Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [53]
I reach into the truck cab. Leslie stops screaming, lets me take Cassidy out of her arms and sits there holding herself, rocking back and forth.
I lay Cassidy on the pavement. There’s blood covering her face, and her long, honey hair is stuck in it. I take off the CSM jacket and wipe at the blood with the cotton lining. There’s a gash in her forehead where it must have slapped the dash. It’s bloody like all head wounds, but not too big. I press the jacket against her head and feel her pulse. Good, her pulse is good, her chest is rising and falling regularly, there’s no blood coming from her mouth, and none of her limbs are obviously broken. She was probably sleeping in her mom’s lap, her body limp and relaxed for the crash. That’s good.
—Leslie.
She’s staring at her daughter. Lights have come on in the houses on the street, people are standing on their porches in nightclothes.
—Leslie!
She looks at me.
—Come here and help.
She unbuckles and climbs down out of the truck.
—Take this.
I put her hand on top of the jacket over her daughter’s forehead.
—Just hold it here, keep pressure on it.
Patterson doesn’t have its own police force; it’s served by the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department. Last I knew they had two cars working the whole west side of the county. With a bit of luck, they’ll have to send one from Newman. The nearest hospital and ambulance service is in Turlock. So the siren that raises up now is probably the fire department.
I take my hand off of Leslie’s. She looks from her daughter’s face to mine.
—I think she’s OK. Just keep the pressure on and someone will be here real fast.
She nods.
—I have to go.
I walk up the driveway to Wade. His body is a tangled jumble. I touch his face, pocked with acne scars, the crazed hair clipped short and thinning. Oh shit, Wade.
—Wade?
I turn my head at the voice. A woman my age is standing at the top of the drive. She’s wearing flannel boxers, a too-large jacket she must have grabbed on her way out the door, and little booty socks on her feet. Her face is pillow-creased and her short dark hair is severely bedheaded. I recognize her from high school. Stacy Wilder. Wow, Wade hooked up with Stacy “The Wild One” Wilder. Way to go, buddy.
—Wade?
I stand up. Point at him.
—He.
And Danny shoots me in the back.
IT’S THE back of my leg, really.
My left leg flies out from underneath me and I fall on my back. Beyond the sound of the shot echoing in my ears, I hear doors slamming shut up and down the street as the rubberneckers dive back inside. The siren is coming closer.
—Got you, fucker.
I tilt my head and see Danny behind me.
—Got you good, wanted man.
Wanted man? Now how in hell does he know that? He takes a step closer. He’s bleeding from his mouth. Something to my left moves. I look and see a boy coming up behind Stacy, where she stands frozen, staring at Wade.
The boy is about thirteen, has Wade’s hair and flat nose. He’s wearing a San Jose Sharks jersey and carrying a hockey stick. He’s sees me and Danny. And then he sees his dad. His eyes go big and his mouth opens. I lift a hand.
—Stacy.
She looks from her husband to me. Danny nudges my head with his sneaker.
—Shut up.
I point at the boy.
—Stacy, get your boy inside.
Her eyes move from me to Wade, to me again, to Danny’s cheap Korean Glock knockoff. She turns, finds her gaping boy there, grabs him, and pulls him toward the front door.
—Shut the fuck up.
He’s right over me now. Perspective has him flipped upside down.
Upside down.
That’s a good idea.
—Danny, shouldn’t you be taking care of your daughter?
He turns his head to look over his shoulder and I reach up, grab his ankles, and pull his feet out from under him. The gun goes off and a bullet pokes a hole in the garage door. Danny hits the ground