also had to explain why he was there. Priceless.

Our county seat was one of the smaller towns in the state serving as such. With the population just at three thousand, the rest of the county seemed to do a lot better back in the day than we did, but living in, and serving out of, a small town was actually nice. The point is: Timmy was the biggest jerk of the entire populace. Worse even than his father, and that was a task.

I jumped in my truck, flipped on the switches for the siren and flashing lights, and got to the scene as fast as I could, calling for fire rescue and an ambulance as I pulled out from behind brat turd Timmy’s car. I knew they’d be needed, regardless of what hit what. It was a serious situation, one way or the other.

When I topped the hill and saw the front end of the little silver Mustang wrapped around the tree, I almost broke down in tears. It just had to be Lori Simpson. She was the cutest girl I’d ever seen, let alone known. It was heart wrenching to see her leaning over her airbag and blood was everywhere.

I could smell gas and the putrid scent of electrical wiring shorting out. Those two things don’t mix well. I pulled her door open even more. It was already sprung open from the frame bending and while not easy to pull on, at least it came open farther. I had enough adrenalin running through me that I’m sure it wouldn’t have mattered. Out came my skinning knife, being used for only the second time in this capacity. I cut the shoulder belt, then as it retracted the lap belt went slack, I yanked it out of the catch bracket, pushed the airbag detritus to the side, then I pulled Lori into my arms and turned, walking quickly, but carefully away from the car. If I tripped, and the worst happened, we’d both be burned. Badly. Or maybe worse.

I felt her move in my arms, so I carefully pulled a blanket out of my truck with the hand I was using to hold her legs and started to lay her down on it. She wrapped an arm around my neck and whimpered.

“No, Sheriff. Oh, Charlie, hold me, please. Hold me ‘til I’m gone. ‘Til it’s over. Hold me until I go. The hurt will stop then. It hurts so bad inside. I hurt all over. Hold me, please. It won’t be long. God, it hurts. I can’t breathe.” She could, though, and was breathing, she just didn’t know it. It didn’t sound good when she exhaled, kind of gurgling, but she was alive. Her speech was muffled by her injuries, but I could understand her. I almost wish I didn’t. Hearing her giving in, giving up, preparing herself to die, was killing me.

I sat on the blanket, her in my lap, holding her and rocking her as gently as I could. Thankfully we were far enough away from the wreckage to only feel a blast of warmth as the car caught fire and started burning. It wasn’t two minutes longer until the EMS team showed up and took over, but it seemed like an eternity.

They carefully pulled her from me, looking out for the cut on her face first. I had stopped the bleeding with my hand and the blanket, but it was bad, and she was a mess. They laid her flat on a stretcher, immobilizing her, injecting her with something and placing an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. I kissed her on her forehead and prayed she’d make it. She may have been prescient, but I hoped not. She didn’t deserve anything like this. She definitely did NOT deserve to die at the hands of a foolish truck driver. She was a great girl, a wonderful lady. There are nice lawyers out there. She was one of them.

As one of the EMS crew was putting her stretcher into the ambulance, the little lady medical tech turned to me and opened a bandage wrapper. She poured some liquid on it, then pulling me down by my ear told me to, “Be more careful next time, Charlie. You’re a mess.” She wiped my lips, nose, chin and cheeks, then showed me the blood all over the cloth and wiped me clean again with a new one. I remembered kissing on Lori’s forehead, just trying to comfort her. I must have been a bloody sight.

“Thanks, Phyllis. Go. Take care of Lori. Bill has her secured now.”

She hurried into the front of the ambulance, yelled at the other tech, Bill, the one watching over Lori, and off they went. It was fifteen miles, thirteen minutes to the nearest well equipped and staffed emergency room at Code Three speeds, with lights and sirens, seventy-five, give or take, miles an hour, for that truck. I prayed, every one of those thirteen minutes and many, many more, that she’d be OK. After that, we’d probably know, one way or the other.

Lori Simpson was in her late twenties, going to work in her father’s legal firm when she came back from our state university’s law school. She graduated in the top three or four places of her class and was courted by some pretty good sized and famous law firms in the big cities, on both sides of the state, to come work for them.

She didn’t need the money. She just wanted to be with her family. Her mother and father were wonderful parents and raised several wonderful kids. She was the youngest. A funny story came to mind when I turned and looked back toward the accident site. Just a few years ago, her mother was getting gas, went into a convenience store and on a lark, bought two of every lottery ticket they had. Scratch offs from one to twenty dollars, quick picks for all the little three, four and five number games, as well as the Lotto, Powerball, and Megaball games. She won over four hundred million dollars, and after taxes gave each of her kids twenty million and kept sixty for her and their father. They were beyond wealthy before that, but that’s how luck rolls sometimes. Most of it is going to charity anyway, so that may have had something to do with it. Good Karma and all that.

I was just a touch older than their oldest child, but they’d hire me to babysit when he was playing ball or for whatever reason he was unable to when he was in high school. That was back when I was on breaks from the same university Lori attended. Like I said, they were great people and a wonderful family. They did not deserve for this to happen to their baby.

Terry Willis, my senior deputy and second in command, showed up and helped me document the accident scene. It took about an hour, then we got the video from the dash cam he installed and yea verily, we got identifying information on the truck and the trailer. The phones in Des Moines would be ringing tomorrow morning. Richardson Motor Express owned the trailer. The truck would probably be a different call. We captured the VIN and DOT numbers, but no names.

As soon as we were done, I hightailed it to the hospital and checked in with the ER staff. She was in surgery, but she was alive, and the ER surgeon they had on duty in was pretty sure she was repairable. He thought she’d live. He was optimistic. Each time the ER charge nurse spoke, my face changed a bit, so it sounded as though she was trying to get me to smile. More and more information until I heard it. She shared what I wanted to hear. The doctor was optimistic. That’s a good sign. The doctor she was talking about was generally a Negative Nelly, and never had much to say, let alone anything good, or positive. Think Scrooge, only in a really bad mood, and scrubs.

The ER charge nurse told me to go home after a few hours of watching me pacing the hallways, telling me, “Charlie, even under the best of circumstances, that young lady won’t be awake for a day or two. Doctor Panthawan is doing the best he can, and I promise you I’ll leave a note. You’ll be like the eighth or ninth person we call when there is any news. Officially, her mother and father will have to allow that, but trust me, sugar, you’ll know if anything changes. OK? Please? You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Rose. I appreciate the critique of my appearance.” She laughed. I hugged her, thanked her, asked her to expedite Lori’s toxicology and alcohol tests, and took off for home and a break. I called dispatch, telling them to leave me alone unless they really, truly, needed me and drove up the hill to the house. I walked around it a couple of times, having a beer on each lap around, losing a few tears and thinking about that poor girl until I thought I could sleep. I did, finally, not waking up until about ten. I slept a whole six hours. A blessing in disguise.

At noon, I was having a bowl of leftover trash soup, boiled leftovers in case one is wondering, when the phone rang. It was Lori’s mother, Marjorie Simpson.

“Colby.”

“Sheriff Colby?”

“Yes, ma’am. May I ask who this might be? It’s coming up ‘unknown’.”

“Sheriff, Charlie, it’s Marjorie Simpson. The nurses have a note here that you are to be notified if anything changes in Lori’s situation, and I thought I’d take care of it myself. I’ve added your name and this number to her medical records as OK to know about her condition if you inquire. They don’t have a problem with that, and Robert and I certainly don’t. Hell, you probably changed her diapers there at the end. She was hell to potty train.”

“I meant to talk to you about that and ask for an extra fifty cents an hour, but I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. I was making four bucks an hour playing games with some of the best-behaved kids in this town.”

“We were blessed, Charlie. You didn’t hurt that at all, by the way. The kids always loved having you over, and although you were a little expensive, you were probably worth it.” She laughed.

“Thanks for that. I’m a bit curious about Lori, Mrs. Simpson…”

“She’s stable, the lab work you asked for all came back negative, and the MRIs done after the surgery are showing her insides should hold. That Panthawan guy is an asshole, but he’s evidently a pretty competent asshole. He has the bedside manner of a rattlesnake with a hangover, but he kept Lori alive, and after his description of what the airbag rupture and the shift lever and broken steering wheel did to her, she shouldn’t be with us. Can you tell me what happened?”

“First, thank you for calling. I’m ecstatic about the news. Second, there’s not much to tell, and we don’t know everything yet, but a truck went by at just under warp speed while I was writing Timmy Asswipe Anderson yet another ticket for speeding. The trucker went over the hill past the Sinclair and we heard the crash. I’m thinking, and this is only an educated guess, he was going too fast on that turn, the one just the other side of the hill in front of the Littons’ gate, was a bit too far over in Lori’s lane, she veered to miss him, and hit that big old freaking oak tree that killed Sam Davis a few years back. We have some information we’re chasing down, and I’ll keep you and Bob posted, but we both know it wasn’t her fault, and I’m going after it with that in mind.”

“Charlie, how fast was the truck going?”

“Seventy-two.”

“Jesus! The yellow speed sign there says forty!”

“Yeah, I know. The equipment in my truck documented it. Like I said, Mrs. Simpson, we’re working on it. We got…” She interrupted me.

“Yes, Charlie, I heard that. Please, just call me Marge. Just Marge, for now, and we’ll work on the rest later. Keep me posted.”

“I will, Mrs…. Marge. I will. Thank you for calling. Did they say when we might be able to talk to her?”

“Nothing firm yet, but at least a couple of days sleeping. An induced coma they called it, to allow some of her internal issues to heal a bit. You’ll know, trust me.”

“Thanks…. Marge. I appreciate it. Your little girl is rather special to me. To a lot of people, actually.”

“You have no idea, young man. Sorry. Yes, Charlie, I know she is. Thank you. We’ll talk soon.” Click.

That went well. Marge seemed to be handling it as well as was possible.

The next call was from Terry. He had information regarding the rig that zoomed by the night before. The truck was being driven by a foreign national driver out of Mexico on a provisional CDL. He was to drop the trailer off in Little Rock, pick up another, make a stop in Rock Springs, Wyoming, then head back to Nogales.

Bingo! Drugs. No other explanation.

Chapter Two - The Sheriff: Wildfire - Charles Fornau

It was a couple of days, just like Marjorie and Rose warned me, before they brought Lori out of her sleep and she could see and hear. She couldn’t talk yet, as the damage to her face also took a toll on her jaw and part of her throat. She was wired shut, I guess, so I was lucky to have heard her voice at all after the wreck.

What she could do was smile and lift her right hand. She did both when I walked into the room. I must have been a sight. I know I lost a tear when she did that.

“Sit down, Charlie,” Marjorie said. “She asked about you. She asked FOR you, actually. If you need, she can write an answer to your questions, but please be slow, gentle, and careful. If you make my little girl mad, or sad, you have a bigger problem than the thugs and the drugs around here, buddy-boy.” She laughed. Lori attempted a smile and rolled her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. I understand. Lori, we think we know what may have happened, but I need you to confirm it. Let me tell you what I think, then you help me, OK?”

She nodded very slowly, wincing a bit.

“A truck went by me at the Sinclair going pretty fast, and we figured he went over the hill and might have been in your lane a bit so you had to veer out if its way and lost control?”

She shook her head gently and wrote. ‘IN MY LANE - ALL OF IT - BIG TRUCK’

“There isn’t much of a shoulder there where the creek runs in front of the Litton property. I think I got that. Was there anything else?”

She wrote ‘LIGHTS - TOO BRIGHT - NOT VEHICLE LIGHTS - NOT LEGAL’

“Aircraft landing lights, maybe?”

She carefully nodded.

A few truckers had sometimes used them out in the open and wooded areas to keep from being surprised by any critters, but they were blinding to anyone not wearing sunglasses, and not many people did that at night. They were dangerous, to say the least.

I’m not disparaging over the road truck drivers here. We also had a group of eighteen to thirty-year-old adolescents doing the same thing with their four-wheel drive masculinity advertising units. I caught one of them with his lights on. He wasn’t a happy camper. He had them on the roll bar, along with four other normal driving lights, but forgot to turn them off when he drove into town. He caused a lady to drive into another parked car. It was a mess. Daddy wouldn’t fix it for him, so he got a pretty good sized fine and a week in jail. He shouldn’t have demanded a jury trial. He didn’t find the help he was looking for. No mercy at all.

“OK. Lori, we’re looking for the truck, and the driver, and with what we have, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to take care of it, but you need to not worry and just get better, OK?”

That was a preview of The Sheriff: Wildfire. To read the rest purchase the book.

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