Rescue

  She laughed with Mullet, but it was Luker she had her eye on. If Webster hadn’t known her better—and it occurred to him that he didn’t know her at all—he would have sworn she was after him.

  “Race to three,” Luker said. “Ten bucks.”

  “Dickhead’s shooting air balls,” Mullet complained, pointing to one of the other players. “He hasn’t got a dime left.”

  “That true?” Luker asked.

  The man shrugged, put his cue in the wall rack, and walked away.

  “The pot is forty. We’ll spot Sweetheart the eight ball,” Luker announced.

  On her first shot, Sheila hung the eight and relinquished her turn. On her second, she caromed the nine off the eight and sank the eight, jumping up into the air and clapping her hands. On her third, she ran the table to seven and appeared to be unable to sink the eight.

  Careful, Webster thought, a good ten feet behind her.

  “You making lemonade, Sugar?” Luker asked, pretending indifference.

  Sheila turned to Mullet. “What’s he talking about?”

  He shrugged. “He wants to know if you’re hustling him.”

  Sheila gave a good laugh. “Oh, boy,” she said.

  But Luker had had enough. “Get lost, Sweetheart. This game’s gonna get too rich for you.” He turned to the other three players. “Pot is three hundred. Seventy-five apiece. Race to seven.”

  She put the ten she owed on the table and began to chalk her tip again, wiping the residue of yellow onto the thighs of her jeans, a move not lost on either Mullet or Luker. Still in the stance she began with (she was brilliant at this), she peeled the other bills from her jeans and laid down Webster’s additional sixty, which made him take a deep breath.

  “Honey, it’s seventy-five,” Mullet said, looking nervous now. “Go buy yourself a coupla beers.”

  Behind Sheila, the man with the best view of her ass reached forward and put fifteen on top of her sixty.

  Luker stood to his full height and took his time cracking his back. “Not spotting you no eight ball,” he said as he examined Sheila hard. When it was her turn, she bent forward and made a terrible shot that ratted in the nine. The man standing behind her whistled.

  “Pure luck, Baby,” Luker said. Mullet had gone silent.

  Sheila lit a cigarette. Webster wondered if he should get her out. He didn’t like the looks of Luker. On Sheila’s second try, she ran the table up to eight and didn’t sink the nine. The man behind her groaned. He didn’t get it.

  On her third try, she made a move a dancer might, bending to the table. The ash of her cigarette was nearly an inch long, the center of attention. A girl with frizzy blond hair who’d been hanging near Luker knocked on the back of his black vest. She let her arms slide around him, claiming him. Her hands almost met in the middle.

  The ash was mesmerizing. Even Webster was certain she couldn’t make a shot without leaving it on the table, an offense Luker would use to throw her out. Sheila ran the first six, caromed the seven off the eight, sinking the seven, and then sank the eight and nine. No one said a word. It seemed the whole back half of the restaurant was silent and waiting.

  As she rose from the table, she elegantly caught the ash in the palm of her hand. As she bent to put the cigarette out in an ashtray, she mouthed the word car to Webster.

  He took his jacket from a hook, went for the door, and heard her laugh at the back of the room. A sexy laugh he didn’t like. He was worried for her. No man wanted to be hustled in front of a girlfriend hanging off his vest.

  Webster braced for the cold. He’d be bracing until May, a good two weeks after the warmer weather had finally come. He brought his watch cap down over his ears and raised his collar. He jogged between rows of cars to his own, wanting to be exactly where he was supposed to be.

  When he parked by the front door, the engine running, he took his hat off and tried to flatten his hair. He turned on the defroster to melt the ice from the windshield. He checked the gas gauge: he had maybe fifteen miles’ worth left. He turned the engine off. After ten minutes of waiting, Webster grew worried. He thought of going back in, but if she had a good hustle going, he’d ruin it. After twenty minutes, he was picturing a back-alley rape, even though there wasn’t a true back alley for fifty miles.

  She was laughing as she opened the door of the restaurant. She lost the laugh as soon as it was closed.

  She got into the car.

  “Go,” she said.

  They were almost to the Hartstone town line before she spoke. “Smashed the rack and ran the table. Twice. The guy beside me was holding the pot and couldn’t give me the money fast enough.”

  “That big guy looked like he wanted to kill you.”

  “Don’t think so,” she said, counting out Webster’s seventy-five. “I’m pretty sure he wanted to fuck me.”

  “I wanted to get you the hell out of there,” Webster said.

  “You have rescue fantasies.”

  “Believe me, the last thing I fantasize about is rescue.”

  “That’s why you do it, though. Your job.”

  “You’re full of it,” he said.

  “You ever drive into New York at night?”

  “No,” he said, knowing she wanted to find another pool table.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  He had no authority over her. On the other hand, she didn’t have a car.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they were a mile from her place that she asked to see the land.

  Webster was taken aback. “It’s dark out,” he said.

  “There’s a moon.”

  He peered up through the windshield. Point nine. He stopped the cruiser and made a U on 42.

  “You liked it,” she said.

  “Liked what?”

  “Watching me hustle.”

  “How long have you been playing pool?”

  “Since I could stand on a chair.”

  “You’re very good.”

  “I’m better than you think,” she said.

  Webster wondered if he could beat her.

  “Can I ride with you sometime?” she asked. “In the ambulance?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the law.”

  “I’ll bet it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken the law.”

  “It’s not happening,” he said.

  As he drove up the hill toward what he thought of as his piece of land, the gas-hungry cruiser sucked the needle down to empty. Webster hoped it would pop up again when they reached the summit of the ridge. If not, he could always coast to Sheila’s with a push or two.

  Nearly every light in every house was out. No need for a light in the kitchen or living room to convince a potential burglar that someone was home. Everyone was home, everybody was asleep, and Webster knew all the doors were unlocked. Though he routinely locked the cruiser because the novelty of the vehicle and the equipment inside attracted teens, his parents had never locked either their cars or the doors of their house. Most police calls involved vehicular accidents or domestic disturbances fueled by alcohol, with the occasional after-hours attempted break-in at a store or warehouse. McGill and Nye had plenty of time, on their shifts, to play poker.

  When Sheila and Webster reached the ridge and the best vantage point, he stopped the car.

  “This is it?” she asked.

  “This is it.”

  She rolled down the steamed window to get a better look. The cold bit their necks. The moon and the frost lit the shape of the land and the dark mass of mountains in the distance. He seldom drove to the spot at night, preferring the color and clarity of the day; but he could see that from a cabin, the panorama outside a picture window would be worth staying awake for.

  “You’re going to build a house here?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Someday.”

  “Kind of isolated.”

  “That’s the point.” br />
  She walked out onto the frozen grass and wrapped her leather jacket around her. Webster opened the trunk and took out his uniform jacket, which he had folded next to his personal emergency kit. He shook it out and walked to where she stood. He’d left his hat in the car, and his ears burned. He set the long jacket over her shoulders, and she slid her arms through the sleeves. They hid her hands. She hugged the jacket close, like a bathrobe.

  “Where’s the snow?”

  “We had some in December. We’ll get socked any minute now.”

  “You cold?” she asked.

  “Not very.”

  “You just like being here.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said from deep inside the jacket.

  He was happy on the frozen grass, his toes going numb, his collar up to protect the back of his neck. It seemed that already the land was delivering on a promise.

  “How long before you’ve saved enough?” she asked.

  “I’m going to speak to the guy who owns it and tell him my plans. I won’t have enough for a down payment for a few years, but I want him to say he won’t sell it until then. For all I know, he might have promised it to a nephew.”

  All Webster could see were Sheila’s eyes over the yellow and black collar.

  “You know, Webster. This is the first time I’ve gotten a real vibe off you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Surprising himself, Webster made the first move. He opened the high collar of the jacket and kissed her. Her lips were frozen into a half smile, but he didn’t want to stop.

  He felt the moment when she kicked in. As he took her to the ground, she began fumbling with his belt. He saw in his mind her slim legs and the white bikini underpants, though in fact he couldn’t see anything except her face. He prayed that when she got him free, his dick wouldn’t shrivel from the frigid air.

  She kept him warm and hard.

  “You on the pill?” he whispered.

  He felt her nod graze his cheek.

  It was a contest of wills to see who could hold out the longest. Mostly against the cold. He thought the icy ground must be painful for her, even through the jacket, which just about covered her butt. He never felt her breasts, felt hardly any skin at all. He wanted the act to mean something on this piece of land he coveted, but all he could feel was the contest of it.

  When they were done, he pulled up her jeans for her, then did his own. In a minute, they would stand and run for the car. She leaned back and looked at him.

  “Honest to God, Mr. Webster, that was the coldest fuck of my entire life.”

  Attention, Hartstone Rescue. We need a crew on Hawk Ridge. Female, fifteen, reporting injuries from domestic assault.”

  Webster reached for the radio. “You got any more on that?”

  “Caller hung up. Attempts to call back, negative.”

  “ETA on the PD?”

  “They’re on another call.”

  Burrows and Webster arrived at a converted barn in the only tony part of Hartstone. There they discovered a slim woman in her forties standing by the door and a sullen fifteen-year-old girl in jeans and a black T-shirt, sitting on the sofa.

  “You get over here and apologize to these men,” the mother barked to the girl. “You tell them what you did.”

  The girl was silent, which seemed to infuriate the mother even more. The mother, dressed in a suit as if she were on her way to work, stomped her foot. She walked to the sofa and physically tried to get the girl to stand up by pulling at her arm.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Burrows interjected as he wedged his body between the two females and broke the armlock. “You go stand over there next to my partner,” he said to the mother.

  When the mother was gone, Burrows stared down at the girl.

  “What?” the girl finally said.

  “You hurt?” he asked.

  She had short cropped blond hair, a cheek piercing, and heavy purple eye makeup. She rolled her eyes with disdain, but shook her head no.

  “Well, if she won’t tell you, then I will,” the mother, by Webster’s side, blurted. “She called nine-one-one and said that my fiancé, her future stepfather, had beaten and raped her. My God! Does she look beaten up to you? When she saw the ambulance pull in, she confessed to what she’d done. I’m beside myself.”

  “Is there any truth to these allegations?” Webster asked the mother.

  “Hell, no. She’s out of her mind. My fiancé, Vince, hasn’t been here since last night at supper, during which my daughter was so insulting and rude that Vince had to leave.”

  Burrows said nothing to the mother, but again addressed the girl. “Did this man harm you in any way at all?”

  “In any way? Yeah, doc. He’s ruined my life.”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Did he touch you or hit you with something?”

  “He might as well have.”

  “Miss, I have to do a brief exam to determine if there are any injuries.”

  “Thought you weren’t a doctor.”

  “I’m a medic.”

  “Poor you.”

  Burrows got down on his haunches and tried to take her wrist to check her pulse.

  “Don’t you fucking touch me!” she snarled, her face contorted into one of the uglier expressions in the teenage repertoire.

  Webster joined Burrows, and they stood aside for a moment. Webster noted the open floor plan, the loft with the balcony, the kitchen with an outsized refrigerator. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I can’t examine her without her permission.”

  “Obviously she called nine-one-one to piss her mother off,” Webster said.

  Burrows turned. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  “Natalie Krueger.”

  “And your daughter’s name?”

  “Charity.”

  Webster resisted the impulse to raise an eyebrow. What mother in her right mind would call her daughter Charity in this day and age?

  “Actually,” said the girl on the sofa, “it’s Pure Scum, which is what her boyfriend called me last night.”

  “Ms. Krueger, where is Vince now?”

  “He’s in Massachusetts, where he lives,” she said with smug satisfaction. “In Williamstown.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I already told you. Last night. I’m sorry you had to get dragged into this. I’d have stopped it had I known sooner.”

  Burrows tried to explain. “We can’t do anything right now unless your daughter gives her consent.”

  “Which will be never,” Pure Scum said from the sofa.

  “The police will arrive soon,” Burrows said to the girl. “You should be prepared for that. They’re going to have a lot more questions than we do.”

  “Shit.”

  “What the hell did you think was going to happen?” the mother cried.

  Burrows leaned into Webster. “We could call the cops off. Kids do stupid stuff to drive their parents crazy all the time.”

  “She’s accused a guy of assault and rape.”

  “What’s your gut tell you?” Burrows asked.

  “Hoax. To drive the mother out of her mind.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “I gotta call it in,” Burrows said. He took his radio off his belt. He called Dispatch. “Scene appears to be safe,” he reported.

  “Any weapons involved?”

  “No. Can you give me a better ETA for the PD?”

  “They’re just finishing up now. Should be another fifteen to eighteen minutes.”

  “We going to wait until the cops get here?” Webster asked Burrows when he was off the radio.

  “I guess,” he said. And then he shrugged. “We’ll wait in the rig till they come.”

  Had Burrows and Webster not been twenty minutes
into overtime, Webster later thought, they might have shown better judgment.

  Webster walked over to the sullen teenager on the couch. She lay back against the pillows with her legs wide open, as if she were either the most relaxed person in western Vermont, or the most seductive. “It’s a serious offense to lie to a nine-one-one operator,” he said. “Don’t do it again.”

  As he walked away, Webster was sure he heard a mincing echo. Don’t do it again. He wanted to turn around and give her a harsh lecture. He didn’t.

  They climbed up into the rig. Webster drove to the end of the long driveway and they waited fifteen minutes before they saw the cops approaching. Nye rolled down his window. “What’s up?”

  “A hoax,” Webster, in the driver’s seat, said. “A girl trying to piss off her mother.”

  “Just what we need.”

  McGill groaned.

  “It’s up to you,” said Webster. “Maybe the girl needs a talking-to, I don’t know, but she’s breaking her mother’s balls.”

  Nye rolled his eyes.

  Webster and Burrows took off for Rescue. They weren’t a mile from the house when Dispatch signaled again. “Report of serious injuries at your previous scene.”

  “It’s a hoax,” Burrows radioed in. “A daughter trying to drive her mother nuts. Prank call.”

  “I don’t think so,” the dispatcher calmly disagreed. “Cop called it in. There’s someone screaming in the background.”

  Webster reversed the rig and pushed it hard. He sprinted when they got to the house, thinking if this were still a hoax, Burrows would have the girl arrested. He pushed through the front door. There was no sign of the girl, but the mother was screaming. There were burns and blisters down the right side of her face and along her throat. Her scalp showed where her hair had burned.

  “Fuck,” Webster said softly.

  Nye was trying to get the woman to lie on the sofa.

  “We’ll take care of that,” Burrows said. “You find the girl? She’s probably upstairs.”

  “McGill’s got her. Also found an empty bottle of toilet bowl cleaner on the floor.” Nye pointed to where the bottle had rolled.

  Burrows took over the airway. The vapor from the acid could burn the woman’s throat. He intubated and then started an IV for the pain. He tried to calm the woman.