M.L. Gamble - Trust With Your Life

She slowed and scouted a safe place to stop past the carnage, a shot of fear immobilizing her for a second before giving her brain a tremendous rush. As a phone company manager with eight employees reporting to her, Molly had completed over a hundred hours of emergency training. She even knew basic sign language commands. Traffic accidents, electrocution, cuts, poison, burns and broken bones, she had studied how to handle them in films and handbooks. Monthly newsletters, called Flashes, parked themselves weekly in her In box, and over hurried lunches she had made it a point to read them all. There were countless examples of how death resulted because the most basic safety rules weren’t followed.

Thanks to her training, all the procedures for keeping herself safe kicked in together in her head. She continued past the accident for twenty yards, leaving room for the cops and ambulances, and parked cleanly off the road. She was directly in front of a call box, right under a light. While waiting for the operator to answer, she removed her dark windbreaker to reveal a more easily seen white T-shirt. Molly noted more skid marks and a flattened safety fence lying on its back just ahead of her and glanced down the steep hillside.

Imagining another night’s vehicular violence gave her a chill, but she remained cool and gave the necessary information to the operator, whose sole responsibility was to communicate with motorists in trouble. A minute later, she hung up and grabbed two blankets she always kept in the trunk, looked both ways and dashed into the traffic lanes at the edge of the mayhem.

At that moment, a man in a black pickup truck rolled toward her. He stopped in the left lane and jumped out, yelling, “Did you call it in?”

“Yes. They’re coming,” she answered. “Do you have any flares?”

“Good idea.” The guy ran back to his truck while Molly hurried to the man lying on his back. He was young and preppy-looking, dressed in a white polo shirt, khakis and one deck shoe. The emblem on his shirt wasn’t an alligator, though. It was a face, a smiling Oriental face. She threw one of the blankets over him, smacking her knuckles on something hard as she tucked the cloth around his knee.

Her fingers wrapped around the object and she scooted it out from under him, recognizing its shape before she saw it, even though she had never held one before.

It was a gun. Small, heavier than she would have guessed, it was warm to the touch.

For a second, Molly couldn’t think what to do with it; panic squeezed out all thought. Finally she took a big gulp of air and stuck the thing into the pocket of her denim skirt. In the fullness of the fabric, the pocket swallowed the gun.

Molly pressed her hand against the man’s neck. No pulse. She pulled his eyelids up and found his pupils were dilated and motionless.

He was dead.

Molly drew back, suddenly cold, noticing how incredibly noisy it was near the truck since its engine was still running. Her train of thought was probably born out of reflexive self-protection, she realized, remembering people say that in times of great tragedy it’s possible to put one’s emotions on hold and take them out later when there’s more time for a nervous breakdown. Which is what Molly felt she might have someday when she recalled how lonely it felt to sit beside two dead men.

These were the first corpses she had ever seen, and her eyes filled with tears. They were so still. And heavy, as if gravity was sucking their bodies down into their graves already.

A few months ago she had been circumstantially involved in a murder case, but it had not saddened her like this. In that matter, Molly had been witness to no mayhem, had not been privy to dead eyes and wounds and blood. Because of that, she had remained calm. She had given the police various coherent statements, had coolly appeared before a grand jury, was set to testify next week at the trial. Molly had not even spent one sleepless night because of images of corpses.

Something told her that this time things were going to be different.

Now that she was face-to-face with violence, all she could think about was the car’s engine, the pebbles digging into her knee, the weight in her pocket, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears and her own mortality. If she had been driving on this stretch of road only a few seconds earlier...

Molly stared at the dead man beside her, finally forcing herself into action. Carefully she leaned over the figure and started CPR.

Five puffs in, then push, push, push.

“Let me help you.” A man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit touched her shoulder and she nodded, not allowing herself to wonder what was going on around her, never missing a breath. She blew expelled air into the stranger’s body, while the other good samaritan pushed down on his chest.

The stranger remained dead.

“There’s one alive by the Bronco. I don’t think the car’s a risk to blow up. Do you want to try him?” the man asked, gently squeezing her arm as he coaxed her to her feet.

Molly stood up and nodded, feeling her lip tremble and her eyes sting. She moved away as if walking through sand. A rock, zinged out from under the tire of a vehicle on the freeway above, smacked into her forehead above the eye. It hurt like mad, but for some reason Molly welcomed the pain.

She heard a squeal of tires behind her and shouts, then two young women, dressed in bicycle pants and U.C.L.A. T-shirts, ran past her. They began working on one of the other accident victims, an older man with white hair. When he lifted his hand, all three women grinned.

Encouraged, Molly fell to her knees next to the remaining man. He had on a heavy windbreaker zipped up tight. His pulse was so weak she could hardly feel it, and his dark skin had paled, particularly around his mouth. Glancing back at the off-ramp entrance, she saw both lanes were blocked by cars and several people were running around.

The pickup driver and a teenager with dreadlocks were working together and lighting a string of flares around the blocked lanes.

Molly tilted the man’s head back, then blew sharply through his dry lips. Her hands fumbled with his windbreaker, stopping at the hard lump over his heart.

Damn if he wasn’t wearing a gun! A bigger one than she had picked up before, to judge from the outline of it. The weapon was strapped against his chest.

“What in the hell was going on out here?” she asked in fear and anger. No one answered her.

Visions of high-speed chases and deranged drug dealers flooded her brain. She blanched, but pushed on. A second worry, that this scene somehow had something to do with the murder trial she was going to testify at, Molly dismissed. Get a grip, she scolded. Lives were depending on her.

The scream and whine of emergency vehicles began to fill the air.

The girls had saved the white-haired man, Molly thought. Maybe she could save this one, too.

“Please stay in your cars and proceed.” This static-tinged command blared out of a patrol car’s loudspeaker as two black and whites rolled up and parked a yard from Molly. She left the gun where it was and slipped her 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.”