Adopted Son. Linda Warren
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He had to get to the officer while he could. Leaping from the steps, he sprinted to Brian, grabbed him beneath his armpits and pulled him toward the trailer out of harm’s way.
Agitated, the dogs threw themselves at the fence, barking, growling, wanting a piece of the officer. And a piece of Tuck. He kept one eye on them, praying the wire would continue to hold.
The sirens rolled closer. An ambulance and police cars roared up the street and came to a screeching halt, spewing gravel onto the trailer. Quickly, Tuck searched for the officer’s pulse. It was faint, but it was there. He was still alive. Thank God. Tuck sagged against the trailer.
Two officers ran to his aid, guns drawn. Three more officers followed, crouching beside Tuck.
“What’s happening?” an officer asked.
“Not sure. There’s a man in the trailer with a rifle.” Tuck gulped a breath. “I heard two voices, a woman’s and a man’s. And there’s a kid, too.”
“Damn.”
“This officer needs medical attention,” Tuck told him. “Another officer by the squad car has been hit.”
“Damn. We have to get him out of here. Has the shooter fired lately?”
“No. I think he’s at the end of the trailer by the dog pen. This is your best chance to move Brian.”
The officer motioned to the ambulance and it slowly backed in. “Hold on,” he said to Brian. “We got you covered.” He then shouted orders to the others.
Two other officers grabbed a gurney and had Brian loaded in seconds. The ambulance pulled away, stopping by the squad car to pick up the other wounded officer. Sirens blared full strength as the ambulance tore away.
Shots rumbled through the trailer then there was total silence. Even the dogs quieted down.
Officers wearing protective vests and carrying high-powered automatic weapons swarmed the trailer. One kicked in the door and they charged inside. Tuck followed. He had one goal—to get the kid out.
In the narrow hallway a man and a woman lay in a pool of blood; blood also coated the walls. They appeared to be dead. Drug paraphernalia was scattered on the kitchen table. Tuck turned away and walked directly to the child.
The boy was dirty, his hair matted, his clothes stained and ripped. A telling smell emanated from him and Tuck knew he probably hadn’t had his diaper changed in a while. The kid seemed oblivious to what was going on around him. He continued to chew on the small bag of dog food.
Tuck squatted down. “Hey, buddy, that’s not for you.” He reached to take it away and the boy grunted and bit his hand.
“That’s not nice,” Tuck said, and tried to take it again. The boy shook his head and held on with both arms. Tuck recognized the kid was hungry.
“Oh my God!” one of the officers said, staring at the kid.
“Keep an eye on him.” Tuck stood and searched the cluttered cabinets for food. He found nothing but dishes, pots and pans, junk, beer, cigarettes and liquor. “I’ll be right back,” he told the officer. “Don’t take your eyes off him.”
Tuck hurried to his car. He always kept peanut butter crackers in the glove compartment in case he didn’t have time to eat. Going up the steps, he held open the door for the justice of the peace, who had just arrived on the scene. He would have to declare the people dead before they could be moved to the morgue. Another ambulance rolled up, waiting among the swarm of police cars. Neighbors gathered outside in the cool March breeze.
Tuck went back to the little boy, who was still clutching the bag, his slobber all over it. He squatted again, showed him the crackers and handed him one.
“I’ll trade you, buddy. You…”
His words trailed off as the boy grabbed the cracker and stuffed it into his mouth. Before Tuck could react, the kid snatched the other crackers out of his hand, poking them into his mouth as fast as he could.
“He’s starving,” the officer remarked.
Tuck stood. “Yeah. And he’s filthy. He’s probably been neglected for a long time.”
“Sergeant Dale Scofield,” the officer said and stuck out his hand.
“Jeremiah Tucker, Texas Ranger.” They shook. “I was passing through the area and heard the call.”
“Thanks for the help.”
The crime scene people had arrived and Tuck and the sergeant stepped over trash to get out of the way.
“What do you think happened here?” Tuck asked, although he already had a good idea.
“This is a rental property and my guess is the woman was turning tricks and the man was a dealer or a pimp. There’s a naked man dead in the bedroom. Something went wrong that ticked off the shooter. Maybe he came home and found her with a guy she wasn’t supposed to be with. Who knows? An investigation might turn up something, but we’ll probably never know what really went down.” The sergeant glanced at the boy. “What kind of mother brings a kid into this type of situation?”
“A very bad one,” Tuck replied, watching the boy as he continued to wolf down the crackers. “Has Child Protective Services been called?”
“Yeah, someone is on the way. And the animal shelter’s picking up the dogs.”
Two paramedics pushed gurneys inside, waiting for the word to remove the bodies. Tuck reached down and picked up the boy. He figured the kid didn’t need to see anything else. The boy swung at him with his fists, making angry sounds, but Tuck gathered him up to get him out of here. The kid was like a wild animal and Tuck had a hard time controlling him.
An officer ran to him with a box of doughnuts and a plastic cup of cola with a straw in it. “Sarge said to find all the food we could,” he said. “This is it.”
“Thanks,” Tuck replied, trying to hold down the kid’s hands. “Just put it on the hood of my car.”
“Sure.”
Tuck sat the boy on the hood, again noting his powerful odor. “Hey,” he called to the officer. “See if there are some diapers in the trailer. He needs to be changed.”
“Will do. And the name’s Mike.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
The kid snatched the drink and sucked greedily on the straw. Evidently he’d had sugary drinks before.
“Hey, buddy. Slow down.” Tuck opened the half-empty box and wondered if the boy could eat a doughnut or if too much food all at once was good for him. He closed the box, deciding to just let him drink the cola. They’d have him in the E.R. soon enough.
The little boy’s face was dirty and his matted hair greasy and long. Wary brown eyes glanced at him from time to time much as a starved animal would—on guard in case Tuck tried to take the drink away.
Anger churned inside Tuck at what had been done to this little life. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bodies being loaded out. How could a mother do this to her own child?
Mike came running back. “I couldn’t find any diapers, but here are a couple of towels.”
“Thanks.” Tuck placed them on the hood.
“I have diapers.” A lady in her fifties walked up with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder. “I’m Opal Johnson, caseworker.” She glanced at the kid. “So this is the little boy I was called about?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tuck replied, and introduced himself.
Opal wrinkled her nose. “I assume that odor is coming from the baby.” Without waiting for a reply, she plopped the bag on the hood and pulled out a diaper and baby wipes. “Let’s see if we can’t make him smell better.”
Tuck spread out