He was positive Cynthia would file a police report. She was a good foster mom. But still, it was beyond him to sit back and let others try to locate Dylan and do nothing about it himself. He knew his brother. As mad as he was, Dylan wouldn’t stay away and let others worry about him. He wasn’t that self-centered. He did care what others thought.
Jackson’s pager went off. Even though he wasn’t on duty, he liked to know what was going on. Sliding into his truck, he increased the volume and set the device in the cup holder, next to his half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew.
The pager crackled for a moment, then the voice of the day-shift dispatcher, Vickie Swift, blasted through the static. “All units, be advised. Hit-and-run just occurred at the corner of Locust and Spring involving a twenty-five-year-old female with minor injuries. Suspect’s vehicle last seen heading south toward Parkway Drive. EMS en route. Requesting nearest unit for response.”
“Locust. Locust. Why do I feel I should know that street?”
Jackson started the engine. He should go home. It had been a long day. He needed to find out who Dylan hung out with besides Reggie. Maybe one of them would have some information.
But some instinct kept nudging him. This call was important. He put the address into his GPS.
“Ok, God. I’m taking this as direction from the Holy Spirit. I need to go there.”
He turned onto Locust. Natalie and Chase were already on scene.
“Doc!” Chase greeted him. “I thought you were off duty.”
“I am.” He’d come in early to cover a paramedic from the night shift, so the chief had let him leave at two. “But I heard the call and thought you might need a hand.”
“We’d never turn down another paramedic.”
Jackson gazed around. “This is where Augusta Turner lives.”
“Yeah. You know her? She used to run the daycare I went to as a kid. Sweet lady.”
“Hmmm.” He didn’t want to explain that he and Mia had been there together a couple of times.
He jogged over to Natalie, who was wrapping a bandage around a young woman’s leg. The mid-twenties woman wore jogging shorts and a tank top and sat on the curb. Various scrapes and bruises marked her skin, and her entire left side was one long friction burn.
A small crowd of onlookers clustered on the sidewalk.
“I never saw him coming,” the woman told Natalie as the paramedic cleaned another abrasion. “I was running and then—BAM! I flipped over the hood of a car. A blue car. And then it roared off, leaving me in the middle of the road. Luckily, the people across the street ran out and saw it all.”
Her brown hair, swept into a high ponytail, swayed with her movements as she talked. The color reminded him of Mia.
Two women resembling Mia involved in accidents in as many days? What were the odds?
Natalie glanced up at Jackson. “Hey. You’re not on call. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Jackson nodded. The police arrived on the scene. His friend, Officer Jason Beckley, left his vehicle and sauntered over to the victim.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Beckley with the Southwold police. Tell me what happened.”
The victim repeated what she’d said.
An older woman ran over, and a teenager followed her. “I saw it from my window! The car, it was a blue Buick. An old car, like something you’d see from the eighties.”
“Go on.” Jason took notes. “Did the driver appear intoxicated?”
“No,” the teenage girl said, snapping her gum. “He turned the corner, and I think he deliberately swerved to hit her. Look. I thought it was an odd car, so I got it on my phone.”
She pulled up a video and showed it to Jason. He nodded without comment.
As soon as the hit-and-run victim was taken care of, Jackson climbed into his truck and headed to the hospital to see if he could check on the car accident victim. Maybe he was just keyed up after seeing Mia earlier, but the fact that both accident victims had reminded him of her nagged at him.
On his way, he called Cynthia.
She picked up on the second ring.
