“We’ll need to cut her free,” Boyd said. He grabbed Deacon’s offered hand and pulled himself up. “Where’s the ambulance?”
“They’ll be here by the time we get her out,” Deacon said. His stock in trade was imperturbability. “You just focus on that. We’ll keep the fire under control.”
Boyd glanced over his shoulder at the long, tubular body of the gas tanker, which listed to the side on one set of wheels. Fuel spilled from a small tear low on one side, the concrete surface of the road burn pocked and scorched where it had caught before they got there. He dragged his hand down over his face and flicked away sweat.
“You better,” he said. “I’ll need the shears. Jessie! Get the backboard and painkillers ready.”
It had gotten hotter again when he crawled back into the car, and the smell of gas had settled, thick and noxious, into the seats. Laura had stopped screaming, but she whimpered occasionally as the tanker shifted on top of the car and made it creak.
“See,” Boyd said. “That didn’t take too long. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Please,” she said.
She clung to his shoulders as he reached up into the well of the car. She pressed her face against his bicep. and he could hear her pray in short, disjointed pleas to whomever might be there, for whatever crossed her mind—her son, the boyfriend she’d cheated on, the boss she hated, the parents she’d miss, her son again.
Boyd thought of Donna. It had been a couple of days since he’d gone to see her. By now she’d sobered up and gone back to work. Like always. Until next year when she let the pain out again.
If he did his job, Laura’s family wouldn’t have to answer those questions.
He angled the shears as close to her calf as he could get and cut through the strut. Then he did the same at the other side. Laura screamed as her legs dropped and her knees hit the steering wheel with a crack. Fresh blood dripped down her legs as the movement tore the holes in her legs wider.
Boyd tossed the shears into the back seat of the car. They landed on the torn roof, and someone reached in with black-gloved hands and pulled them out.
“Get her out of there, Maccabee,” Jessie ordered, his voice tight and nervous. “This thing is still pissing gas.”
Laura moaned in panic. “What does he mean? What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Boyd told her. He strapped her knees together with a bandage to limit movement and cut through the nylon strips of the seat belt. Laura slid free with a shriek, and he caught her. One foot was bare, the other swollen into the hard, leather case of her shoe. “Nearly there.”
Boyd got her out and onto the backboard that Jessie had waiting, straps across her chest and thighs to hold her in place. He waited until she was dragged out and then scrambled out after her.
His skin felt sunburnt, hot and tender across his nose and cheekbones, and the glut of adrenaline in his system itched in his hands and legs with the old, familiar need to move. He ignored it as he exhaled slowly and bent over to brace his hands on his thighs.
No one was going to go home tonight and wonder where their partner was. Someone might need to bail the drunk out, but at least they’d know where to go.
BACK INthe station house, Boyd leaned back against the slick tiled wall and let cold water soak the heat out of his skin. Sweat, gas, and the gray flakes of smoke residue swirled around his feet and down the drain.
“You did a good job,” Harry said. “But you shouldn’t have been there today. I gave you the week off.”
Boyd opened his eyes and squinted through damp-spiked lashes to where his boss stood just outside the splash zone of the water. Over the last year, Harry’s hair had finally given up pepper and settled solidly into salt, but other than that, he didn’t look much different from when Boyd was a rookie. Not that much different, even, from the big-nosed, dark-haired ladder man who’d been his dad’s best friend.
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“I know,” Harry said. “But you needed it, and next time I’ll slap you on suspension if that’s what it takes to get you off my rig when you’re like this.”
“Like what.”
“Sad.”
Boyd flicked off the shower and rubbed his hand through his hair. That wasn’t the accusation he expected from Harry. It caught him off guard, no prepared script ready to cue up from the depths of his brain.
“It’s better to be busy.” He fell back on the truth for lack of anything else. “Keeps me from thinking too much.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, still steel gray over his brown eyes. “Next year build a fire pit. Get a counselor.”
“Tom wanted to go away with his wife.”
“Yeah, well, she won’t thank you.” Harry picked up a towel and tossed it at Boyd. “Get dried off. Go home. Shift’s ov—”
