finger.
“Nope, none of that. I just wanted to thank you for helping Adele. It was amazing. No, it was a…”
Little Children, Fools, and Drunks
“EMS 2, respond code 3 to a 10-50, 1492 Orchard Road. Presumed PI’s.”
Denton Roberts and his partner, Rob Flynn, were wolfing down a couple of Wendy’s cheeseburgers. Several nearby customers glanced at the squawking radio sitting on the paramedics’ table. Denton picked it up and pressed a large red button.
“This is EMS 2. We’ll be en route in one minute.”
Rob looked at the burger in his hand, shook his head, wrapped it in a couple of napkins, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“You sure about that?” Denton was already headed to the door.
“Hey, a man’s gotta eat. And what’s this about an auto accident with ‘presumed PI’s’? Either there’re personal injuries or there’re not.”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll find out.”
Orchard Road was a good ten minutes out in the country, even at maximum safe speed. The ambulance’s halogen headlights pierced the dark, moonless night, and its flashing blue-and-red lights bounced off trees and road signs as the paramedics sped to the accident.
Dispatch had informed them that a police unit was on its way and should arrive moments after they did.
“You think the driver left the scene?” Rob shifted in his seat and stuck his hand into his jacket pocket. “That might explain the ‘presumed PI’ business. What th—” He held his hand under the interior dome light. It was covered with ketchup and decorated with a few streaks of mustard and one lonely pickle to boot.
“I was a little worried about that.” Denton chuckled, looking at his partner’s hand. “But you know, a man’s gotta eat. Right?”
“Now you listen—”
“Look, there it is—1492.” Denton braked the ambulance and pointed to a mailbox on the right side of the road.
Rob wiped his hand on his pants and looked out his window. “Mighty dark out there. You see anything?”
They pulled onto a graveled driveway and the beams of their headlights found a small, one-story brick house. The front porch was screened, its door closed.
Denton rolled down his window as they slowly approached the house. He switched off the siren, its strident wail replaced by the quiet crunching of gravel beneath the ambulance’s tires.
The porch lights turned on, painting the front of the house with a pale yellow hue.
“Look—over there.”
Denton was pointing toward a large live oak. Its limbs spread spiderlike, almost touching the ground in places. Under one of these low-hanging boughs, lying on its side, was a late-model Ford truck. The motor was still running and one of the back wheels was uselessly spinning in the night air.
The porch door slammed and a middle-aged man walked toward them. He was barefoot, and his undersized T-shirt barely covered half of his oversized belly.
“You got here pretty quick, boys.” He walked up to Denton’s side of the ambulance and held out his hand. “Ernie Brakefield. This here’s my place.”
Rob Flynn was already out of the vehicle and sprinting toward the overturned truck.
“Any idea how this happened?” Denton opened the door, jumped down, and reached behind his seat for the emergency box.
“What? The wreck?” Ernie looked over at the truck and then out to the highway. “Best as I can figure out, the driver was going pretty fast and didn’t see the curve over there.” He was pointing somewhere off to the left, invisible in the pitch-black darkness. “He plowed through my yard and hit the drainage ditch. That’s what must have flipped him over—probably a couple of times. Then he come to rest underneath that oak tree.”
He had gracefully traced the presumed path of the truck, looping his hand in the air a few times before finally pointing to its resting place.
Denton turned and hurried over to his partner. Ernie huffed along behind them, struggling to keep up.
“Got anything?”
“Nope, none of that. I just wanted to thank you for helping Adele. It was amazing. No, it was a…”
Little Children, Fools, and Drunks
“EMS 2, respond code 3 to a 10-50, 1492 Orchard Road. Presumed PI’s.”
Denton Roberts and his partner, Rob Flynn, were wolfing down a couple of Wendy’s cheeseburgers. Several nearby customers glanced at the squawking radio sitting on the paramedics’ table. Denton picked it up and pressed a large red button.
“This is EMS 2. We’ll be en route in one minute.”
Rob looked at the burger in his hand, shook his head, wrapped it in a couple of napkins, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“You sure about that?” Denton was already headed to the door.
“Hey, a man’s gotta eat. And what’s this about an auto accident with ‘presumed PI’s’? Either there’re personal injuries or there’re not.”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll find out.”
Orchard Road was a good ten minutes out in the country, even at maximum safe speed. The ambulance’s halogen headlights pierced the dark, moonless night, and its flashing blue-and-red lights bounced off trees and road signs as the paramedics sped to the accident.
Dispatch had informed them that a police unit was on its way and should arrive moments after they did.
“You think the driver left the scene?” Rob shifted in his seat and stuck his hand into his jacket pocket. “That might explain the ‘presumed PI’ business. What th—” He held his hand under the interior dome light. It was covered with ketchup and decorated with a few streaks of mustard and one lonely pickle to boot.
“I was a little worried about that.” Denton chuckled, looking at his partner’s hand. “But you know, a man’s gotta eat. Right?”
“Now you listen—”
“Look, there it is—1492.” Denton braked the ambulance and pointed to a mailbox on the right side of the road.
Rob wiped his hand on his pants and looked out his window. “Mighty dark out there. You see anything?”
They pulled onto a graveled driveway and the beams of their headlights found a small, one-story brick house. The front porch was screened, its door closed.
Denton rolled down his window as they slowly approached the house. He switched off the siren, its strident wail replaced by the quiet crunching of gravel beneath the ambulance’s tires.
The porch lights turned on, painting the front of the house with a pale yellow hue.
“Look—over there.”
Denton was pointing toward a large live oak. Its limbs spread spiderlike, almost touching the ground in places. Under one of these low-hanging boughs, lying on its side, was a late-model Ford truck. The motor was still running and one of the back wheels was uselessly spinning in the night air.
The porch door slammed and a middle-aged man walked toward them. He was barefoot, and his undersized T-shirt barely covered half of his oversized belly.
“You got here pretty quick, boys.” He walked up to Denton’s side of the ambulance and held out his hand. “Ernie Brakefield. This here’s my place.”
Rob Flynn was already out of the vehicle and sprinting toward the overturned truck.
“Any idea how this happened?” Denton opened the door, jumped down, and reached behind his seat for the emergency box.
“What? The wreck?” Ernie looked over at the truck and then out to the highway. “Best as I can figure out, the driver was going pretty fast and didn’t see the curve over there.” He was pointing somewhere off to the left, invisible in the pitch-black darkness. “He plowed through my yard and hit the drainage ditch. That’s what must have flipped him over—probably a couple of times. Then he come to rest underneath that oak tree.”
He had gracefully traced the presumed path of the truck, looping his hand in the air a few times before finally pointing to its resting place.
Denton turned and hurried over to his partner. Ernie huffed along behind them, struggling to keep up.
“Got anything?”
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