Kim sucked in a hard breath. Gaspar’s disembodied voice came from the phone. “Otto? Talk to me. What’s the hell is going on there?”
The next few seconds passed in a simultaneous blur.
The big rig’s driver applied his brakes, making an effort to slow his forward momentum to allow room for the motorcycle to pass. He let loose two short, loud blasts of his horn.
Kim braked, too, increasing the distance between the SUV and the enclosed trailer blocking her view like a wall of steel in front of her. If the eighteen-wheeler stopped, her SUV would be a bright red splotch on the back of that thing.
The noise of the motorcycle downshifting and speeding past the big double trailer roared in the fog.
Kim couldn’t see what was happening as the motorcycle and the sedan hurtled toward each other unless she moved into the travel lane. The idea was foolhardy at the moment.
Which left her anxiously waiting for the cacophony and flying debris of the inevitable crash she knew was coming.
From his high-tech office, Gaspar must have found that satellite view he’d mentioned, because he said, “What the hell is that crazy dude doing?”
“Tell me. I can’t see,” she replied, lowering her window to hear the sounds, and falling back further from the tractor-trailer to give everyone more room to maneuver.
“He’s zooming toward an oncoming car. The car could move to the shoulder of the road and let the bike pass. But if it doesn’t, the bike will hit it head-on. And if they end up in the big rig’s lane, that thing can’t stop before running them both over.” Gaspar’s tone dropped an octave. “It’s a small sedan. The distance between them is closing fast. It’s possible the driver will survive—”
The rest of his words were consumed by the overwhelming volume of the crash.
From the noises alone, she could guess what happened.
First, the eighteen-wheeler’s horn blasted the air in warning, followed by the deafening shriek of his brakes as he moved toward the right shoulder. Gravel and debris exploded behind him, pelting the Lexus.
The motorcyclist had applied his brakes hard. The bike must have lifted onto the front wheel as it skidded forward. But it was too little, too late.
Awakening to the danger, the sedan driver slammed on the brakes, and the car’s wheels skidded along the wet pavement.
Both drivers had slowed, but when the sedan hit the rice-rocket head-on, the cyclist flew over the hood then the roof of the car.
He sailed through the air at least a hundred feet and landed in the middle of the road, right in front of the big rig, the trucker still desperately trying to miss him.
The sedan’s front end was crumpled, and the front windshield looked like a spiderweb. The little car had been pushed off the north shoulder and down the slope. It rolled over at least twice and hit a tree.
The sedan lay on its passenger side, crumpled like a beer can.
The truck had moved farther along the south shoulder and onto the grassy apron.
The gap in front of Kim’s Lexus allowed her to see the destroyed motorcycle and its rider, splayed out on the pavement.
She pulled onto the shoulder behind the truck, punched the emergency flashers, and jumped out of the SUV. At the moment, she couldn’t see any oncoming traffic. She’d have grabbed a blanket, but the rental didn’t have one.
Kim ran toward the cyclist. She couldn’t see his head or face because of the full-face helmet. His limbs remained encased in his leathers.
She said a quick prayer when she noticed he was wearing an airbag jacket. He might still be alive. She’d known cyclists who survived worse. Rarely. But it happened. Maybe this guy would be one of the lucky ones.
The eighteen-wheeler had finally rolled to a stop. The tall, slender trucker climbed down, quickly set a few flares in the road behind her SUV and headed over to check on the sedan’s driver.
Traffic was slowing in the westbound lanes, drivers gawking as they crawled past.
Kim and the trucker were moving in opposite directions, too far apart to communicate orally.
She knelt beside the cyclist, searching for space between his jacket and helmet to check his carotid pulse. A long pent up breath whooshed through her lips when she found it.
Kim’s cell phone was still in her hand, the connection to Gaspar still open. “The cyclist is still alive. Pulse is weak and irregular, but present. He’s breathing. Barely.”
Gaspar said, “I called it in already. Help is on the way. They’re sending a medivac helo from Kelham to fly the victims to Memphis.”
“Kelham? The army base in Carter’s Crossing?” Not exactly the way she wanted to meet anyone from Kelham, but Gaspar had done the right thing.
“They’re the closest. Even though they’re closing down, they still have some stuff on base. I called in a few favors. It would have taken too long to get a helo from Memphis,” he said. “Local law enforcement should be on scene soon, too. I can see the oncoming traffic slowing in both directions on US 72.”
She leaned closer and tried talking to the cyclist, peering through the tinted face mask. The full-face helmet wasn’t the kind where she could open it to see him. “Can you hear me?”
If he heard, he gave no indication.
“Stay still. You may have spinal cord damage. We don’t want to make things worse,” she said as if he could hear and understand her. Maybe he could.
She scanned his body. He wasn’t bleeding through his clothes. His limbs were akimbo on the pavement.
He’d suffered broken bones, for sure.
But he had a pulse, and he was breathing.
He might live.
She wouldn’t risk removing his helmet or any of his clothing for fear of causing further damage. All they could do was wait. And pray.
Gaspar asked, “How’s the driver of the sedan? I can’t see from the satellite. Too much ground cover over there. But it looks bad.”
Kim stood and turned toward the silver car and peered into the gloom. Her entire body felt clammy from the heavy mist and fog.
The trucker had tried to open the sedan driver’s door, but it was jammed tight.
He’d found a rock and used it to break out the driver’s side window. He shoved his head through the broken glass for a long moment, as if he was searching for something.
He didn’t find it.
When he straightened, the trucker walked around the sedan looking at the ground adjacent to the shoulder. He used his arms to sweep the tall weeds away and peered toward the sedan’s passenger side, which had molded to the tree trunk.
He must have found what he was looking for. He knelt. His head was camouflaged by the weeds for a bit before he stood tall again.
Gaspar said, “From his body language, I’d guess the sedan’s driver didn’t make it.”
“Yeah. Looks like it,” Kim replied. “I can’t see from here. And I don’t want to leave this victim here alone to go check on the other one.”
The driver had made a fatal mistake. Thousands of wrong-way drivers died in similar accidents every year. They were almost always drunk or high or mentally challenged or distracted. Which made the situation sadder.
The trucker shoved his hands into his pockets and took a few long strides east on the pavement toward Kim.
As he moved closer, he seemed to grow taller and thinner. His face was gaunt. Sharp cheekbones and a thin nose were well placed above narrow lips. His ruddy brown hair was straight and thin, too.