Speed Trap. Patricia Davids
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crawled. She could feel the heat of the fire. Smoke stung her eyes and scorched her lungs with each breath she was forced to take.
Behind the passenger’s seat, she pushed aside a patchwork quilt and discovered a baby buckled into a car seat that had come loose. The child whimpered pitifully.
“You need to get out of there,” Emmett shouted.
Barely able to move in the tight space, Mandy worked frantically to unbuckle the remaining straps holding the child in the seat. Fear made her fingers clumsy.
Don’t think about the fire. Get this child out.
The hiss and pop of the flames grew louder. The metal in the roof supports groaned as the weight of the car compressed them. If they crumpled a few more inches she would be trapped.
Tugging again at the fastener, she wished she had a knife, anything to cut the nylon straps.
God, please let me save this child.
Finally, the reluctant buckle clicked open. As Mandy pulled the baby loose, he cried out in pain.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, swaddling the blanket over him to protect him from the smoke. Cradling him close, she began to wiggle backward.
The heat of the engine fire singed her face and neck. She knew the smell of scorched cotton was coming from her uniform. With a loud metallic snap, the car settled lower.
The baby stopped crying, but she didn’t dare unwrap him to see if he was okay. They were almost out of time.
“Please, God, only a little bit more.”
She had her legs out when suddenly she felt hands grabbing her boots. An instant later, someone was pulling her free.
Emmett, having abandoned the empty extinguisher, helped her to her feet. They both turned and ran. With a deafening boom, the gas tank exploded and the flames engulfed the vehicle.
When they reached a safe distance, Mandy sank to her knees in the grass and stared at the blazing car.
“That was a near thing,” Emmett wheezed beside her, bracing his hands on his knees.
“Much too close.”
She looked down at the child she held and uncovered his face. To her relief he was still breathing. She sent a silent prayer of thanks.
The county fire department truck had arrived on the highway above followed by an ambulance and her undersheriff, Fred Lindholm. The fire crew quickly sprayed a thick layer of white foam over the burning vehicle. After a few tense minutes, the flames were beaten down.
Mandy sat rocking the baby while the EMS crew checked the driver. The men exchanged pointed looks and gave a brief shake of their heads.
Looking down at the child she held, Mandy’s heart went out to him. Poor little baby. Was the woman his mother? Where was his father? Did he have anyone in the world to care for him?
Dressed in a blue-and-white sleeper, he looked to be a little boy maybe four or five months old. She combed her fingers through the silky fine blond curls on his head. “I wish I could have saved her, too.”
Fred, a burly man in his late fifties, arrived at her side huffing with exertion. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you crawling out of that burning car. Talk about a stupid stunt!”
Fred rarely missed a chance to criticize her, but she was too emotionally spent to defend her actions.
“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, his tone softening slightly.
Glancing down, she saw blood on her sleeves. “I must have cut myself on the glass.”
One of the EMS crew came to check the baby. Mandy bit her lower lip, reluctant to give him up. Holding the child kept her hands from shaking.
It was hard not to think about how easily they both could have died.
At the paramedic’s gentle coaxing, she gave the child over, but noticed how empty her arms felt without his weight. She clasped her hands around her knees to disguise their trembling.
After rolling up Mandy’s sleeves, a second paramedic cleaned her cuts, wound a roll of gauze around both her elbows and secured them with tape. She listened to his instructions on keeping the wounds clean and dry without comment. When he was done, Mandy rose to her feet, happy to find her legs were steady enough to stand.
She needed to get to work. There was an accident to investigate, reports to file, next of kin to be notified. Keeping busy was the best way to keep her mind off her close call.
Turning to her undersheriff, she said, “Get started with the scene, Fred. I want to know how fast she was going when she hit that railing. I’m going to take Emmett’s statement.”
She climbed the rocky slope to where the rancher was sitting in his pickup. When she reached him, she offered her hand. “Thanks for all your help, Emmett. I need to ask you a few questions for my accident report, but it shouldn’t take long. Then you’ll be free to go.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sheriff.”
That got her full attention. “What do you mean?”
He pointed to a hilltop off to the west of the road. “I was in the pasture, putting out protein blocks for my cows. I heard a crash, and when I looked this way, I saw a dark pickup flying down the road beside that car. Plain as day, he hit her again, and that was when she went off the road.”
“You’re saying it was deliberate? Did you get a license plate number?”
“They were too far away. The truck stopped and a fella got out. He walked back and looked down at her, then he ran to his truck and took off.”
Mandy pulled a gray notebook from her hip pocket and flipped it open. “You said a dark pickup. Was it black, blue? What model? Ford, Chevy?”
“My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. It wasn’t light enough for me to see the color clear. I think it was a black Ford, but I can’t be sure.”
“Can you describe the man you saw?”
“He was a white guy. Tallish. He had on a dark cowboy hat.”
Tallish with a cowboy hat. Emmett had just described two-thirds of the men in her county. Cowboys were as common as fleas at a dog park here in the Kansas Flint Hills where ranching was the main occupation. And ninety-nine percent of the men drove pickups.
“Which way did he go?”
“Toward town.”
Fred drew her attention with a shout. He held up a black purse. Mandy excused herself and walked over to her officer.
Fred handed her the pocketbook. “This must have been thrown out of the car. The vehicle has Sedgwick County plates. I’m having Donna run them now.”
Inside the cheap vinyl handbag, Mandy found a few cosmetics, a tan wallet and a date book. Opening the wallet, she located a driver’s license. The photo matched the dead driver. Her name was Judy Bowen, age twenty-five.
Only two years younger than I am.
The license listed a Wichita address. Mandy hoped it was a current one. It would make it easier to notify next of kin.
Also in the wallet were two pictures of the baby. Mandy turned one over. Colin, four weeks old, was written on the back. She glanced toward the ambulance. So his name was Colin. It was a good strong name.
Other than thirty-three dollars and some change, there was nothing else of interest in the wallet. Mandy pulled out the date book, opening it to today’s date.
A notation said, Meet Garrett at the ranch.
Mandy had lived in Timber Wells for the past eight months, but Fred had lived here all his life and he’d worked for the previous sheriff. She held out the book. “It appears the driver was Judy Bowen. Does the name Garrett ring a bell?”