careening back across the road, and then smashing a fender against a solid wall of limestone. That impact, I suspected, had buckled the hood, but hadn’t stopped the car. It kept moving, finally ending up broadside across the center of the road with the driver’s side facing oncoming traffic.
That was a mighty poor place to be.
A potentially fatal spot if a speeding, careless driver had been the next one around that curve. The first car would have been T-boned and Larry probably killed. To prevent just that, I parked my taller vehicle on the curve, knowing that the flashing lights would be seen soon enough to warn the next vehicle on the road to slow down and stop.
Larry’s passenger was already out of the car.
Marta Moye. His next-door neighbor. Blood was smeared on her right arm, which hung limply at her side, and stained the floral dress she wore. But she wasn’t thinking about her own injuries. Apparently realizing how vulnerable the driver was, she was attempting to help Larry from the car one-handed. Not a great idea.
She turned her head briefly in the direction my SUV.
I opened my door, braced a foot on the running board, stuck my head out above the roof, and waved her away from her own vehicle.
“Leave him be,” I shouted. “I’ll be right there.”
The wind was loud enough that I doubted she could hear me, but the combination of my gestures, the imminent arrival of help and the condition of her arm seemed to be enough to make her stop tugging at him.
I ducked back into the squad car long enough to thumb my mike button, requesting immediate medical assistance and a tow truck. The tow truck, I knew, would probably arrive within minutes. Medical assistance was more problematic.
The fire station, which housed several chartreuse-painted fire trucks and a boxy emergency rescue vehicle, was just blocks away. But Maryville’s firefighters and first responders were all volunteers. They had to leave homes or jobs, get to the fire house, load into the appropriate vehicle, then drive to the accident site. Sometimes that could take twenty minutes. A long time for someone who was badly injured.
I grabbed my first-aid box and jogged down to the curve. My relatively brief stint as Maryville’s entire police force rather than my years of search-and-rescue work had provided most of my practical medical experience. Mostly because drunken brawlers occasionally moved from using fists to slashing at each other with sharp objects like beer bottles and knives.
When the paramedics arrived at an accident scene, they’d stabilize the victim but usually wouldn’t transport. That was handled by an ambulance dispatched from the nearest hospital, which was north of us in Harrisburg. With sirens, a heavy foot, and a bit of foolhardiness, their drivers could usually make it to Maryville in thirty minutes.
But for the next several minutes, I was the entire response team.
As I slipped on latex gloves, I took a quick look at Larry. Determined that he was conscious and not actively bleeding. In fact, he was coherent enough to start telling me how to do my job. Which mostly involved insisting that I tend to Marta first.
Marta, of course, insisted that I treat Larry first. Because she loved him. And, I half suspected, as a matter of principle. If Larry said one thing, she was obliged to say another.
Of course, my own experience dictated whom I would treat first. And that was Marta because I knew that her normal complexion was not the color of spoiled milk. And I could see that the blood on her dress was from a spot on her forearm where a jagged spur of bone had punctured the flesh. But the blood was oozing, not gushing. A good thing. And she seemed alert and not in too much distress. Physically, at least.
Shock, I thought, was often a blessing at this point. It did a good job of blocking pain receptors.
“Support your arm this way,” I said, showing her how to use her uninjured arm to cradle the broken one.
Then I guided her a few steps to the side of the road where another section of guardrail and six feet of bristling, wind-swept scrub separated her from the drop-off. I hung on to her as she settled down onto the pavement and leaned back against the railing.
That was when, much to my surprise, a Yorkshire terrier came darting out of a nearby patch of weeds. Landed squarely in its owner’s lap and began bouncing on its