Making Faces(72)

He sped back toward Bailey, and Bailey knew there was no way Becker wasn't going to notice the child on his lap. Bailey shot across the two-lane street, veering right in front of the oncoming truck, knowing his only chance was to get to Bob's and relative safety.

Wheels squealed behind him as Becker's truck flew past him again and tried to brake, not expecting Bailey's wild maneuvering.

“I'm turning down Center toward Bob's Speedy Mart!” Bailey screamed, hoping the 911 operator was hearing what he said. Ty had lungs and he was terrified. At least he was clinging to Bailey like a baby chimp, making it easier for Bailey to hold onto him.

There was certainly no way Bailey could hide. Ty's screams would give them away. There was no time anyway. Becker Garth had flipped around and was coming down Center, pinning them in his lights once more. The black 4X4 rolled up along Bailey's left side. Bailey could see that the passenger side window was down, but he didn't look at Becker. His attention stayed riveted on the road in front of him.

“Sheen! Where the hell do you think you're going with my kid?”

Bailey kept pushing his controls, flying along the darkened street, praying he wouldn't hit any potholes. Hannah Lake had more potholes than streetlights, and the combination was dangerous, especially in a wheelchair.

“Pull over, you little shit!”

Bailey kept moving.

The 4X4 veered over, and Bailey screamed and pulled right on his controls. His chair lurched wildly and Bailey thought for sure it would tip, but it righted itself once again.

“He's trying to run me off the road!” he screamed at the 911 operator. “I am holding his kid and he's trying to freakin' run me off the road!”

The 911 operator was yelling something but Bailey couldn't hear through the roaring in his ears. Becker Garth was drunk or crazy or both, and Bailey knew he and little Ty were in serious trouble. He was not going to live through this.

And then, in the midst of the fear, a sense of calm overtook him. Deliberately, carefully, he slowed the wheelchair to a crawl. His job was to keep Ty safe for as long as possible. He couldn't outrun Becker anyway, so he might as well travel at a safer speed. Becker seemed confused by his sudden decision to slow down and shot past him once more before he punched on his brakes, making his truck spin out on the gravely shoulder of the road. Bailey didn't want to think about what Becker's driving was doing to Rita, unconscious and unrestrained on the passenger side.

And then Becker was coming toward him again, this time in reverse, his slanted taillights like demon eyes hurtling straight for him. Bailey veered right again, but he had run out of road and his chair bumped and slid down the muddy incline into the irrigation ditch that ran parallel to the road. He wasn't going very fast, but that was irrelevant as the chair pitched and wobbled and then fell forward into the murky water that had collected in the bottom of the canal. Tyler was thrown from his arms, landing somewhere in the thick grass on the opposite side of the narrow embankment.

Bailey found himself face down in the water, his hands folded beneath his chest. His right pinky was pinned back and the pain surprised him, making him hyper-aware of the beating of his heart, a beat that was echoed by the throbbing in his finger. But Bailey knew a broken finger was the least of his problems. There was only a foot of water in the ditch. Only a foot, at the most. But it covered Bailey's head. He struggled, trying to push up with his hands. But he couldn't push himself up, and he couldn't roll over. He couldn't sit up or climb out.

He thought he heard Ty crying. The sound was distorted by the water, but Bailey's reaction was one of relief. If Ty was crying he was still alive. And then a door slammed and Ty's cries became distant and disappeared. The rumble of Becker's truck, the loud, souped-up roar that sounded a bit like the ocean in Bailey's ears, receded as well. Bailey's lungs screamed and his nose and mouth filled with mud as he tried to breathe. And the throbbing in his finger faded with the beating of his heart.





Two police cars and an ambulance raced by, sirens blaring, as Fern pedaled home around 12:00 that night. Her mind was on Ambrose, as usual, when the cacophony of emergency vehicles whooshed past.

“Dan Gable must be stuck in a tree again,” she said to herself. She giggled at the thought, although the ambulance for a cat might be a first, even in Hannah Lake. Last time it had been the fire truck. Bailey had seriously enjoyed every minute of it and had praised Dan Gable for days afterward. Maybe that was why Bailey never showed up at the store. Fern flew down 2nd East and turned onto Center, wondering where the excitement was. To her surprise, there were more police cars than Fern had ever seen at one time lining the road. Cops on foot were spread up and down the street with flashlights in hand. The lights swung back and forth in a purposeful swath, like the officers were canvassing the area in search of something. Or someone, she supposed, curiously.

As Fern headed down the road, a cry went up and officers began running toward the beckoning call.

“I've got him! I've got him!”

Fern slowed and got off her bike, not wanting to be anywhere near whoever “he” was if the police had just captured someone dangerous. The ambulance was frantically waved down and before it had even come to a complete stop, the back doors flung open and two EMTs scampered out and ran down the embankment beyond Fern's line of sight.

Fern waited, her eyes pinned to the spot where the ambulance workers had disappeared. Nobody came back up for several minutes. Then, when Fern had almost convinced herself to get back on her bike and permanently remove herself from the scene, an officer pushed something up out of the ditch. It was a wheelchair.