That was when I realized—the smoke wasn’t coming from the truck, and the truck’s front grille wasn’t red. What I was looking at was the cherry red convertible that had been tailgating me, only now it was folded around the front of the landscaping truck like a piece of shiny red wrapping foil. That bald idiot must have been trying to speed around someone again and had pulled into the northbound lane and plowed into the landscaping truck head-on. It would be a miracle if he was still alive.
I ran up as fast as I could, and sure enough, there was Baldy, slumped over the air bag in a haze of smoke and fumes in the passenger seat, which was a good thing since the driver’s side was so crumpled the whole thing barely looked like a car anymore, just a triangular mess of red metal—like a giant slice of steaming pizza. Strewn all over the ground like pieces of mushroom and bits of pepperoni were hundreds of shards of glass and little strips of black plastic.
The man’s bald head was shiny with blood, but to my utter surprise his eyes were open and looking right at me. He must have somehow managed to extricate himself from the driver’s seat and climb over to the passenger side, or else he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and the impact had tossed him right out of harm’s way. I noted that his expensive-looking sunglasses were nowhere in sight. I tried to open the passenger door, but it was stuck, and now there was more smoke pouring out from under the dashboard and a thick, syrupy smell in the air. I could hear the familiar wail of a siren approaching not very far away, but I knew there wasn’t a moment to waste.
My heart started racing like a jackhammer. I reached in and laid my hand gently on his shoulder. “Sir, my name is Dixie. I’m going to get you out of this car, okay?”
He didn’t move. I wondered if he even understood what I was saying, and yet he didn’t take his eyes off me.
He said, “I am not dead?”
“No, sir. No, you’re not dead, but I need to get you somewhere safe.”
His eyes narrowed and he smiled, almost like he’d just thought of a funny joke, and then he nodded slightly, as if considering the punchline, and said, “Safe…”
I wasn’t sure what he could possibly think was so funny at that moment, but I hoped it was a good sign as I considered my options. Normally it’s a pretty good idea to leave an accident victim completely still until paramedics arrive—moving someone with broken bones or spinal damage can cause irreparable harm—but the smoke from the car was getting heavier, and I could feel heat rising from behind the dashboard. This car was about to go up in flames, and this man needed help.
I braced myself for a fight as I hooked my arms under his shoulders. Sometimes people in accidents can go into a state of shock and resist being handled. It’s like some deeply rooted, ancient survival instinct kicks in, and they’ll fight tooth and nail before they’ll let strangers touch them no matter how bad off they are. Luckily, Baldy didn’t look the least bit fazed by the idea of being moved. In fact, the expression on his face was eerily peaceful.
Just then the burly man in the blue suit appeared behind me. He pointed at the smoke and said, “Uh, lady, I think you better get away from that car.”
I looked back at him and blew a strand of hair away from my face. “Ya think?”
I could hear creaking coming from deep inside the car as I tried to pull Baldy up enough to hook my right arm under his legs, but he was deadweight. I could barely lift him.
“Aw, goddammit.” The burly man whipped off his jacket and slipped in next to me. “I’ll get this half and you get his legs.”
I shuffled over as he reached in and locked his arms around Baldy’s chest, and just then there was a loud pop followed by an angry hiss from somewhere under the hood. I glanced over at the dashboard and gasped—there were black blisters starting to bubble up in the center. The burly man flashed me a look as if to say, “Ready?” and I nodded.
He said, “One, two, three…” and then in one swift motion we heaved Baldy up out of the car. He let out a low moan, and I felt a shiver go down my spine—I couldn’t even imagine the pain he must have been in.
As we moved away from the car it jolted backward spastically off the grille of the truck, and then a high-pitched scream started from deep inside the engine. I heard a little voice in my head say, It’s too late, and I had a vision of us all flying through the air in a ball of fire and glass and twisted metal.
Someone yelled “Run!”—for all I know it could have been me—and then we were racing with Baldy in our arms as fast as we could through the crowd of gawkers who were running, too, pushing their way past us. The screaming sound was getting louder and louder, and by the time we got beyond the row of cars parked along the sidewalk it sounded like a steam whistle going off inside my head. We got Baldy down on the sidewalk as fast as we could, and then without even thinking my old training kicked in. I covered his body with mine, clenched my eyes shut, and waited.
The explosion shook the entire street.
The high-pitched screaming was gone now, replaced with an eerie silence, but I wasn’t about to move. I stayed huddled over Baldy’s body and counted to ten. In the movies, when a car blows up, two or three other cars usually blow up too just to make it extra loud and scary, but all I could hear was Baldy’s labored breathing and the dying wail of the siren pulling up to the scene. I opened my eyes to find the burly man standing at Baldy’s feet and looking back at the accident. The firemen were already scrambling to get their hoses off the truck, so I knew they’d put the fire out before it had a chance to spread.
The burly man squatted down and sighed. “Jesus, who the hell are you? Wonder Woman?”
For a split second, I thought of how as a little girl I would sneak down to the beach in the middle of the night and let the waves wash up over my bare feet. I pretended the sea foam was magic, and if I stood there long enough, the magic would seep up my legs into my whole body. Then I’d stretch my arms out. Once my body had soaked up enough magic, I could rise off the sand and fly through the air. I’d form a picture in my mind of where I wanted to go, and then my body would take me there. I could see through walls, so I’d hover over my school and look inside all the empty classrooms, or I’d go to the firehouse and sit on the roof to watch my father inside, playing cards and dominoes with his fireman friends.
I slipped my backpack off. “No, I used to be a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Ah. That explains it.” There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his dress shirt was wet under the arms.
I said, “You better sit down. You look like you’re about to keel over.”
“I probably am. You nearly got us killed!”
I looked down at Baldy’s face. His eyes were closed now, and his shirt was bunched up at his neck and soaked in blood. I loosened the top buttons just in case they were restricting his breathing and then mustered up a smile for my burly accomplice. “Well, thanks for your help. I don’t think I could have gotten him out of that car by myself.”
He nodded. “You’ve got blood on your lip.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll be okay.”
“I mean, you should probably get that off.”
I knew what he was getting at. There are all kinds of nasty blood-borne diseases, and whether or not Baldy here had any of them, I certainly didn’t want his blood anywhere near my mouth.
I pulled some gauze out of my backpack. “It’s okay. My car was at the back of the pileup. I think I bit my lip when I got rear-ended.”
He stood up and stuck his hands down in his pockets. “Oh, good. I mean, it’s not good you got rear-ended, but you might want to make sure you don’t get any of this guy’s blood on that.”
“What are you? A doctor?”
A faint look of guilt flashed across his face. He extended his hand. “Dr. Philip Dunlop.”
I shook his hand. “Oh. Dixie Hemingway. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah. I guess I better go see what the driver of that truck looks like.”
A crowd of people had formed around us, and a
s he made his way through them I heard him say, “Alright, people, give ’em some air,” as if we were on some kind of TV hospital drama.
I wadded the gauze up and gently dabbed it at the blood on Baldy’s head. He opened his eyes and looked around, checking out his new surroundings.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Help is on the way.”
He looked at me and frowned, and then groaned as he lifted his head off the sidewalk to see past me into the street.
I said, “Oh, no, sir, please don’t try to move.”
His frown disappeared, and again a strange smile played across his lips. I turned to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing but the row of cars stopped in the street. I could see the young girl that had rear-ended me pacing up and down the sidewalk, holding her cell phone to her ear and gesticulating wildly with her free hand, and just opposite us was the cranky old woman in the black Cadillac. She was staring at us with a look of utter disgust, as if Baldy had ruined her entire day by nearly getting himself killed.
Just then a pair of black boots stepped into my field of vision. They were almost knee height, shined to a glossy, mirrorlike finish with steel toes and thick rubber heels. I recognized them immediately. They were the same boots I’d worn every day for years—the boots of a Sarasota County sheriff’s deputy.
I looked up to find Deputy Jesse Morgan staring down at me over the frames of his mirrored sunglasses, which he’d slid partly down the bridge of his sharp nose. He had broad shoulders, a buzzed military-type haircut, and a lone diamond stud in his left ear. I knew him, not from having worked for the department—he joined the force after I left—but from several other unfortunate occasions when our paths had crossed. He’s about as fun as a bag of rats, but I respect him.
“Dixie,” he said, his lips pursed to one side.
I looked down at my cargo shorts, which were smeared with blood. There were red splotches all over my white T-shirt, my hands were covered in blood, and there were red streaks running up and down my arms and legs. I wasn’t sure what Deputy Morgan was thinking at that particular moment, but let’s just say this wasn’t the first time he’d found me kneeling over a listless, bloody body.
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “He was like this when I found him.”
2
I’ve never been a smoker. My grandfather smoked Camels, unfiltered. Sometimes he’d have several cigarettes going at the same time. He’d be sitting on the deck after dinner, listening to the waves roll in, his cigarette precariously balanced on the edge of the hand-painted clamshell ashtray I made for him in the fourth grade. He’d get up, stretch, and go inside to grab a beer. Then he’d forget what he’d gone inside for and settle down on the couch with an ice-cold Coke, light up another cigarette, and watch the Lawrence Welk show. Then he might leave that cigarette, wander into the kitchen to talk with my grandmother while she made dinner, and light up another cigarette.
It drove my grandmother bonkers, and it’s a wonder he didn’t burn the house down, but my point is I had lots and lots of opportunities to sneak a puff now and then. Only when I did, it felt like my throat was on fire and my lungs were about to explode right out of my chest. At school, all the cool girls gathered out behind the bleachers smoking cigarettes and talking about homework and boys. I desperately wanted to be part of that crowd, but I just couldn’t hack it.
Deputy Morgan had asked me to wait around a bit to answer a few more questions about the accident since the old woman in the Cadillac and the burly doctor had both gone on their merry way the first chance they’d gotten. Except for the young girl in the car behind me and the driver of the landscaping truck, who’d surprisingly come through without a scratch, I was the only witness.
I had pulled into a parking spot so the cops could get the emergency vehicles through, and now I was sitting on the hood of the Bronco and wishing I had a cigarette. My grandfather always said they calmed his nerves, and mine felt like they’d just been through an extra spin cycle at the Laundromat. Two near-miss crashes was one thing, but pulling a bloody man from a ticking time bomb was a whole other ball of fish or kettle of wax or whatever it’s called.
The firemen had doused Baldy’s convertible immediately after the explosion, and miraculously the landscaping truck hadn’t caught fire, which was a good thing for everyone involved since it would surely have exploded, too, and probably taken out half of Ocean Boulevard with it.
From my perch on the hood of the Bronco, I watched as the EMTs loaded Baldy into the ambulance while the firemen lumbered around like astronauts in their big yellow helmets and puffy protective clothing, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs.
They weren’t taking any chances with Baldy’s car. It took two of them to hold the hose steady while another directed the water all around its smoldering carcass, poking the hose inside all the wheel wells and under the cracks of the buckled hood, like a hygienist cleaning teeth at the dentist’s office.
Even though I knew my brother, Michael, was off duty, I was still keeping an eye out for him. He’s been known to go racing out of the house in the middle of the night to help his buddies kill a fire, or as Michael says, “put the wet stuff on the hot stuff.” Our father was a fireman, and so was his father before him, so when Michael joined the squad just out of college, firefighting was already programmed in his genes. He’s blond and blue-eyed like me, but with broad shoulders and muscled arms, kind of like those cover models on the romance magazines they sell at the grocery store.
I let out a little sigh of relief when I felt pretty confident he wasn’t showing up. Michael’s been taking care of me for as long as I can remember. Our father died in action, fighting a fire in an old abandoned warehouse north of the airport, and our mother was not exactly what you’d call a domestic goddess, so Michael tends to be pretty protective—you might even say overprotective. I’m sure the sight of me sitting on the hood of my car covered in blood would have sent him right over the edge.
Now that the ambulance had taken Baldy away and the fire was out, people were walking by on the sidewalk and gawking at me. I thought about how they always say the most beautiful people in the world are the ones who’ve experienced true tragedy and suffering. Of course, nobody was looking at me for my world-weary beauty. They were mesmerized by the sight of a bloody, blond-haired mess sitting on the hood of her car.
I looked down at my arms and legs and felt a little shock go through my body. Somehow I’d managed to block out the fact that I was smeared from head to toe with another man’s blood. At that moment the only thing that kept me from having a complete nervous breakdown was the promise that as soon as I’d answered whatever questions Deputy Morgan had for me, I’d make like a homing pigeon and head straight for my shower.
I’ve never been to Tibet or Jerusalem or any of those other places where people go to find inner peace or the meaning of life. Hell, I’ve never even crossed the Florida state line. I don’t need to. The shower is my own personal mecca. There’s nothing like a strong, steady stream of hot water to make you feel like you’re a fully enlightened deity. For now, though, some old towels and a bottle of rubbing alcohol would have to do the trick.
I slid off the hood and went around to the back and opened up the cargo door. I keep a big plastic cat carrier and two old canvas tote bags back there. One has some extra leashes, a few collars of varying sizes, a Baggie full of bacon-flavored treats, some chewed-up Frisbees, a couple of peacock feathers, and a collection of collapsible food bowls. The other has a fresh supply of clean towels, which come in handy for lining cat carriers or drying off a wet dog, and they’re good for keeping fur off upholstery, too.
I don’t like a messy car. In my book, your mind is only as clean as your car, so I keep the Bronco as spotless as the day we drove it off the lot. Back then, I kept the back fully stocked with paper napkins, baby wipes, goldfish crackers, and juice boxes … but that was a whole other life.
I pulled a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of my backpack and unscrewe
d the lid. Then I took one of the towels out and folded it into a square. I doused one side of it with alcohol and then, humming along to myself as if it were the most normal thing in the world, wiped the towel up and down first my right leg and then my left. I’d planned on averting my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see exactly how much blood there was, but I couldn’t help myself. In no time at all, the towel looked like a red tie-dyed T-shirt an aging hippie might wear to a Grateful Dead reunion concert.
I folded it over, dabbed a little more alcohol on the clean side, and then ran it up and down my hands and forearms. It looked like I’d gotten it all, but just to be on the safe side, I took another towel out of the tote bag and did the whole thing over again.
Feeling a little more civilized, if not completely sanitized, I stuffed the stained towels down into a plastic bag, closed up the back of the car, and returned to my spot on the hood to watch the sun set over the proceedings. I could see patches of the ocean between the shops and buildings on the Gulf side of the street. It was turning a deep indigo blue, and reaching up all along the horizon were vast fields of cadmium and scarlet, all shot through with glowing slivers of white clouds, like undulating seams in the fabric of the sky.
Just when I was thinking I’d probably have to sit on the hood of my car all night long waiting for Deputy Morgan, he came peacocking across the road, his tool belt weighted down with all the accoutrements of a sworn officer of the law: flashlight, handcuffs, department-issue pistol, billy club, digital recorder. He had that smug cop-strut down to a tee. I should know. I used to have a smug cop-strut of my own.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said as he leaned his hip against the hood and pulled out his report pad.
I nodded. “Yep.”
Morgan and I have a pretty long history of encounters at crime scenes, largely due to the fact that I seem to have a knack for getting myself involved in all kinds of things I shouldn’t. Granted, my job puts me in lots of places where most people would never be: alone in strangers’ homes with their pets, in all kinds of neighborhoods, at all hours of the day and night. Plus, it’s a small town. Naturally if anything exciting is happening, the odds of my being somewhere in the vicinity are probably higher than the average Joe’s. Still, drama seems to track me down like a chump-seeking missile.
The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives Page 2