Page 61 of Don't Leave Me Behind
“10-4, I’m on scene.”
I get out of my truck, listening for the telltale signs of a domestic violence situation. In my own personal experience, there’s generally a lot of yelling and smashing going on. It’s quiet for a moment before I hear the screaming. Their shouts are muffled through the trailer walls. It takes everything in me not to rush the door. Domestics can turn deadly in a matter ofseconds. Whoever is getting beaten inside that trailer might not have the minutes it will take for backup to arrive.
“Help!” A high-pitched voice calls from the front door. A little girl appears, with long skinny arms and legs. She stumbles, tumbling down the stairs. I run to catch her, my strides eating up the distance. “My mom...he’s going to kill my mom.” She’s shaking when I reach her, a bruise blooming across her cheek, one eye already swelling shut.
This fucking piece of shit hit his kid.
“Please,” she whimpers. “My mom.”
“Go get behind my truck, sweetheart, okay? More deputies are coming, wait for them behind the truck.”
She nods, tripping over her gangly limbs as she makes her way toward my truck.
Chapter 19
Bold of You to Assume
Clay
I reachfor the radio on my shoulder, moving it closer to my mouth.“Halfor SO, 2799, I’m entering the house. Juvenile RP is outside by my truck,” I say in a slow, low tone.
“10-4 2799, units are less than a minute out.”
“2799, 2700, you need to stand down and wait for backup.”
I don’t answer Mercer. I’ll take whatever consequences he wants to give me later. Right now, there’s a little girl's mom in there, who might not make it out alive. Pulling my duty weapon from its holster, I square my shoulders and make my way inside the trailer. It’s a fucking disaster, reeking of stale beer and old food.
Trash litters the walkways. A puppy is sitting in the corner of one of the rooms, shivering. Another child pokes his head into the hallway. He points toward a closed door, where all the screaming is coming from.
I can hear the blows landing. The sound of fists thudding into flesh calls back one too many memories in my head. I kick the bedroom door open, finding a man straddling a woman. Youcan barely make out what she looks like; he’s hit her so many times. Her face beaten to a bloody pulp. He rears his fist back again, and I see red.
Putting my gun back in the holster on my vest, I slam into him, expecting more resistance, but he clearly didn’t see me coming. He topples like a house of cards, taking me to the ground with him. While he had an easy enough time beating the woman on his bed, his drunk, sluggish movements are easy to bat away.
Flipping him over, I get one hand snapped into a cuff. He tries to buck me off, but it’s easy enough to wrench his other arm back and put that wrist into the cuff. He’s screaming obscenities at me, but the sound of sirens outside drowns him out.
“Traeger!” I hear Nathan Clark’s voice booming down the hallway.
“All good,” I call back, hauling the asshole up onto his butt.
“Traeger?” The balding man mumbles, his eyes barely able to focus because of how drunk he is. “You Caleb’s boy?”
I don’t respond, making my way to where the woman still hasn’t moved from the bed. Her chest is rising and falling, but her pulse is weak. “She’s going to need medics asap,” I bark at Clark, who gives me a curt nod. He steps out of the room, talking into his radio.
“Yeah,” the drunkard continues. “You’re Caleb’s. You got his curlicues, didn’t you, boy?” He tips his head side to side, like he’s flopping around a mop of curls.
“2799, 2700, what’s your status?”
“2700, 2799, all good here.”
“Roger that, bud.” Mercer signs off in the least official way possible, and I know he won’t come over for this. Monitor the radio a little closer? Definitely. But there’rebigger fish for him to fry. I can handle a domestic, especially when it’s as clear-cut as this.
“I thought he hauled off an’ killed you, way you disappeared.” I’m sifting through the wallet on the nightstand, looking for Mr. I-Hit-My-Wife-For-Fun’s ID when he continues running his mouth.
“Not dead,” I mutter back, holding the ID card up. Jerry Benedict. His ID’s been expired for years. When I run it back through dispatch, it turns out he’s wanted in a couple of states over for domestic abuse and child support.
Jerry laughs, a gross gurgling sound before he spits at my feet. “Shoulda done away with you like he did your mom.”
I feel, more than see, Clark enter the room again. A steady presence behind me as I haul Jerry up to his feet.
