Read Online Mourning Gloria by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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drive slow and be alert.
To give myself credit, I wasn’t driving fast and I’d had nothing to drink but a couple of glasses of iced tea. It was a warm evening, and I rolled the windows down to enjoy the cedar-scented air. There was no moon, and I was cruising along one of those snaky, up-down segments of road, just past the clanky old iron bridge over Cedar Creek, about seven or eight miles from town. I was watching for deer, which have a nasty habit of jumping out in front of you and causing much grief, for themselves and for you. A solid hit or even a swerve can cause you to lose control of the car and end up off the road or smashed against a tree. In fact, I was so focused on potential deer disasters that the first orange flickers off to my right and up the hill barely registered. But then the road went around a sharp curve and the trees opened up to a rocky hillside. I saw the flames and smelled the smoke at the same time and jammed on my brakes.
A single-wide house trailer was perched on the side of the steep hill, a couple of hundred yards off the road, mostly hidden behind a screen of trees. I had driven past the place twice a day, five or six days a week, noticing the trailer but not really seeing it. Back in late April or early May, it looked like the renters had moved out. Trash was piled in the garbage pickup area beside the mailbox and there was a new For Rent sign near the road, with a yellow Students OK banner posted across it. Sometime in the past week, though, the sign had come down. Maybe it was rented again.
If it was, the occupant was in trouble. Almost half of the trailer was engulfed in flames, the fire leaping twenty, thirty feet into the sky, showering the surrounding junipers with sparks. I pulled over to the side of the road, as far as I could get off the pavement, just past the narrow gravel driveway that climbed diagonally up the hill. Hurriedly, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and flipped it open. The signal is spotty along Limekiln Road—in some places I can get three or four bars, in other places nothing. Tonight, here, I had one bar. Not much of a signal, but enough, I hoped. I thumbed 9-1-1 and got the Adams County emergency dispatcher.
“Fire!” I exclaimed. “There’s a trailer on fire on Limekiln Road! Get a truck out here, fast!”
“Address?” The dispatcher’s voice was flat, clipped, professional.
Address, address. I looked up. The lights of my Toyota caught on the mailbox just ahead, four painted numerals barely visible. “Limekiln Road, Eighteen-eleven. One-eight-one-one. Just west of the old iron bridge. On the right, up the hill.”
“Casualties?”
I stopped breathing. “Casualties?”
“Anybody injured in the fire?”
“I don’t . . .” I swallowed. “I haven’t tried to look.”
Damn, what was I thinking? There was no car in front of the trailer, but the For Rent sign was gone and it was possible that the place was occupied. Maybe somebody was in there, burning to death, while I was jabbering on the phone. I opened the car door.
“Don’t put yourself in danger,” the dispatcher said sharply. “Keep away from the fire. There’s nothing you can do. You by yourself?”
“Yes.” I was suddenly very glad that Caitlin had stayed at Amy’s. After all her trauma, she didn’t need to see this. Especially if somebody was—
“The truck is on the way,” the dispatcher said, adding sternly, “Stay with your car. And stay on the line with me. You hear me? Stay on the line. I need to know what’s—”
But I was already out of the car and running, the cell phone in my hand. I headed straight up the hill, which was totally stupid because it was steep and littered with ankle-turning loose rocks. I fell and grasped at a bush to keep from sliding backward, gouging a deep scrape into my forearm, knowing I should’ve gone up the drive—farther to go but easier, faster. Picked myself up and began to scramble again. By the time I made my way
To give myself credit, I wasn’t driving fast and I’d had nothing to drink but a couple of glasses of iced tea. It was a warm evening, and I rolled the windows down to enjoy the cedar-scented air. There was no moon, and I was cruising along one of those snaky, up-down segments of road, just past the clanky old iron bridge over Cedar Creek, about seven or eight miles from town. I was watching for deer, which have a nasty habit of jumping out in front of you and causing much grief, for themselves and for you. A solid hit or even a swerve can cause you to lose control of the car and end up off the road or smashed against a tree. In fact, I was so focused on potential deer disasters that the first orange flickers off to my right and up the hill barely registered. But then the road went around a sharp curve and the trees opened up to a rocky hillside. I saw the flames and smelled the smoke at the same time and jammed on my brakes.
A single-wide house trailer was perched on the side of the steep hill, a couple of hundred yards off the road, mostly hidden behind a screen of trees. I had driven past the place twice a day, five or six days a week, noticing the trailer but not really seeing it. Back in late April or early May, it looked like the renters had moved out. Trash was piled in the garbage pickup area beside the mailbox and there was a new For Rent sign near the road, with a yellow Students OK banner posted across it. Sometime in the past week, though, the sign had come down. Maybe it was rented again.
If it was, the occupant was in trouble. Almost half of the trailer was engulfed in flames, the fire leaping twenty, thirty feet into the sky, showering the surrounding junipers with sparks. I pulled over to the side of the road, as far as I could get off the pavement, just past the narrow gravel driveway that climbed diagonally up the hill. Hurriedly, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and flipped it open. The signal is spotty along Limekiln Road—in some places I can get three or four bars, in other places nothing. Tonight, here, I had one bar. Not much of a signal, but enough, I hoped. I thumbed 9-1-1 and got the Adams County emergency dispatcher.
“Fire!” I exclaimed. “There’s a trailer on fire on Limekiln Road! Get a truck out here, fast!”
“Address?” The dispatcher’s voice was flat, clipped, professional.
Address, address. I looked up. The lights of my Toyota caught on the mailbox just ahead, four painted numerals barely visible. “Limekiln Road, Eighteen-eleven. One-eight-one-one. Just west of the old iron bridge. On the right, up the hill.”
“Casualties?”
I stopped breathing. “Casualties?”
“Anybody injured in the fire?”
“I don’t . . .” I swallowed. “I haven’t tried to look.”
Damn, what was I thinking? There was no car in front of the trailer, but the For Rent sign was gone and it was possible that the place was occupied. Maybe somebody was in there, burning to death, while I was jabbering on the phone. I opened the car door.
“Don’t put yourself in danger,” the dispatcher said sharply. “Keep away from the fire. There’s nothing you can do. You by yourself?”
“Yes.” I was suddenly very glad that Caitlin had stayed at Amy’s. After all her trauma, she didn’t need to see this. Especially if somebody was—
“The truck is on the way,” the dispatcher said, adding sternly, “Stay with your car. And stay on the line with me. You hear me? Stay on the line. I need to know what’s—”
But I was already out of the car and running, the cell phone in my hand. I headed straight up the hill, which was totally stupid because it was steep and littered with ankle-turning loose rocks. I fell and grasped at a bush to keep from sliding backward, gouging a deep scrape into my forearm, knowing I should’ve gone up the drive—farther to go but easier, faster. Picked myself up and began to scramble again. By the time I made my way
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