The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(5)
“Hang on, ma’am. There’s help coming. You’re gonna...”
“My... baby... is... in... there,” she gasped, trying again to move, her finger pointing at the blazing car. “My baby is...”
“Ms Rose!” Sheriff Ballard was running towards her, a couple of medics right behind him.
Rose Batson stepped back as the medics rushed in to assist the woman. Sheriff Ballard grabbed her arm.
“Ms Rose. Are there any more?”
She was crying now. Rose Batson was crying, biting her lip hard enough to bring blood. There was a baby in that car. A baby. Burning up in that car.
Rose impulsively took two steps towards the Honda. No. No. No.
“Ms Rose!” Sheriff Ballard grabbed Rose around the waist, but Rose kept moving, and he finally had to take her to the ground.
“No, Jimmy! That woman’s baby’s in there. I should’ve...”
“Ms Rose, we can’t help anyone in that car. Is there anyone else?”
Rose struggled for a couple of seconds, then stopped. Snap out of it, old woman.
“The truck driver... down the shoulder,” she said, pointing and holding her ribs.
Sheriff Ballard stood and barked instructions to an approaching deputy. Had Rose looked back towards the store, she would’ve seen that another patrol car had arrived. And the volunteer fire department. But she didn’t look back.
Rose sat on the grass, clutching her ribs and staring at the Honda. No. No. No.
4
As the phone rang in the work trailer, Jack Willistone leaned over his desk and grimaced at the words “Ultron Gasoline” flickering across the caller ID. He knew he would have to handle this call with care. Dispatch had already told him about the accident, and he had two messages to call the local television station for comment. First things first, he thought, as the phone rang a second time. Then a third.
Jack coughed and lit a cigarette, glancing down at his metal desk where the signed merger agreement still lay open to the section entitled “Terms of the Agreement”. After close to a year of negotiations, Fleet Atlantic, the largest trucking company in North America, had agreed to buy out Willistone Trucking Company, the biggest freight hauler in the South. The sum to be paid Willistone was marked with a yellow highlighter, and Jack gazed at it with satisfaction and pride.
Two hundred million dollars.
Four rings.
The deal was not yet forty-eight hours old, the ink on the signatures almost wet enough to smear. It was set to close in six months. That is, if nothing f*cks it up, Jack thought, fixing his eyes on the phone and feeling a pang of anxiety as he thought of the accident.
Five rings.
Finally, Jack leaned over the table and answered the phone.
“Yeah,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk.
“Jack, I assume you’ve heard.” The voice of Buck Bulyard, manager of the Ultron Gasoline plant in Tuscaloosa, blared into the receiver, hoarse and tired.
“Accidents are like shit, Buck. They happen. I’m sure this isn’t Ultron’s first rodeo.”
“It’s not, Jack, but we got a problem. Newton didn’t leave the plant until 10am. We got two employees that remember it and a bill of lading that has the time stamped on it. Nine goddamn fifty-seven. Due at the first filling station by 11. There’s no way your boy can make it to Montgomery by 11 without speeding.”
Silence filled the line, as Jack waited for more.
“It’s a bad accident, Jack,” Buck continued, his voice high and panicky. “Real bad. Young family. The press will be all over it, and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation has already called, wanting a meeting.”
Jack closed his eyes, knowing that the Alabama Bureau of Investigation investigated all traffic fatalities. “When do the ABI boys want to meet?” he asked.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Buck said. “They’ll be here at 8 in the morning. Jack, what if they–”
“Just hold on to your panties, Buck,” Jack interrupted, opening his eyes. “What are the names of the two employees?”
“Willard Carmichael and Dick Morris. Dick goes by ‘Mule’. They loaded the trailer, so they would know.”
“Anybody talk to ’em besides you?”
“Hell, no. You think I was born yesterday?”
Jack forced himself to laugh. “You sure there’s no one or nothing else?” Jack asked, his tone serious again.
“That’s it. All we got is the bill of lading and what Willard and Mule remember. But, Jack, you know as well as I do that this has been going on for a while. If the ABI folks start digging tomorrow–”
“What?” Jack asked, his skin turning cold. “Buck, surely to God you don’t stamp the f*cking time on all your bills?”
“We have to, Jack. Our corporate office requires it,” Buck said, the words hitting Jack like a dagger in the chest. “All bills contain the time of pickup and the time the gas is supposed to be delivered to the station.”
“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Jack asked. “Buck, you know how we operate. We make more deliveries, so your customers are happy, but there is a way we do it and you know damn well what it is. Are you telling me you have created a f*cking paper trail? Hell, man, if the ABI boys compare those bills to my driver’s logs, we could all go to jail for a long time.”