Bungalow Nights(60)

“Yes—”

“Wait!” the driver said in a sudden panic. “I can’t move my legs! I can’t move my legs!”

Vance stretched supine on the asphalt so he could reach in and palm the boy’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. We’ve called for help.”

“Don’t leave me,” the boy said, and wrapped his fingers around Vance’s wrist.

“I’m not going anywhere. Can you tell me your name?”

“Marshall,” he said, his hold not relaxing. “Marshall Richter.”

“Okay, Marshall Richter. The two of us will sit tight until the EMTs arrive.” From what Vance could see, it would probably require the Jaws of Life to extract the kid from the twisted front end of the car. Whether his legs were badly injured or just trapped, it was impossible to know.

“Vance.” His father crouched beside him and spoke in a low voice. “The gasoline’s leaking.”

Shit. He could smell it now. Even as he took in a sharp breath, he could feel the liquid beginning to puddle under his body. Oh, shit.

“Dad, do you think you can get the girl out?” Between risking possible further injury or frying to death if the vehicle caught fire, it was a no-brainer. “Put her down on a flat surface a distance away from here. Keep her covered and calm.”

“Vance—”

“A safe distance.” He turned his head to meet his father’s eyes. “Get everybody a safe distance away. You understand?”

“Yes,” William Smith said, his jaw tightening.

“Good.” He hadn’t wanted to say the word explosion and freak out the kid.

The teen was no fool, however, and his fingers bit into Vance’s flesh. “You can’t leave me,” he said, his eyes going wild.

“I’m not going to leave you. I’m right here.” On the other side of the truck, he could see his brother, father and uncle making quick work of releasing the girl from the harness and belt. The door on that side wasn’t crumpled like the driver’s door, so when she dropped into Fitz’s arms, he was able to ease her out. The girl cried throughout the entire process and it was Layla who reassured her, her husky voice telling her it would be fine, she was almost free, everything would be okay.

Then the girl was gone. Vance let out a long breath of relief as he sensed the others retreating toward the house. His gaze remained on the kid, though, maintaining eye contact to bolster the boy’s confidence.

Footsteps alerted him to the return of someone. He glanced over, recognizing his father’s shoes. Then there was Layla, the little moons and stars on her toenails giving her away.

“Dad,” he called, new worry making his voice sharp. His jeans had soaked up the gasoline like a sponge. More of it was wet beneath his bare back. “Dad, please move back. Take Layla. Take her and yourself away right now.”

There was a hesitation. “Son—”

“Right now.”

Layla made a small sound of distress and he closed his eyes, not sure if it was the smell of gasoline or her fear that was making his stomach churn. “Go, Layla,” he said, making the order harsh. “Go on.”

The footsteps retreated again and he blew out another long breath. Marshall was making panicky noises in the back of his throat and Vance reached in to cover the fingers that were still curved around his wrist. “So, Marshall, where do you go to high school?”

“Say you won’t leave me,” the kid said. “Say I’m going to make it out of this.”

Words echoed in Vance’s head, the ones he’d told every wounded man he’d ever rushed to help. I’m going to get you out of here, soldier. I’m going to get you to the best doctors and nurses we have available.

“Promise me,” Marshall entreated. “Promise me.”

Promise me.

The desperate tone sucked Vance straight back in time. Colonel Parker, lying in the dirt, life leeching out of him. Vance going a little nuts, knowing the man was dying and knowing there was nothing more he could do about it but endure the heat, the dust and the sick helplessness of not being able to save such an outstanding officer.

Not being able to save a father, whose last thoughts were focused on his daughter. Why not me? Vance had thought then, furious at fate. Estranged from his family, recently dumped by his fiancée, he’d wondered why it hadn’t been his turn to die.

Why not me? he thought again now. Why didn’t I die that day or when I crashed those cars or when I flew off a ski jump and landed on my thick head but didn’t break my stupid neck?

Sweet Jesus. Now here he was, offered salvation from his youthful sins, it seemed, through the act of lying in a lake of combustible fuel, holding the hand of a kid who possessed his same reckless spirit. But now Vance didn’t want it to be his turn. Seeing him blown sky-high would demolish his family. And Layla...

God, Layla. He hadn’t fulfilled all the promises he’d made on her behalf, either.

But there was no way he could abandon the boy, this shadow self, and scurry away to safety. Karma, he thought, with a wry grimace, could be just like payback. A bitch.

“Vance?” Marshall said, his voice cracking.

“I promise.” The back of Vance’s head was soaked with fuel now, the fumes making him a little dizzy. “I promise. Now, tell me a little about yourself. We gotta do something to pass the time.”

And the time passed slowly. The kid fixated for a while on the accident, telling Vance that he and his best friend had been taking the girl to her grandma’s but they’d gotten lost on the rural roads with their hairpin turns. “My dad’s always saying I drive too fast,” he mumbled, his eyes starting to roll back. “He’s going to kill me. He’s really going to kill me if the truck doesn’t blow first.”

Vance distracted the boy from that thought, working to keep him conscious and talking. The gasoline fumes stung his eyes and tasted acrid on his tongue, but still Vance didn’t stop talking. How about those Dodgers. Had Marshall been to the beach lately. Could the boy explain the appeal of watching golf on TV. The kid’s answers were slurred by exhaustion by the time approaching sirens finally squealed in the air. Seconds later, they were surrounded by safety boots and turnout pants.

“Nobody light a match, okay?” he called, trying to sound casual, though the words croaked out. Relief was almost as dizzying as the fuel smell, he discovered. But you couldn’t blame a man for being happy he wasn’t going to end up a human Molotov cocktail, after all.

“You’re good, you’re safe,” he told Marshall. “We made it.”

When he stood to allow the EMTs to assess the situation, he went lightheaded. One of the responders grabbed his upper arm. “You okay, pal?”

“Yeah.” He stiffened his knees, determined to keep watch over the extrication process. “I’m good. Take care of the boy.”

The firefighter flashed him a grin. “Looks like you already did that.”

While he was grateful that he’d been on hand to help the victims, Vance didn’t feel his usual satisfaction. Maybe he’d been on scene at too many emergency situations, he thought, a wave of fatigue swamping him. A moment like this one used to juice him up. Still, he stood by until the teen was pulled from the truck and secured on a gurney.

Then Vance stepped close again, meeting Marshall’s pain-filled eyes. “You owe me, kid,” he said.

A ghost of a grin moved the teen’s mouth. “I won’t have a penny after my dad makes me pay for the cost of the crash.”

“You just remember how good it feels to be alive,” he advised. “And don’t go scuttling your second chances.”

As the ambulance took off, followed by another that held the other two victims, Vance finally turned toward his childhood home. His family was gathered in a small knot by the gate.

Adrenaline crash further added to his sense of fatigue, but he took a resolute step toward them. Earlier this evening he’d been reluctant to face them over a meal. What he knew he had to do now was going to be so much harder.

* * *

DINNER HAPPENED, though much later than originally planned, after Vance showered and changed into borrowed clothes. Preoccupied during the meal, he didn’t participate much in the conversation around him. Perhaps sensing his mood, the others at the table left him alone.

He stacked plates when it was over, but his mother shooed him out of the kitchen when he brought them to the dishwasher. “Go relax. Your aunt and I will take care of the dishes.”

“Sounds good, Mrs. Cleaver,” he said, managing to send her a little teasing grin. His mom didn’t usually stick to gender roles when it came to household tasks.

With a wave of her hand, she pretended to smack him with her dish towel, and his grin widened on its own. She’d cried some after the ambulances drove off, but she was back in control.