Six Bad Things

I’m lying on my back, looking up at the stars. I’m not in the Mustang. It’s not then, it’s now. I’m lying on my back in a driveway looking up at the stars. I’ve been in another accident. I’m lying next to a huge, long-bed pickup with the driver’s door hanging open. There’s a black pickup that looks like it tried to occupy the same parking space as the long-bed. Bad call. I must have been thrown out of the long-bed when… When what?

My head is lodged in a cone of silence. I shake it and the sounds start to penetrate: dogs barking, car alarms set off by the crash, someone crying. Someone crying. I should see if I can help. I move my arms: check. I move my legs: check. Here goes. I roll onto my stomach and get myself up on my hands and knees. I won’t say it feels good, but nothing screams too loudly. OK, let’s go for broke: I stand up. My head does a little spin and tumble, the world spins the opposite way, trying to catch up, they crash together, and everything stops moving around. Safe to say I have some dings and bruises, but I’m better off than the guy with the mullet who’s lodged in the windshield of the long-bed. Mullet. When was the last time I saw someone with a mullet? Oh, right. The puzzle pieces in my head fall back together into the shape of my brain.

Fat Guy and Mullet Head must have been riding in the truck bed. Mullet Head is jammed into an indentation in the long-bed’s windshield that is shaped exactly like his body. Fat Guy is sprawled on the hood of the Toyota, just now propping himself up on his elbows to look around. Ponytail Boy is behind the wheel, trying to get his door open, but it looks like both of his arms are broken so he’s not doing a very good job of it. Leslie is the one who’s crying, except it’s more like screaming. She looks OK (has her seat belt on and everything), but she’s clutching something limp and dollish. Her door is hanging open. As I walk over, I hear a rustling sound, and turn to see a pair of feet sticking out of a bush, which tells me where Da

I reach into the truck cab. Leslie stops screaming, lets me take Cassidy out of her arms and sits there holding herself, rocking back and forth.

I lay Cassidy on the pavement. There’s blood covering her face, and her long, honey hair is stuck in it. I take off the CSM jacket and wipe at the blood with the cotton lining. There’s a gash in her forehead where it must have slapped the dash. It’s bloody like all head wounds, but not too big. I press the jacket against her head and feel her pulse. Good, her pulse is good, her chest is rising and falling regularly, there’s no blood coming from her mouth, and none of her limbs are obviously broken. She was probably sleeping in her mom’s lap, her body limp and relaxed for the crash. That’s good.

– Leslie.

She’s staring at her daughter. Lights have come on in the houses on the street, people are standing on their porches in nightclothes.

– Leslie!

She looks at me.

– Come here and help.

She unbuckles and climbs down out of the truck.

– Take this.

I put her hand on top of the jacket over her daughter’s forehead.

– Just hold it here, keep pressure on it.

Patterson doesn’t have its own police force; it’s served by the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department. Last I knew they had two cars working the whole west side of the county. With a bit of luck, they’ll have to send one from Newman. The nearest hospital and ambulance service is in Turlock. So the siren that raises up now is probably the fire department.

I take my hand off of Leslie’s. She looks from her daughter’s face to mine.

– I think she’s OK. Just keep the pressure on and someone will be here real fast.

She nods.

– I have to go.

I walk up the driveway to Wade. His body is a tangled jumble. I touch his face, pocked with acne scars, the crazed hair clipped short and thi

– Wade?

I turn my head at the voice. A woman my age is standing at the top of the drive. She’s wearing fla

– Wade?

I stand up. Point at him.

– He.

And Da

IT’S THE back of my leg, really.

My left leg flies out from underneath me and I fall on my back. Beyond the sound of the shot echoing in my ears, I hear doors slamming shut up and down the street as the rubberneckers dive back inside. The siren is coming closer.

– Got you, fucker.

I tilt my head and see Da

– Got you good, wanted man.

Wanted man? Now how in hell does he know that? He takes a step closer. He’s bleeding from his mouth. Something to my left moves. I look and see a boy coming up behind Stacy, where she stands frozen, staring at Wade.

The boy is about thirteen, has Wade’s hair and flat nose. He’s wearing a San Jose Sharks jersey and carrying a hockey stick. He’s sees me and Da

– Stacy.

She looks from her husband to me. Da

– Shut up.

I point at the boy.

– Stacy, get your boy inside.

Her eyes move from me to Wade, to me again, to Da

– Shut the fuck up.

He’s right over me now. Perspective has him flipped upside down.

Upside down.

That’s a good idea.

– Da

He turns his head to look over his shoulder and I reach up, grab his ankles, and pull his feet out from under him. The gun goes off and a bullet pokes a hole in the garage door. Da

Oh yeah, I’m shot.

Da

The gate is unlatched from when Wade and I came out for our walk. I swing it open and pull it closed behind me, hearing the latch click as it locks. I limp toward the woodpile.

– Freeze, fucker.

Da

I grab the drawer and yank. It’s locked. Well, of course it’s locked, you watched him lock it, asshole. There’s a crowbar mounted on the pegboard over the bench. I shove it into the crack between the drawer and the benchtop and heave. Grinding and a small snapping noise, but the drawer holds. Da

– Open up, fucker. Fucking open up!

I grab the gun, flip the empty cylinder open, and squat painfully, digging through the mess that fell from the drawer, looking for ammo. Nothing.

Da