Imperfect Escape

by Gregg E. Brickman

  Checking his mirrors, he noted a white SUV about fifty yards back. From a distance, it looked like a sheriff's vehicle—the department had opted to replace aging vehicles with powerful Ford Interceptor SUVs. He slowed to the posted limit of fifty-five. While he doubted he'd be ticketed, there was no reason to encourage an encounter.

  Over the next few miles, the Ford closed the following distance, allowing Ray to ascertain the vehicle was an Explorer, and not an official ride. The dotted, white center lines on the upcoming stretch of road indicated a brief passing zone. He slowed a bit more and edged toward the right, encouraging the driver to go around him.

  Instead, the driver lurched forward to within inches of Ray's bumper, then dropped away.

  Ray lowered the driver's side window to better hear engine sounds from the outside—but he only heard wind.

  The terrain on both sides of the road was rough, and there hadn't been any buildings since before the last big curve. The left shoulder was edged by irregular concrete barricades and gave way to a steep, wooded two-hundred-foot drop. The other shoulder widened, abutting a gradual incline.

  In the rearview mirror, the driver, a stocky-appearing male, wore a dark brown shirt. Ray got the notion it was Krantz in his personal vehicle. In an earlier conversation, Krantz had commented about his wife driving a white Ford Explorer that was similar to the new department Interceptors. The similarity worked to Krantz's advantage as he pursued his activities on his Uncle Silky's behalf.

  Again, behaving aggressively, the man—maybe Krantz—revved his engine and encroached further before swinging a few degrees left into the oncoming lane and accelerating.

  Ray surged forward in an effort to stay ahead of the SUV and avoid the maneuver he suspected was coming. The trailing driver kept pace, stifling Ray's plan.

  Ray slowed—a move mimicked by his tormentor. A slower speed would lessen the effect of a collision. He hit his radio to call for assistance. "I'm on 70 N. About eight miles out. Someone is trying to run me off the road."

  The driver continued to keep pace, expertly adjusting his vehicle's position.

  Ope, the dispatcher in Plateauville PD, said, "I'll—"

  Ray felt a slam to the Taurus's left rear. Feeling the spin to the left, he attempted to steer in that direction, but the hit was strong enough his vehicle lost partial contact with the pavement and spun out of control.

  Still in the process of spinning, Ray's Taurus cleared the barricade and rolled.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  It crashed, upside down, with the passenger side against a huge oak in the gulley at the bottom of the hill.

  Ray fought to stay conscious in the overturned car. First, he moved his extremities. The left leg hurt like a demon, but wasn't stuck. His head felt as if it were split open. He turned it from side to side and heard no crunching in his neck.

  He braced his left forearm against the crushed ceiling, then released his seatbelt, thanking God it had held tight. He marveled that none of the air bags had deployed.

  The strong odor of spilling fuel filled the passenger compartment.

  Switching forearms on the ceiling, Ray moved his left hand to the window controls on the door, fumbling to open the window. Then he remembered having opened it earlier. There was no broken glass in front of the opening, and the area looked clear. He needed to summon the strength to ease out.

  As the smell of gas increased, he grabbed the doorframe with both hands and squeezed himself halfway through the bent window opening, stopping to rest and clear his head for a moment.

  Focusing all of his efforts into his arms and right leg, he slid onto the ground, then rolled away. The pain in his left leg and head escalated with each movement. He came to rest near a massive fallen tree, which blocked his forward progress.

  With great effort, he crawled over the tree and dropped to the moss-covered ground on the far side.

  He felt the ground vibrate and a flash of heat, then heard a boom.

  Chapter 28

  Sophia

  Sophia heard the radio transmission signal an incoming ambulance with an escort from the Sheriff's Department. The victim, a law enforcement officer, was unconscious following a rollover motor vehicle accident involving an explosion. The estimated time of arrival was under ten minutes. She felt the same surge of adrenalin that pushed her through many a trauma alert.

  Sophia's co-worker in the ED's trauma rooms for the day was Ricky Tondo, who'd left for lunch ten minutes earlier. She leaned over the nursing station counter and spoke to the secretary. "Page Ricky and ask him to head back STAT, please."

  Dr. Gold perched on a stool near the radio. Based on his conversation with the paramedics, he'd ordered the OR to hold an open room. Radiology, laboratory, and respiratory technicians were standing by. Gold would decide about the need to call the trauma surgeon when he saw the victim.

  Sophia surveyed her assigned trauma room to assure its readiness, pulled a couple of bags of IV solution off the shelf, and positioned them on the counter near the stretcher. She pulled the code cart a few inches away from the wall so she could move it without interference if required and went out to the ambulance entrance canopy to await the arrival of her next patient.

  The ambulance swept in, and the paramedics pushed the door open.

  Stretching tall on her toes, she noted the patient inside was breathing on his own and had not been intubated. An IV line ran into the victim's left arm.

  Familiar-looking shoes poked from beneath the thin blanket. She thought the man was Ray. Her gaze jumped to his face.

  "I can do this," she said, her quiet whisper shaky.

  The two paramedics—Shelly, a tall, middle-aged female and John, a short, beefy younger male—eased the stretcher from the ambulance.

  Shelly said, "MVA victim is Ray Stone."

  "I know. He's my fiancée." Sophia's voice cracked.

  "You have someone to take this for you?"

  "Not at this moment. I'll get help as soon as we move him inside."

  "Okay," Shelly said, "Vitals are stable. He was unconscious at the scene and has a small laceration and large hematoma over his left ear. The situation at the scene suggested he crawled from his overturned vehicle and pulled himself to safety, avoiding the explosion."

  "Anything else?" Sophia glanced down the hall hoping to see Ricky. She'd do what needed to be done in the meantime.

  "We saw no burns or other injuries except for a four-inch gash above his left ankle," John said.

  "Broken?"

  "Don't know."

  As Shelly and John continued their report, Sophia helped guide the stretcher into the trauma bay. She saw Ricky trot down the hallway in Dr. Gold's wake.

  "Ricky, thank God you're here," she said. "The victim is my Ray. Please take over. I'll help." She fought to still the shaking in her hands and the dread in her heart.

  "Fine." Ricky hurried into position and helped transfer Ray to the hospital gurney. He eased Sophia aside and continued providing care. "Stand away. I'll handle it."

  "But, I—" she said, her voice breaking.

  "Lady, I'll take care of him. Move." Ricky used the voice he reserved for out-of-control patients and visitors.

  Sophia moved. She struggled to maintain her professional composure, knowing if she didn't, she'd be asked to leave the room.

  An hour later, various physicians and techs had examined, x-rayed, and scanned Ray. He was restless and beginning to waken.

  Sophia remained at his side.

  Dr. Gold said, "He suffered a severe concussion, but there's no bleeding inside the skull." He pointed to an image of the inside of Ray's head on the bedside computer screen. "This is limited and will resolve. As soon as he wakes up fully and can lie still, I'll suture his leg wound." He touched the computer screen, bringing up an x-ray image of Ray's leg. "There's no fracture. He's a lucky man. From what Shelly and John said, if he hadn't pulled himself out of the vehicle, he'd be dead."
r />   "What happens next?" Sophia asked, an unusual question for a nurse to be sure, but she wasn't feeling as much a nurse as a family member.

  "Dr. Clark is on his way in."

  "Neurosurgeon? I thought you said there was no bleeding inside the skull."

  "I don't see any evidence on the film and neither did the radiologist who read it. But, given the severity of the accident—the medics think he rolled three times—I want another opinion. Clark will, no doubt, admit him for a couple of days."

  "Sophie," Ray said, his voice soft, the bass notes rumbling.

  "Hi, baby. How do you feel?" She stroked his face, stopping at the edge of his goatee. Tears welled in her eyes.

  "Like I was run off the road."

  "Good thing you got out of the car."

  He drifted off for a moment, then opened his eyes. He said, "I think whoever ran me off the road. Maybe Krantz. Looked like Krantz . . ." Ray dozed. He awoke with a start and continued telling Sophia about the incident and the Ford Explorer, then he went back to sleep.

  Sophia faced Ricky. "I put out a suture tray. Meanwhile, if it's okay with you, I'm going to find Sarah and ask to go off duty."

  "Fine by me."

  Sophia found her manager, clocked out, and returned to the trauma room. As she walked, she answered a call from Jimmy Johnson on her personal cell phone. He asked about Ray's condition.

  "Concussion. He'll be in here a couple of days, I think. Are you handling the investigation?"

  "No, it's a sheriff's case because it happened in the county. Ray said he was being forced off the road when he made his distress call."

  "That's what he told me a few minutes ago."

  "He's awake?"

  "Was. Fell back to sleep. Just as well. His head has to hurt like a sucker." She paused. "He said some other things, too." She repeated the conversation.

  "Sophia, if you need anything, I'm here for you. Keep me posted. I'll relay the information to the chief."

  "Thanks, Jimmy. Let me know if you hear anything, please."

  She stepped into the room and found a tall, slim, grey-suited black man watching Ray snooze.

  He stuck out his hand. "Sophia, I'm Erik Shim." The gold badge on his belt indicated he was a deputy. "I'm the sheriff's investigator working with Ray."

  "On the exploded meth labs, I assume. Ray said you're another South Florida transplant."

  Shim nodded. "I lived there a few years. I'm closer to home now."

  "You'll find the bastard who ran him off the road?"

  "What makes you say it's deliberate?" Shim raised a brow.

  "He told me before he passed out again." For the second time, she repeated Ray's earlier comments. "He also said his airbags didn't deploy. He suspects someone disabled them while the car sat in the PD lot in Plateauville."

  Shim stepped away from the stretcher. "Well, the skid marks at the scene suggest he was, indeed, forced off the road. I'm hoping he comes around and can answer a few questions."

  Chapter 29

  Sophia

  On Friday, Sophia went through her morning routine with Ray on her mind. She'd stayed at the hospital with him until almost eight the previous evening but had to go home to feed and walk Mischief. By then, Ray had been awake for several hours and had moved past the crisis.

  After taking Mischief into the yard for her morning outing, she called Ray's room at the hospital. When he answered, she said, "Mornin', sweetheart, how y'all doin'?"

  In a deep, sleepy voice he replied, "Soundin' mighty Southern." He chuckled. "I'm fine, I think. The doctor wants me to stay one more day and repeat a couple of the scans to make sure there is no bleeding and that my brain cells aren't too rattled."

  "I told him your head was hard enough to protect you."

  "Don't make me laugh. It gives me a headache."

  "Oops."

  "How was Mischief when you got home?"

  "Upset, hungry, but she didn't have an accident. Good puppy. She slept in the bed with me."

  "Doesn't she always when I'm not around?"

  Sophia laughed.

  "What's your plan for the day?" Ray said.

  "I need to do a couple loads of laundry before heading in to you."

  "You're off today. I forgot."

  "The beauty of working three twelves."

  They chatted awhile longer, then Sophia grabbed the basket, the dog, and her purse. The morning was cool, as usual on the mountain. It would warm up later—she'd heard to the high eighties—but by then she planned to be in air-conditioning.

  Somewhere in the night, she'd remembered her conversation with the ladies while doing her wash in Crossville and their scathing comments about Jasper, the attendant at the Plateauville laundry. Maybe he would give her more information about meth.

  The drive from the Cove into the main part of town took ten minutes. She parked in front of the door and looked inside. As the ladies at the Crossville laundry had described, the laundromat was grungy and in general disrepair. Several broken machines sat in the back near a pool table.

  Sophia grabbed her basket and Mischief's leash and made her way inside. She half expected to be told dogs weren't allowed, but a scruffy-looking man in the office nodded a greeting and went back to scratching at his beard.

  She piled her clothes into two adjacent machines. The task was complicated since Mischief jumped at every sock, succeeded in capturing one, and attempted to kill it. Sophia rolled a large wire cart over to her spot and put her basket in it. Then she moved to a row of chairs, sat, and pulled out her iPhone. Mischief settled in at her feet, accepting a chicken flavored chewy in lieu of Ray's smelly sock.

  A few minutes later, the man from the office wandered over, his gait unsteady. He was boney and bent a bit at the waist. "Good morning, ma'am. I haven't seen you in here before." With shaking hand, he petted Mischief, who licked his fingers and returned to chewing. "I had a Boston Terrier when I was a kid."

  The man had no trace of a Southern accent.

  "My name's Sophia." She extended a hand.

  "Jasper. Donald Jasper. But here, I'm just Jasper." He looked at her hand but didn't offer his. "Mind if I sit here and pet your pup?"

  "Her name is Mischief. Be my guest."

  Jasper sat a chair away.

  "I'm surprised you don't have an accent," Sophia said.

  "You don't either."

  "I was born in North Dakota, ended up in Florida. Now I'm here, working at the hospital in Crestville. I'm an emergency department nurse."

  "Why'd you move here?"

  "My fiancé's job." She decided to lie about the job, if asked, but he didn't. "How'd you get here, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I was in the Marines in Afghanistan. Got back. Couldn't get a job. Ended up here. Saw a sign advertising for an attendant. Took the job. Stayed on."

  "Sounds very cut and dried."

  "Ma'am, the details aren't relevant anymore." They met eyes for the first time.

  "Seems sad."

  Jasper shrugged.

  They chatted while he rubbed the dog's head.

  Mischief abandoned her chewy for the attention.

  "It's none of my business, but as a nurse I like to know details. Will you tell me about your meth habit?"

  Jasper shook his head as if shocked, then looked thoughtful. "Why not? It's obvious the stuff will be the death of me. Fact is, the doctor said if I don't give it up, it'll kill me within the year."

  Sophia waited for him to continue. Her heart pounded in anticipation.

  "You can see the condition I'm in. I have no real reason to quit using, so I won't."

  "Suicide by drug of choice."

  "You could say that."

  "Where do you get your supply?"

  "Why would you want to know?" Jasper said. "You don't look like the usin' type to me."

  "I'm not, but I'd still like to know."

  "It's a bit complicated." He shifted in his seat. "I sell a bit out of here for the man."

  "Who
is?"

  "Carl Silken, himself. He owns this place—secretly, I'm told. Pays me minimum wage and supplements that with product if I continue to deal for him. I buy a bit extra from a dude named Hinter. Silky keeps a close inventory, and I don't want him to know how much I'm using. Need the job for a while yet."

  "Okay. You're giving me a lot of free information. Why?"

  "Well, I know your fiancé is the new detective in town. He hasn't been around to see me yet, so I figure I'd pass on the information through you. I'm a dead man walking, but I was honorable earlier in my life. Got a Silver Star and a couple of commendations. Want to die honorable, I suppose."

  Sophia wondered why Jasper pretended not to know who she was at first. She decided to let it pass but to poke a bit and see what he knew. "Do you know anything about the fire and explosion at Vast's lab?"

  "No."

  "How about the attempt on Bubba Flocker's life?"

  "Not that either. I do know there is someone in the area, other than Vast that is, who is trying to take Silky's place as king on this mountain. Seems to me one step in that process would be to cut off Silky's main lab, and that would have been Vast's. Flocker was cooking for Silky, too, but acting all sweet and innocent about the deal. Krantz, his dutiful nephew, drops by all the time trying to find out if I've heard anything. Several of the local users and lab employees—if you can call them that—hang out here. They talk, you know."

  "Have you heard anything?"

  "No, but I have some ideas."

  "Which are?"

  "I don't think you need to know that. Perhaps you'll send your detective-honey around, and I'll tell him—for a consideration."

  "I'll pass it on. He's in the hospital, though. Someone ran him off the road."

  "Heard that."

  "Do you know anything about it?"

  "Not really. But I do know it wasn't Krantz, even though it was his vehicle." Jasper gave Mischief a final pat, stood, and shuffled away. "I was honorable once."

  ***

  Sophia finished her laundry, took the pup home, grabbed a tote bag she'd prepared for Ray, and headed into Crestville. The day was already warm and humid, with rain in the forecast. She hoped to be inside the hospital before a deluge hit. Meanwhile, the sunshine and thick greenery on both sides of the highway down the mountain pleased her and lightened her mood.