This happened last summer. I live a few miles outside of the small Oregon town where I grew up, in a little house on the lake. Late night trips are rare since most everything in town closes at 8:00. When you do have to drive at night, you've got to look out for animals in the road. Everyone up here has hit a deer or something before. The worst is when it's someone's dog or cat wandering at night.
My little brother Zach called me at around 1:00 in the morning. The second he called me "Dad," I knew what had happened. He's seventeen and still lives with our parents but he stays with me when he's been drinking or smoking. Unlike our parents, I was a teenager once. He'll talk to me, and I appreciate that. The other side of that is that it occasionally puts me in the uncomfortable position of having to set him straight.
When my brother calls me "Dad," it means either the cops or someone's parents have found him. I'm older than him by ten years, and it's usually passable, even though it's uncomfortable to hear.
I got the address from him. The apartment of a 21-year-old that worked as a cashier at the Fred Meyer. On the way there, I muttered to myself what I'd say about hanging out with a guy like that. How he needed to lay low if he was going to party, or how to leave a situation if he saw it getting out of control.
This is common sense, I kept thinking. This shit is not my job.
I wouldn't have had trouble finding the place even without the police lights flashing around the neighborhood. It was the only place with a refrigerator on the front lawn, surrounded by sparkling broken glass. The young officer there lectured me for a good few minutes. Zach didn't say anything, which was probably for the best. Apparently he didn't have anything to do with the fridge breaking the window. They were taking the 21-year-old into the station for supplying alcohol to minors, but were letting the others off with a warning. Pretty generous, but that's how small-town cops sometimes are.
I talked to Zach on the way back to my house. Some of my enthusiasm had worn off and I didn't mention all of the points I'd thought of when he'd first woken me up. I was tired, and he was barely paying attention anyway, staring out the window and peering into the mirrors -- anywhere but at me. More than anything, I really just wanted to go back to sleep.
"I'm telling mom and dad tomorrow," I said. "You can't just sweep everything under the rug. This could have been a lot worse."
"Yeah," Zach said.
There were two cars behind me. The one directly behind veered over the center line. The other turned on its lights and siren.
"Shit," he said, still staring out the window. He smelled like cheap booze and cinnamon.
Without the other cars behind me, it was a dark drive through the woods and over the lake's bridge to my house.
We got home and Zach rushed off to the guest room without saying a word -- well, not to me. He was texting someone on his phone.
I'd probably cool off in the morning. Especially if he was willing to listen to what I had to say. Mom and dad would be more angry with me than him if I told them that this had happened before. There wasn't any way around that.
My head had just hit the pillow when I heard running footsteps crunching in the gravel.
Unbelievable, I thought as I got up once again.
Zach's bedroom was empty and the front door was unlocked. I put my jacket and shoes on and headed outside again. I screamed Zach's name, but he had a big head start on me.
I was mad. I sped out of the driveway and onto the road. I left the brights on and sped around the corners. I didn't see Zach.
I should have been able to see him.
I came around the corner, cutting through the left lane. I saw a flash of his blue sweatshirt as he hit the hood and was shot off into the dark.
It happened so fast, at first I didn't even react. Stopped in the middle of the road, I replayed what I'd just seen in my mind, then jumped out of the car and ran to him.
"Zach! Zach! Shit shit shit."
"Ah!" he said. He'd been knocked off the road and into the soft bed of pine needles and dirt.
"Are you okay? Shit, man, I'm so sorry!"
"Y-yeah. I think my leg's broken."
He was right. You could tell from the direction his foot was pointing.
"Okay, okay. I gotta -- we gotta go. I can't leave the car or you here. We'll get you in and I'll take you to the E.R." I stammered through the adrenaline.
He screamed as I carried him into the car. I felt like I shouldn't have moved him, but what else could I do?
Inside the car, Zach was holding on tight and taking shallow breaths, probably trying not to cry.
I started driving. "What the hell, Zach? What were you thinking? Where were you even going?"
"Stop."
"You don't get it. You could have died out --"
"Stop the car! Stop!" he screamed.
I slammed on the brakes. He was looking out the back window where a police car and another car were sitting dark.
"That's Mariah's car," he said.
"What?"
"She was going to follow me from the party, but that cop pulled her over."
"Jesus, Zach."
"But... something's wrong. Where are they?"
"They're..." I started, but they weren't in their cars. There was no one there.
"She's not answering her phone. I was coming out here to find her."
"So..."
"Just go and see."
I stared at him. He met my eyes. This was serious, and we both knew it.
The first thing I noticed was that the police car didn't look right. It looked old, and didn't have the right kind of white paint job. The plates were regular, non-government vehicle plates. When I got really close, I could see that the city P.D. logos on the side were done with cheap magnets. This was seriously wrong.
Then I heard it.
The cars were parked right before the bridge the crossed a thin arm of the lake. From down the bank, under the bridge and next to the water, I heard a woman grunt in pain.
I wanted to run. To jump back in my car and drive until it wasn't my problem anymore.
Instead I scrabbled down the rocks. My eyes adjusted, and I saw them there. A large man had her pinned down to the gravel bank under the bridge.
"Hey!" I shouted, and my voice echoed around us.
She screamed, and they stopped moving.
I grabbed a rock about the side of my fist. I could see the man standing up, though the shadows covered his face. The girl wasn't moving. I saw him reach into his jacket for something, then look back at the girl. She shook her whole body, and something heavy dropped into the lake.
The fake cop turned away and ran, occasionally splashing in the edge of the lake as he ran.
I went to the girl. She was obviously hurt, and her clothes were ripped.
"Can you walk?" I asked, keeping an eye out for the cop.
"He, he had a gun, he said he would kill me," she said between sobs.
"I know. It's going to be okay, but we should go. Can you walk?"
I tried to remember her name, but couldn't. I couldn't think of anything else to do to comfort her, or help her. I just knew that I had to get out from under that bridge. She could walk, with help. As we got into the car, I thought that I heard someone in the bushes.
Zach had already called the police as he'd seen me go over the edge. I took the two of them to the hospital. On the way, we saw a (real) police car headed toward the lake. They caught the man as he returned to his car, and it turned out that he was a repeat sex offender. He finally went away for good.
I can never forget that night. And as bad as things were, I try to remember how much worse they could have been.
PSA: if you have doubts about whether the person pulling you over is an actual officer, you can turn your emergency flashers on and call 911 to verify with the dispatcher. They will know where their officers are located and will be able to direct you.
Please don't let this happen to you.
Submitted October 28, 2015 at 06:46AM by AtomGray http://ift.tt/1LAUj2S nosleep
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