Waiting for Morning (5 page)

“Oh, no …” It took Brian a second to realize the whining voice was his.

In the distance, sirens grew louder with each passing moment.

Brian tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry it almost choked him. “Hey, man, is she … is she all r-r-r-right?” He was consumed with dread, and he felt his knees start to shake again. The woman in the apron looked up at him, studied him for a moment, and then turned back to the girl. The two men were trying to find her pulse, and one of them began giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

The sirens were very close now, and Brian could see several emergency vehicles speeding into view. Relief swept him.
Hurry! Hurry! She needs you!
He couldn’t take his eyes from the girl lying on the curb. The others continued working on her without acknowledging him. Brian saw the woman in the apron begin to cry and the men sit back on their heels. They were giving up.

“W-w-w-wait … she n-n-n-needs help, man!” He moved toward the girl, but the woman in the apron rose to her feet.

“Get back!” She spat the words at him. “You’ve done enough!”

One of the men came to put a hand on her arm. “Come on. Let’s check the others.” They studied Brian for an instant, disgust clear on their faces, then turned to what remained of the Explorer.

Brian saw the girl’s face then.… It was a pretty face, framed by honey-colored brown hair. But it was a lifeless face. Even he could see that. He sank to his knees ten feet from where the girl lay—ten feet from the body of a girl who would never again hold her mother’s hand or kiss her daddy good-night or dance across a living room floor.…

A wail erupted from somewhere deep within him. He willed himself dead in her place, willed anything that might breathe life into her once more. Then his wailing became one
word, so weighted with regret that he felt it would consume him:
“Noooo!”

Sgt. Miller arrived at the scene moments after the paramedics and saw both vehicles. The first one, a white pickup truck, had heavy front-end damage. The second vehicle was almost unrecognizable. Miller could see it was a Ford Explorer, one of the safest vehicles on the road, but it might have been made of tinfoil the way it wrapped around the pole. The impact must have been unbelievable, like getting broadsided by a freight train.

Sgt. Miller made his way to where a small crowd gathered near the twisted remains. Immediately an officer filled him in on the situation.

“We have a deceased female, maybe fourteen, fifteen years old; and two additional victims, a male, late thirties, head wounds, massive bleeding.”

Miller felt his shoulders slump imperceptibly. A young girl with her whole life ahead of her. He made several notations on the accident report and wondered if she had known the Lord. “Third victim?”

“Female, twelve, maybe thirteen years old, head injury and a broken arm. She has the best chance of making it.”

“Identification?”

“We have a home address for the male victim, some pictures. Guy’s a doctor. Tom Ryan. Female victims look to be his daughters.”

“Next of kin?”

“Nothing yet. Figured we’d do a drive-by when the ambulances leave.”

Sgt. Miller nodded. They didn’t always do drive-by notification. Quite often family members were notified by a hospital representative. But in accidents this serious, with multiple injuries—perhaps even multiple fatalities—the officers thought it was best to notify the family in person.

“Driver of the pickup?”

“Minor injuries. He’s in the squad car, cuffed.”

“Drunk?”

“Can’t you smell him?”

For a moment, Miller felt defeated. Another family destroyed by a drunk driver. Somehow with all their efforts, they weren’t doing enough to stop the problem. He pursed his lips. “You do the test?”

“Preliminary. Failed the straight line. I thought I’d wait for you to get the blood test.”

“Witnesses?”

“A lady, Rae McDermott, works in the diner across the street. And a couple of motorists. They’re still here.”

Sgt. Miller strained to see which of the victims was now laying on a stretcher and receiving attention from two paramedics. It was the young female. “Where’s the male victim?”

“They’re using the jaws-of-life. He’s bleeding pretty bad, trapped in the front seat. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

The sergeant sighed and closed his notebook. He dismissed the officer and approached the mangled vehicle. Fire department rescue workers were busy on one side of the vehicle, so he walked to the other. Sleeping bags and camping gear had spilled onto the road. An ice chest had opened and dead fish littered the roadway as well. What a way to end a camping trip.

He saw a small passage where the window had been and gingerly stuck his head and upper body inside. The victim’s entire left side was pinned beneath layers of metal and draped with fireproof tarps. One paramedic was stationed under the tarp, just outside the driver’s door, waiting for the instant he could remove the man and begin treatment. Beyond him, another firefighter used a blowtorch to separate the wreckage while the jaws hummed and screeched, working to peel away the layers of metal.

Miller focused on the victim. There was a gash across the man’s forehead, and despite the noise, Miller could hear the
man struggling to breathe. Still, he seemed semiconscious. Reaching out, Miller took the man’s hand in his own. He raised his voice over the machinery. “Sir, can you hear me?”

The man jerked his head twice and his eyelids began to tremble.

“We’re doing everything we can to get you out of here. Can you hear me, sir?”

Suddenly the machines stopped as the separated layers were removed and set aside.

“Let’s do it!” It was the paramedic stationed under the tarp. He moved, pressing fingers to the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Then he shouted to the others. “Come on,
move it!
We’re losing him!”

“Can you hear me, sir?” Sgt. Miller asked again. The vehicle was quieter inside now, almost tomblike. This time the man stirred and seemed suddenly frantic, anxious to speak.

Help him, Lord, help him say what he wants to say
.

Suddenly the man’s lips parted and he worked his mouth silently. Miller strained to hear him.

“The girls …”

This wasn’t the time to tell him about the older girl. The man would have to remain calm if the rescue was to have a chance of being successful. He squeezed the man’s hand. “Sir, they’re already out. We’re working on them right now.”

The man seemed slightly reassured. A gurgling sound came from his throat, and he sucked in another breath. “Tell Hannah—” the man gulped, clearly fighting unconsciousness—“tell Hannah … the girls … I love them.” He opened his eyes, and Miller saw an unmistakable peace there.

“I’ll tell them. Now you hang on. We’re getting you out of here and you can tell them yourself.”

The man gulped again and his eyes rolled back for a moment and then closed. His lids twitched violently and once more his lips moved. Miller squeezed the man’s hand another time. “Stay calm now, you’re almost out of here.”

But the man grew more agitated, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. He was slipping away, but he seemed desperate to speak.

Sgt. Miller moved closer. “It’s okay sir.… I’m here. I’m listening.”

The gurgling grew louder and the man coughed. Miller held back a grimace. The man was choking on his own blood. He was gasping for each breath, and his words were slurred, but finally they were audible.

Miller strained to understand.

“Tell Hannah … tell her … please, forgive … forgive.…”

He said something after that but Sgt. Miller couldn’t make it out. “You want Hannah to forgive someone, is that it?”

The man’s entire body relaxed, and Sgt. Miller thought he saw him nod.

“We’re losing pressure!” The paramedic’s voice was angry. “Come on, let’s
open
this thing.” The machines whirred once more, and finally the man was free. Two paramedics lifted him immediately onto a backboard.

“He’s not breathing! Prepare to intubate.”

In a blur of commotion the paramedics worked on the man, doing everything they could to stabilize him.

Passersby had gathered, and now a crowd of stricken onlookers gaped at the bloodied man, watching the paramedics work frantically to save him. In less than a minute he was loaded into an ambulance while the EMTs used an oxygen pump and manually compressed the man’s chest.

As the ambulance drove off, Miller looked around and knew his work at the scene was finished. He’d talked to the witnesses, each of whom had agreed that the driver of the pickup had sped through a red light and hit the Explorer without ever slowing.

Miller looked at his notes. The other driver was Brian Wesley, age twenty-eight … five prior DUIs. He’d been arrested and taken to the West Valley Division, where he would be
booked. He had been given a blood alcohol test—the results of which would not be available from the crime lab for several weeks.

If the results were positive, Wesley would be formally charged with whatever crimes the district attorney’s office thought they could prove—anything from driving under the influence to vehicular manslaughter. A plea bargain might be struck, but because of the man’s prior record and the severity of the accident, most likely the case would be ordered to trial.

Then months or maybe even a year later, after delays and continuances, when the memory of the accident had faded in the minds of witnesses, a trial date would be set. The trial would drag on for a month or more, and finally Brian Wesley might be convicted. At that point, barring some sort of judicial miracle, Wesley would most likely serve less than a year behind bars for destroying the Ryan family.

Sgt. Miller removed his sunglasses and rubbed his temples. Tow trucks had arrived at the scene and were busy removing the wreckage of the two vehicles. It was late, nearly 5:30, and his worst task lay ahead.

He remembered how the injured man had struggled to speak, how desperately he’d wanted to relay what might be his final message to his family. What was it the man had said? Something about getting mad … or about not getting mad. The sergeant wasn’t sure anymore; the past hour had been so chaotic, so tense. Besides, the accident hadn’t been Mr. Ryan’s fault. No one could be angry at him. Miller shrugged. Best to forget it, whatever it was. For all he knew, the man had mumbled the words out of shock or delirium.

Either way, Miller remembered the most important part of Ryan’s message: Tell Hannah and the girls he loved them.

Sgt. Miller sighed. It was time to tell Hannah.

Five

Bitterly she weeps at night, tears are upon her cheeks.
…
There is none to comfort her
.

L
AMENTATIONS
1:2
A

They drove in silence, Sgt. Miller at the wheel and Officer Rolando Santiago making notations, checking the accident report. Miller noticed that the streets were quiet here, lined with mature shade trees and upper-end homes with large, fenced yards. People who lived in this part of the San Fernando Valley generally safeguarded themselves against the perils of city living by driving sturdy vehicles and protecting their homes with custom alarms.

Pity none of those alarms could have protected the Ryan family against this.…

Three turns later the squad car pulled up out front of a well-manicured home on a pretty cul-de-sac.

Sgt. Miller noticed a wooden sign near the front door that read “The Ryans.” Under their name was the symbol of a Christian fish.

“Believers.”

Santiago looked at him. “What’s that?”

He nodded toward the symbol. “The Christian fish. The family must be believers.”

Officer Santiago shrugged. “You never know after today.”

Miller didn’t reply but climbed out of the car and headed somberly up the walkway. Santiago walked in step beside him and glanced at his watch. “Let’s get this thing over with. I’ve got dinner plans.”

Sgt. Miller studied his partner a moment, but all he could see was the protective wall. He drew a deep breath. “Let me do the talking.”

For two hours Hannah Ryan had fought off an exhausting list of possibilities while staring out her kitchen window, but still there was no sign of her family. She wanted to pray, and even tried a time or two, but she held back. It only made the fear worse.

Dread had begun to consume her, and as the minutes became hours, she stopped looking for ways to keep busy. Instead she was continually drawn to the kitchen window, as if she could somehow make them appear by keeping watch. They should have called by now, and anger joined the emotions warring within her.

When the squad car pulled up, she was no longer fiddling with the pink sponge, wiping and rewiping the sink, but rather she was frozen in place, barely breathing, staring at the dusky cul-de-sac.

A pit formed in her stomach and in that instant, she knew.

She closed her eyes.
Lock the door. Close the blinds. Get the car keys and leave
. Anything but greet the officers who were walking deliberately up the sidewalk. Hannah drew a shaky breath and forced her feet to carry her toward the front door.
Calm, calm. Be calm
. She wiped her trembling palms on her jeans and turned the knob.

“Yes?” She did not attempt a smile and neither did the officers.

“Hannah Ryan?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

The older officer hesitated. “Ma’am, I’m Sgt. John Miller with the Los Angeles Police Department. May we come in for a minute?”

No. Go away. I hate that you’re here
. Hannah opened the
door and the men stepped into the foyer. She did not invite them to go any further.

“Ma’am, maybe if we moved inside and sat down.”

“Listen, what’s this all about?” Hannah began shivering. She rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the sudden chill. She did not want to sit down, and she was not in the mood for a slow explanation.

“Is your husband Dr. Tom Ryan?”