25 Hour Watch

The coffee drifts with the movements of the car, sloshing lightly against the underside of the lid as the vehicle rounds corner after corner.  Few other vehicles dot the other lanes, and the sun is just lightly peaking through the jagged wall of pine needles standing alongside the road.

The radio on the dash is silent, the sparse troubles of the small town still asleep for now.  To her left, outside the driver’s side window, the face of a mountain hugs each corner, pushing and pulling the road toward its destination.

Rain from overnight slides from the asphalt and mingles with the dirt and rock.  The morning air is cool, and a few stars still glitter against the light blue sky dotted with gray, wafty clouds.  Fluffy spots of gray and the shiny specks of light all against a flat blue morning.  Sheriff Wayne had phoned her early.  A simple 11-24 called in by an out-of-towner passing through on route 43.  She’d pass it on her way in to the station anyways, she just needed to snap a few pictures and take down the license plate.

She eyes the mile markers as they pass by along the shoulder, and sips the coffee from her cup holder.  Very lightly, Frank plays on the radio through the cab of her pickup.  She taps her thumbs gently on the steering wheel with the rhythm, and glances uninterestedly into her empty rearview mirror.

Ahead of her now as she round another corner, a green pickup truck flashes its hazard taillights at her from the clearing where it sits.  The driver’s side door is open, and she can tell as she slows to park behind it that the cab light is flickering.  She slides into park and pulls her keys from the ignition.  She pulls her camera from its bag on the seat to her right and takes a few picture from inside her car before stepping outside into the morning and taking a few more from the distance.

She slides the camera strap around her neck and makes for the abandoned truck.  As she approaches, the truck’s radio hits her ears on the empty morning air, and she spots footprints in the mud leaving the truck.  She clicks a few more photos, closer up of the license plate and also of the footprints that lead from the abandoned cab, around the back and off the to right.

Beside the open truck door she snaps a few picture of the empty cab.  The dash lights are blinking wildly, with no rhythm or purpose.  The radio switches stations, sliding through static airspace, and lading briefly on a station before moving on again.  Carefully, she reaches in and pulls the keys from the ignition, stopping the lightshow.  A few stray food wrappers, old maps in the side pocket, and worn carpet across the floorboards typical from old vehicles.  She doesn’t see any sign of a struggle.  There’s no blood, broken glass.  No glass bottles or lighters.  No wallet.  Reaching across to the passenger side, she opens the glove box and after a moment pulls vehicle registration and proof of insurance out.  Se takes a couple of photos for later and returns them.  The name is almost familiar.  In a small town the names are all almost familiar.

She takes a few steps back and looks down at the footprints.  Taking pictures as she goes, she follows them around the back of the truck bed, her camera leading the way as they disappear.  Maybe ten feet from the truck, standing prominently in the mud, the footprints just stop.

Beyond her the ground slopes down into grass and trees.  From the top of the hill, the truck waiting behind her, she looks around.  She glances across the meadow from one end to the other.  No sign of anything.  No animals to speak of.  Nothing unnatural.

A chill runs down her back as it hits her that something is wrong, she just needs to put the pieces together.  Someone abandoned their vehicle.  No body.  No drunken man napping in the cold mountain grass.  No morning birds, no wildlife, none of the usual early mountain noises at all.

Almost as if nature abandoned the site too.

Wondering, she returns to the truck and closes the door.  She locks the door and takes the keys in her jacket pocket.  From her truck she pulls her ticket pad.  She writes a ticket for illegal parking and rips it out for the windshield.  At least if whoever left their truck here comes back, they’ll know who has the keys.  They can come to the station, she’ll ask a few questions, probably drop the ticket, and that’ll be that.  Unless they have to tow it to the station before then, in which case she can come back with a couple of the guys and do a full search of the area.

Tucking the ticket under the abandoned windshield wiper, she hears something.  Almost a cough, maybe a groan, maybe a tree branch in the breeze.  She moves around the hood and stares off to her left, listening.  The breeze whips flyaways on her brow and pushes gently on the tip of her ponytail.

Down the hill, half covered in grass, leaves, and dusty with dirt and mud, a man lays across the ground.  His chest rises and lowers slowly, mud is caked to the bottom of his boots.  She stares for a second, testing her eyes before running to her truck.  She grabs a first aid kit out of her truck bed, and pulls the door open, reaching for the radio.

“Deputy Abrahams requesting backup.  At reported 11-24, assistance required for possible 10-53.”

A moment passes as she pulls her jacket off her shoulders and into her arms, and shifts the microphone to her left hand.

“…Copy Abrahams.  10-4.”