When he looked inside the mangled driver’s-side window, its safety glass nearly gone, he tried to swallow and couldn’t. The bloodied, freckled face belonged to Bree McDaniel, his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend. Her head was almost all he could see because the cab had crumpled around her, pinning her in place. He yanked the door handle with both hands, but it didn’t budge. Reaching inside, he put two fingers to her neck. Her skin was warm, but her pulse was weak. They’d need the Jaws of Life to get her out. His vision blurred. It didn’t look like anybody else was with her, but it was hard to tell. He didn’t want to leave her side, but he had to keep looking for other survivors. There was nothing he could do until the fire trucks arrived.
Not a man. The goddamn sheriff.
He walked unsteadily to the front half of the prison van, face down in the weeds. This driver was dead, a halo of blood ringing his head on the deflated airbag. Open, surprised-seeming eyes looked up at him from the footwell of the passenger seat. But the uniformed guard’s body was still belted into the passenger seat. Both men still had their guns.
Three dead, one barely alive. So far.
The goddamn sheriff.
He crossed the road again. A Hispanic woman wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackled hands and feet was lying half in and half out of the back of the van. Her injuries were not immediately apparent, but she wasn’t moving. Jordan lingered with her, checking in vain for signs of life but not finding any. It was possible she’d been killed on impact by blunt force trauma.The crash had happened so recently that he could still feel the heat from the hot tailpipes coming through the floor.
Four dead.
He circled the van, peering inside, calling out in the hope that someone could hear him, but no one answered. Where the damage was the worst, he glimpsed orange fabric, red blood, and a few wisps of white hair. Squeezing in for a better look, he recognized Molly Bailey, a meth dealer he’d known was headed back to the pen for multiple convictions. His simple decision to schedule her transfer for today had sealed her fate.
Five.
Jordan walked over to the couple, finally taking them in. The husband was a bald man wearing shorts and white knee-high compression socks, and his wife had highlighted, chestnut hair at odds with her deeply creased face. Judging from their trailer, they were most likely on their way to Yosemite.
“Did you see this happen?”
“We got here after it happened,” said the old man, his hands tremoring. “Right after, I think.”
“Not that we know first aid,” said the woman.
“Did you see anyone leaving the scene?” Jordan asked, wondering if any other vehicles might have been involved.
“Yes,” said the man, nodding.
“What did the car look like?”
His wife shook her head firmly. “She wasn’t driving. She was jogging.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Orange . . . you know, prison clothes.”
“Which way did she go?”
“That way,” said the husband, pointing toward a partially downed barbed-wire fence and the trees beyond.
Jordan swore silently.
“Stay here until my deputies can take your statement,” he told the couple.
He radioed Gracia as he walked back to Bree’s truck. “We have five fatalities and one girl with life-threatening injuries. Notify CDCR they have two corrections officers and two prisoners deceased, plus one on the loose.”
“Will do, Sheriff. Beto is about two minutes out. The fire department is right behind him.”
He reached inside to check Bree’s pulse again. Nothing. He pressed his fingertips harder into her neck and found a heartbeat, agonizingly faint.
“Hang on, Bree. Help is coming.”
As if on cue, he heard sirens.
FIVE
CARA
