Free Down by the River by Robyn Carr Page B

stopping in to help, even with the therapists and visiting nurses, Chris and Nancy were beat. And Chris couldn’t work as much as he needed to if he helped with the boys.
    “You might have to ask for help,” Tom said.
    “Ask who?” Chris bitterly replied.
    “Your friends. That’s who.”
    “My friends? My boys got into so much trouble with my friends, you think anyone would want to help them now? They stole from Burt Crandall’s bakery and egged the whole town. They vandalized George’s café, tipped over trash cans, beat up your kid, for God’s sake. No one’s going to feel sorry for them now. And this,” he said, looking over at Tom, tears wet on his cheeks, “is mostly because I wasn’t there as a father.”
    Tom gave him a light sock in the arm, but really he wanted to stop the car and shake him good. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Remember what you know about your people. Your town.”
    Chris got the handkerchief out of his pocket and gave his nose a good blow. “I know they can be pushed too far sometimes, that’s what I know.”
    Tom’s radio squawked. “Rios to Toopeek, where you at, Chief?”
    “Right at Paradise and 162, Ricky.”
    “We got truck versus deer at 162 and 86, you copy?”
    “I can take that.”
    “Thanks, Chief.”
    Tom turned on the lights and siren; the morning was foggy, particularly dense in the low areas between hills. “Slight detour, Chris. I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”
    “No problem. I’m the tagalong.”
    “We can talk about this later, though.”
    “Hey, it’s a tough patch, but we’ll work it out.” He wiped his face, sniffed back the remnants of tears.
    In just moments they could see the headlights of a truck down the road through the early morning fog, which could be hell on both wildlife and drivers. Hal Wassich, a farmer, stood beside his truck with a shotgun. On the ground at the side of the road was the carcass of a large stag.
    Tom and Chris both got out. “Hey, Hal,” Tom said.
    “I had to put him down, Chief. Got him square on the hip, crippled him bad.” Hal shook his head and a stream of blood ran onto his shirt from a woundhe didn’t appear to know he had sustained. “Ever hear a stag that size scream? It’s godawful, that’s what.”
    Instead of putting the flashlight to the animal’s carcass, Tom shone it square on Hal’s head. “Chris, get an ice pack and some bandages out of the truck, would you? Hal, what’d you smack your head on?”
    He reached up and touched his gushing forehead. “Damn. I must a bounced my head off the steering wheel. That sucker hit me like a tank. He’s big as one, too, ain’t he?”
    “You got a big one, that’s for sure,” Tom said, squinting at the injury. “Hal, you cracked your head wide open.”
    The grisly farmer grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth on the bottom. “Lucky for me I got nothin’ in there to fall out, ain’t it?”
    “Damn truth,” Tom agreed, smiling with him.
    Chris had bandages, tape and ice from Tom’s first aid kit and took over the cleaning of Hal’s head while Tom checked out the truck and the carcass. The stag was crushed on one side. If he’d managed to limp or drag himself into the woods, he’d have died a slow and miserable death. As for the truck, the bumper was bent, the hood was concave and the windshield was shattered. There wouldn’t be any driving it away from this spot.
    Chris had Hal sitting on the tailgate while he cleaned off his head wound. “You doing some kind of ride-along with the police?” Tom heard Hal ask Chris.
    “Naw. Tom was giving me a lift home from the bar. I had a couple too many to drive.”
    Hal laughed outright. “You sober enough to deal with my head?” He pronounced it “haid.”
    “Yeah. Fortunately it’s a huge cut and I can see it plain as day.”
    That made the old farmer laugh harder. “You still sellin’ insurance, boy?”
    “Yeah, that’s what pays the bills these days.”
    “I never figured you