ONE SMALL VICTORY

ONE SMALL VICTORY

By

Maryann Miller

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Maryann Miller on Smashwords

One Small Victory

Copyright © 2010 by Maryann Miller

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.

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* * * * *

Dedication: To my husband for all the years
of believing.

* * * * *

Acknowledgements: I want to thank the
officers at the Little Elm, Texas Police Department for their
willingness to share information and expertise. If I got something
wrong in the writing, the blame is mine, not theirs. Also want to
thank my son, David Miller, who is the best research assistant a
person could ask for and learned all there is to know about guns as
an armorer for the Marines.

ONE SMALL VICTORY

PROLOGUE

The car hurtled through the darkness and the
wind whipped through the open windows, a cool lash against warm
skin. Mike braced his feet on the floor and fought a rising sense
of panic. How fast are we going? He snuck a look at the
speedometer. Holy shit! The needle inched toward a hundred and Brad
showed no sign of slowing. Do I dare ask him to stop acting like
Mario Fucking Andretti?

Mike took a deep breath. “Aren’t you afraid
of getting stopped?”

Brad glanced over with a cocky grin. “Are
you?”

“No big deal, man. Just thought you might
want to hang on to your license.”

Mike wished he had the guts to say aloud the
thoughts that whirled through his head. He was scared. And he
wished Brad would slow down.

“You need to chill out.” Brad took the joint
out of his mouth and offered it to Mike. “This is excellent
shit.”

Mike pushed his friend’s arm away.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Brad took an angry
toke. “You weren’t passing it up last year.”

“I only did it so you’d get off my ass.” Mike
paused to gauge Brad’s reaction. “Besides, the thrill escaped
me.”

“That’s ‘cause you never gave it a chance.”
Brad took another long drag. “You got to build yourself wings
before you can fly.”

“Just remember this isn’t a fucking
airplane.”

Brad laughed and Mike couldn’t resist the
urge to join him. That was the deal with Brad. Life was just one
big joke—his reasoning for doing dope in the first place. Why
shouldn’t they have a little harmless fun before they had to settle
down to serious living? So Mike had let him talk him into trying
the grass at Dempsy’s party last summer.

After the first hit, Mike had waited for some
effect, but nothing happened. So Brad told him to take another.
Deeper. Hold it longer. That time, Mike thought he’d cough a lung
out before he got around to enjoying the benefits of the grass.

Most of the time, Mike didn’t care that Brad
continued to use dope. It was his life and his business. But now,
as Brad’s red Trans Am screamed along the narrow country highway
with Mike clinging white-knuckled to the ‘aw-shit’ handle, it
wasn’t just Brad’s business.

The tires screeched as the car careened
around a tight corner. The stench of burnt rubber blew in the open
windows, and icy fingers of fear crawled up Mike’s spine. “Why
don’t you ease up,” he said.

“On what?”

“The gas and the goods.” Maybe if it sounded
like a joke Brad would take it better.

“I got it under control.”

Mike wanted to believe him. They were
friends. Brad wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. And there was
hardly any traffic way out here in nothing-land. What could
happen?

“Hey, what’s the record on that?”

Mike looked out the front window to see a
tight curve looming at the farthest reach of the headlights. “I
don’t know.”

“Didn’t Butcher do it at fifty?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet I can beat it.”

Panic stabbed Mike’s stomach and he glanced
quickly at his friend. “Come on Brad. Don’t even try.”

“What? You scared?”

Mike gripped the door handle as the car
barreled into the curve. Even without his hands on the wheel, he
felt the car slide as the rear end lost traction. He didn’t know
whether to pray or to scream.

At the precise moment Mike thought they’d
careen off the edge of the road, the front wheels grabbed the
asphalt. The car blasted out of the curve like a cannonball. Brad
looked over with a triumphant grin. “See. I told you.
Fifty-five.”

Before Mike had a chance to let out a breath
of relief a violent thump threw the car out of control. His head
banged against the window with a painful thud as the vehicle slewed
back and forth. A sense of dread buffeted him like a blast of
frigid air as he watched his friend fight to stay on the road.

“What was that?” Brad asked.

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer
and Mike watched the muscles in Brad’s arms strain as they
struggled to control the steering wheel. What the hell had they
hit? He braced one hand on the dash and the other on the seat and
twisted to look out the back window. Darkness swallowed the world.
Then he heard his friend shout.

“Oh, shit!”

That’s when the car went airborne.

It seemed to float, and for a fraction of a
second Mike found it almost a pleasant feeling. Brad was right.
They were flying and it was fuckin’ awesome.

Then the thrill ended in a powerful impact
amid a horrible explosion. A cacophony of high-pitched screams
surrounded Mike as glass shattered and metal ground against metal.
He recognized one of the screams as his own. Then a terrible weight
pushed into his chest...harder...and harder...and harder.

God it hurts!

The weight closed in on him. He couldn’t
breathe. He tried to reach over to Brad but his arm wouldn’t
move.

Nothing moved, except the pieces of metal
twisting and gouging at him. Make it stop!

Suddenly everything was still. Blessedly
still, and Mike was glad it was over. Then a great wall of
blackness rose before him.

It moved slowly at first, then gained
momentum as it enveloped the twisted interior of the car. It
reached up to dissolve the shattered windshield and snuff out the
pale moonlight.

In the dark void Mike felt, rather than saw,
the liquid blackness crawl up his mangled body until it covered him
like a heavy blanket.

Oh, my God!

MOMMIEEE...

CHAPTER ONE

Life can change in just an instant. That
thought wove its way in and around her mind as Jenny fingered the
clothes jammed along the wooden rod in the closet. His funny
T-shirts promoting the likes of “Prince” and “The Simpsons.” His
one good shirt, only worn under duress. His leather jacket that
still carried a faint aroma reminiscent of saddles and horses.

Sometime soon she’d have to clean out the
closet. Isn’t that what usually happens?

Tears burned her eyes and she turned away.
She didn’t know what was supposed to happen. No one had ever told
her. And a multitude of questions swam through her mind like
restless minnows in a pond.

There were books on choosing a college. Books
on how to plan a wedding, or how to help your child find a job. But
no one had ever written one on what to do when your son dies.

In that moment of truth, the weight of the
pain overcame her. It was like being smothered under a huge quilt.
Gasping for breath in between sobs, Jenny ran from the room,
slamming the door.

Her chest heaving, Jenny stopped halfway down
the hall.

I’ve got to get control. Viciously, she wiped
the trail of tears from her cheeks, then ran her fingers through
the tumble of hair that persisted in falling across her
forehead.

The door to Scott’s room opened, and he
cautiously poked his head out. “You okay, Mom?”

Jenny nodded, not trusting her voice to
words.

Her younger son stepped into the hall, all
angles and oversized joints common to fifteen-year-old boys. In a
flash, she saw Michael as he’d been at that age, muscles just
starting to form under the softness of childhood skin, a rakish
smile on a face squaring away to that of a man, a tousle of dark
brown hair so much like her own.

The pain of remembering was like being
gut-shot, and she crumbled like a doe in hunting season.

Scott closed the distance quickly, and his
arms went around her in an awkward hold that was as much embrace as
support.

Silent messages of mutual reassurance passed
between them like fragments of electrical current. Jenny could
smell the muskiness of night sweat on his shirt and heard the muted
thump of his heart. And for a fraction of a second all was okay in
the comfort of their embrace.

Then Jenny pulled away to see a mirror image
of her own pain reflected in the murky depths of her son’s eyes.
They were so dark they were nearly black and defined the adage,
“windows to the soul.”

Scott wouldn’t like it if he knew she could
see so much. He thinks he’s such an expert at hiding beneath layers
of loud music or sullen remoteness. But he’s always there, just
waiting to be discovered.

She wanted to say something. Ease his pain.
But he broke contact before she could formulate appropriate
words.

Again, Jenny didn’t know what to do. She was
the mother. She was supposed to know. She was supposed to take care
of this child. That child. If only she hadn’t let Michael go
camping that weekend. If only. God, how perfect the world would be
if we could go back and change things.

The agony of loss cut so deep she turned away
from Scott for a moment to gulp in air. Was it always going to be
so hard? And who was supposed to take care of her while she was
trying to take care of what was left of her family?

She felt a light touch on her arm. “It’ll be
okay, Mom.”

God. She wanted to scream. It was not going
to be okay. Nothing was okay. But she had to pretend. If not for
herself, for Scott. She forced the anger into a far corner of her
heart.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I couldn’t either.” She tried a tentative
smile, and her emotional burden shifted ever so slightly.

She reached up and touched Scott’s face,
feeling the soft stubble of immature beard. “You need a shave,” she
said. But the message was, ‘we’ll be okay.’

Though Scott pulled away, his eyes said,
‘thank you.’

“Jenny?” a voice called from down the
hall.

Giving him one more brief smile, she hurried
into the living room and almost collided with Carol.

“There you are.”

The naked anguish on her friend’s face
scraped against Jenny’s emotions like a file. “Where else would I
be?”

The slight woman froze, her brown eyes wide
and pain-filled, and Jenny immediately regretted snapping. She
seemed to have so little control over her reactions since The Phone
Call last night. That’s what it’ll always be, she thought in some
weird twist of mind. The Phone Call. Forever in capital
letters.

The words had played endlessly in her mind
ever since. “Mrs. Jasik... Your son, Michael has been in an
accident... He’s been taken to North Texas Medical Center...”

They wouldn’t tell her over the phone whether
he was okay or not, but somewhere deep inside she’d known. A mother
always knows. She’d pushed her ailing Ford Taurus toward the
hospital while the awful dread grew from a kernel of apprehension
into a grotesque monster that gnawed on her heart.

By the time she’d arrived at the ER, some
coping instinct had mercifully kicked in and she’d numbly received
the news that Michael was dead. Nothing else was clear in her mind
or memory. She didn’t know how her mother had known to come. Or who
she was supposed to call about arrangements and when. Or was
someone supposed to call her?