Passing through Perfect (Wyattsville #3)(51)

Without considering the danger to himself he pulled to the side of the road, jumped out of the truck, and started down the rocky climb.

The car had come to rest on its left side with the front end folded up like an accordion and sparks shooting from the underside of the chassis. Benjamin had seen enough truck fires to know this one was going to go quickly. He had maybe five minutes. If the driver wasn’t out by then, he was good as dead.

Catching onto the front wheel then pulling himself up onto the crumpled fender, Benjamin reached for the passenger door. Stuck. It was either jammed or locked.

“Grab the hammer outta my toolbox ’n toss it down,” he called up to Isaac.

Isaac climbed into the bed of the truck and pulled the toolbox from beneath a pile of boxes. The flames coming from the underside of the car were now visible.

“Hurry up!” Benjamin yelled, the sound of desperation in his voice. For a split second he thought about climbing down. He had Isaac to think of, and staying there wasn’t safe.

Before Benjamin could measure the responsibility of saving a life against staying safe to care for his son, the hammer came flying through the air. It landed atop the rear end of the car. He inched his way back and grabbed onto it. Without changing position, he drew his arm back and hit the window as hard as possible. The blow sent a spider web of cracks across the glass. He swung again and again until there was a hole his arm could fit through. Pushing his arm through the open space, he pulled up the lock button and pried the door open. The driver was unconscious. Benjamin tugged the young man from behind the wheel, hefted him onto his shoulder, and climbed down.

Minutes later the car exploded into flames.





The driver was little more than a boy—seventeen, eighteen at the most—and judging by the way his left arm hung loose it was broken. Benjamin moved the young man to a flat grassy spot sheltered by some trees and called for Isaac to bring down a jar of water from the truck.

“Get a few of those towels too,” he added.

“They’s wet,” Isaac hollered back.

“Don’t matter none,” Benjamin said. “Bring ’em anyway.”

Isaac stood to one side as Benjamin rolled a wet towel and placed it under the boy’s head. He was breathing but unconscious. It was a good ten minutes before the boy’s eyelids fluttered open, and another twenty before he could gather enough presence of mind to speak his name.

“Paul,” he finally said. “Paul Jones.”

“From around here?” Benjamin asked.

“Not far,” Paul mumbled. “Wyattsville.”

“You want to go home or the hospital?”

Paul thought a moment. Given his memories of those terrible days in the hospital, he had no desire to be back there. He didn’t remember everything about that day; he remembered walking into the store to apply for a job, remembered lurching into the man with a gun and the sound of shots, but not much after that. He did however remember waking up in the hospital, being handcuffed to the bed and told he was being charged with the robbery.

A shudder shivered down Paul’s back and he finally answered, “Home.”

“Is there somebody what can care for you?” Benjamin asked.

Paul started to nod, but when he moved his head a sharp pain cut across his shoulder and down his arm.

“Owwww!”

“For sure you got a broken arm,” Benjamin said. “And that left leg looks like it might be broke too. Try ’n wiggle your foot.”

A look of concentration spread across his face, and Paul finally managed to move his ankle back and forth. He gave a soft moan. “I think it’s my knee.”

“Could be,” Benjamin replied. “It’s swelled up for sure.”

Father and son sat beside the boy until he said he thought he might be able to stand, and then Benjamin gave him his arm. Paul latched onto the arm, but before he could pull himself to a kneeling position he fell back and groaned.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“That’s okay,” Benjamin replied. “If you ain’t got a problem riding with us, I can take you home.” He turned to Isaac and said, “Fetch that map out of the truck. Let’s see how far this Wyattsville is.”

“I’d sure appreciate that,” Paul replied wearily. “I’d be glad to pay for your time and trouble, Mister…?”

“Just Benjamin. Benjamin Church, ’n you don’t have to pay me nothing.”

“Oh, yes, I do.” A pained grin came onto Paul’s face. “After all you’ve done for me, my Uncle Sid would have my hide if I didn’t.”

Benjamin chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to maybe getting a tankful a gasoline.”





Getting Paul back up the hill and into the front seat of the truck was easier said than done. Benjamin tied two towels together as a makeshift sling for the boy’s arm, but there wasn’t much he could do about the leg. In the end he tied four more towels together, anchored Paul to his back like the shell of a turtle, then crawled up the rocky incline on his hands and knees.

By the time they got situated in the truck and pulled back onto the road, it was after seven and already dark but at least it was no longer raining.

On the drive to Wyattsville Benjamin’s leg started throbbing. It was the right leg, the one he’d broken in a tractor accident years back. It ached when it rained, but now it was aching twice as much because of the climb up the hill.