Random Acts (8 page)

“Oh, my God!” Ali exclaimed. “He's losing it.”

And it was true. With her heart in her throat, Joanna watched as the Tundra raced around a northbound RV and then slewed wildly first in one direction and then the other. As the out-­of-­control pickup skidded back and forth across both lanes of the roadway, the driver in the RV did his best to avoid an almost inevitable collision. After three more wild wobbles, the Tundra veered to the right. It shot off the road and onto the shoulder, tumbling down an embankment in a manner that was almost a carbon copy of what had happened to George and Eleanor earlier that morning.

“He's off road,” Ali reported. “Just south of the Bloody Basin exit.”

She pulled over on the shoulder just behind the stopped RV. A shaken and horrified older ­couple popped out of the RV, pointing to the spot where the overturned Tundra had landed on its roof with its wheels still spinning.

Joanna darted out of the Cayenne. She had seen enough wrecks in her time to doubt this one was survivable.

“Call for EMTs,” she ordered Ali, handing her back the phone. “I'm going down the hill to see if I can help.”

“What if he's still armed?” Ali asked.

“So am I,” Joanna answered grimly. “So am I.”

She scrambled down the embankment to the spot where the Tundra had come to rest, upside down, against a sturdy barbed-­wire fence. Drawing her weapon as she went, Joanna heard the kid long before she saw him.

“Oh, my God!” he moaned. “It hurts. It hurts so bad. Help me! Someone, please help me out of here.”

Knowing that even gravely injured he could still pose a deadly threat, Joanna approached the wreckage cautiously. Then, much to her relief, she spotted the AR–15 on the ground nearby. It had been thrown clear when the tumbling vehicle came to rest. Having the rifle out of play was a huge relief, and it went a long way toward evening the playing field. Still, she worried that the rifle might not be the only weapon involved.

“Oh, God. It hurts. It hurts so bad, and I'm bleeding. Help me.”

With the Glock still in hand, Joanna approached the cab from the rear driver's side. “Sir,” she said. “Do you have a weapon?”

“Who's there?” he asked. “Can you help me? I need help.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“No. I'm hurt—­hurt real bad.”

Joanna edged forward far enough to peer around the door frame. The overturned truck's sole occupant, trapped by his seat belt, hung upside down inside the vehicle, bleeding profusely. Realizing he was too badly hurt to pose any threat, Joanna immediately holstered her weapon. Then she reached inside and attempted to release the seat belt. It didn't work. The weight of his body on the belt somehow kept the release from responding. Her hand came away bloodied.

It was a shock to realize that the sticky red stuff came from the man who had killed her mother. But Joanna Brady had sworn to serve and protect, even if the person she was protecting didn't deserve it.

“You've got to get me out of here,” he pleaded. “It hurts so much. I can't breathe. Please help me.”

“Steady now,” she said. “We're here to help.”

The sound of falling pebbles behind her told Joanna that someone else had come scuttling down the embankment. “Can I help?” Ali asked.

“I need a sharp knife,” Joanna told her.

“Right back,” Ali said, disappearing the way she had come.

Unable to free the kid, Joanna turned her attention to his wound. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from a deep gash in his lower calf. Shrugging out of her T-­shirt, she peeled off her bra and used it as a makeshift tourniquet around his leg.

“Am I going to die?” the kid sobbed hysterically. “I think I am going to die. I want my mom. Where's my mom? I need her.”

How could a cold-­blooded killer sound so much like a little lost boy?

“You need to be quiet, Scott,” Joanna said. “Save your strength. You've lost a lot of blood.”

His eyes focused on her face. “Do I know you? How do you know my name? Is my mom coming? Have you called her?”

Ali came skidding back down the embankment and tapped Joanna on the back. “The RV guy had a seat belt scissors in his tool box,” she said handing the implement over to Joanna. “I didn't know there was any such thing. And the ambulance is on its way, coming from Black Canyon City. I don't know how long it will take.”

With the powerful little scissors in hand, Joanna eyed the problem. “When I cut him loose, he's going to drop like a rock and may end up getting hurt worse than he already is. Can you crawl in through the other side and help break his fall? Then we'll try to lift him out onto the ground.”

“Will do.”

Joanna put her face in front of the boy's. His eyes were closed. She was afraid they were losing him.

“Scott,” she pleaded. “Stay with me. Can you hear me?”

His eyes blinked open. They were out of focus. He looked around in momentary confusion. “Where am I?”

Joanna worried that if he'd suffered some kind of spinal damage, the very act of freeing him might make things worse.

“Listen to me,” Joanna ordered. “We're about to cut you loose now. Can you move your feet?” He did. “Your arms?” He did that, too.

“Am I going to hell?” he asked as Joanna went to work on the seat belt. “I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Joanna asked.

“I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to hurt anybody.”

Joanna stopped cutting long enough to switch her phone to record. Her fingers were sticky with blood, and operating her phone wasn't easy.

“Who did you hurt, Scott?”

“Those ­people,” he said. “Those two old ­people. I didn't mean to hurt them. I didn't mean for anyone to die.”

Biting her lip, Joanna concentrated on the scissors. “What happened, then, Scott?” she asked.

“I just wanted to shoot one of my dad's guns. Mom was spending the night in town. I figured she'd never know. But now she will, won't she? Where is she? Is she coming? Has anyone called her? Please. Can you get her here? I want her. I need her.”

“Is this your cell phone?” Ali asked. She had crawled into the truck through the broken window and was holding up what appeared to be an unbroken cell phone.

Scott looked at her and nodded. “Call my mom, please. Her number's in there.”

“We'll call,” Ali assured him, “as soon as we get you out of here.”

The seat belt gave way. As Scott dropped, Ali and Joanna together managed to catch him. Even so, he howled in agony.

“It hurts! Oh, God, it hurts! It hurts! Mommy, where are you? Please, I want my mommy.”

He was struggling now, and it was a challenge for the two women to wrestle him out of the vehicle. Joanna was surprised when the guy from the RV stepped up to help. He had come down the embankment carrying an armload of blankets and pillows. Together the three of them eased the boy onto a makeshift bed.

Dave Holman rushed down the embankment in such a hurry that he almost did a face plant. “What do you need?” he asked.

Ali handed him Scott's phone. “Call his mother,” she said. “Her number's in here.”

Joanna was totally focused on the boy. His face was much paler now. She couldn't tell if that was due to the fact that he was no longer upside down or if he was hurt badly enough that he was drifting away. She leaned in close to him.

“Stay with me, Scott,” Joanna urged quietly. “Tell me about your father's guns.”

“He died,” Scott said, “like a ­couple of years ago. And he left me all his guns. It said so right there in his will, but Mom wouldn't let me touch them. She says I'm not responsible enough for guns.”

She's certainly right about that
, Joanna thought.

“It's hard to breathe,” Scott whispered. “It's like my chest is too heavy. Like there are rocks on it or something.”

For the first time, a bright dribble of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, confirming Joanna's worst fears. The wound on the leg was bad, but it seemed there might be even worse internal injuries.

“Am I dying?” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand. “Are you an angel?”

Four words. “Are you an angel?”

Here Joanna was, kneeling in the hot desert sun, caring for the young man she knew had killed both her mother and George. And yet she knew, too, that he was just a kid—­a scared, clueless kid—­who was most likely dying. A kid who without malice aforethought—­and mostly with no thought at all—­had pulled the trigger, simply to try out one of the guns his late father had left to him.

“No,” she said. “I'm not an angel.”

“Will God ever forgive me for what I did?”

“Yes,” Joanna said quietly, squeezing his hand. “I believe He will. He forgives you, and so do I.”

And so do George and my mother
, she thought
.

His hand went limp in hers. She knew within seconds that Scott Braeburn was gone, but she also knew that the last words he had heard on this earth were the ones he had needed to hear—­that he was forgiven. And it turned out they were the ones Joanna had needed to say—­to say and believe.

She had responded to a random act of violence with a random act of kindness. She had returned good for evil. Somehow that was as it should be. After all, that was how she had been raised. And she knew in that moment, too, that her parents—­all three of them—­would be proud of her.

Sometime later, an EMT tapped her gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, “we need to check him out.”

“It's too late,” she replied, reaching out to close Scott Braeburn's staring eyes and then brushing tears from her own. “It's over now. He's gone.”

“And before you go up top,” he added, “you might want to put your shirt back on.”

Looking down Joanna was astonished to see that she was completely topless. While the EMT averted his gaze, Joanna grabbed her shirt and dragged it on over her head. Then she got to her feet and staggered toward the embankment. Another EMT stopped her as she passed. “You might want to use one of these,” he said, nodding toward her bloodied hands and offering her a Handi Wipe.

“Thank you,” she said. Several Handi Wipes later her hands were mostly clean, and she made her way back up to the roadway. Ali and Dave Holman stood on the passenger side of the RV. Dave stepped away from the group as she approached. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Flushing with embarrassment at having been seen half dressed by Dave Holman as well as the EMTs, Joanna took the cell phone from her pants pocket and turned off the recording app.

“Scott Braeburn is gone,” she said. “He also confessed. He said he was just trying the gun out and didn't intend to kill anyone.”

“Do you believe that?”

Joanna thought for a moment before she answered. “I do. He was just a kid, a stupid kid with no idea about the real consequences of his actions. I recorded the confession, by the way. It's all here on my phone. Will you need the phone itself or will I be able to take it home?”

“The suspect is dead?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes.”

“Then just send me the audio file,” Dave said with a shrug. “Since we won't be needing to use it in court, the file will be fine.”

By then Ali had joined them in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. “Are you all right?” she asked now, echoing Dave's previous question.

“I'm okay,” Joanna said. “But I'm glad the press wasn't here a few minutes ago.”

“Right,” Ali said with a grin. “Photos like that would make for a very interesting reelection campaign. Now how about a lift back to your car?”

“Yes, please.”

“Good work, Sheriff Brady,” Dave said as he opened the passenger door to help her enter. “You did what you could for him. No one can ask for more.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a hug.

Joanna and Ali said little on the trip back to General Crook Trail. Nothing more needed to be said.

“I'm assuming you won't be spending the night,” Ali said when Joanna exited the Cayenne.

“Thanks, but no,” Joanna said. “Butch and I should head home. The kids need us.”

“I'm not surprised,” Ali said with a smile. “I thought that's what you'd say. But you might want to stick around the house long enough to take a shower and change clothes. Right now you look like you've been in a knife fight.”

“Fortunately I packed an overnight bag,” Joanna said.

“How will all of this go over with Butch?” Ali asked.

“He's used to me by now,” Joanna said. “Nothing I do really fazes him anymore.”

“Then you're one lucky woman, Sheriff Brady,” Ali Reynolds said. “In more ways than one. And so am I.”

Back at the house on Manzanita Hills Road, Joanna found Butch sitting in a wicker chair on the shaded front porch.

“Ali called a few minutes ago and told me you got him,” Butch said, as Joanna sat down beside him. “But you shouldn't have let me sleep. I would have been glad to go along and help out.”

“I wanted you rested in case we ended up driving back home tonight.”

“Are we?”

“I hope so.”

Butch gave her an appraising look. “What happened to your bra?” he said.

“Used it as a tourniquet,” Joanna explained.

“On the guy who killed your mother?”

Joanna nodded. “But he died anyway.”

“Doesn't matter,” Butch told her. “You tried to save him. That's what counts. Now go inside, take a shower, and change clothes—­bloodstain red isn't exactly your color. How soon do you want to leave?”

“As soon as I get cleaned up.”

“Okeydokey.”

Joanna leaned over and kissed the top of Butch's bald head on her way past. “Did anyone ever tell you that you're a brick?” she asked.