Closure (Jack Randall) (53 page)

“Got a pulse?”

Stan checked the carotid. “Yeah, weak but there.”

“Try a femoral.”

Stan probed for the artery in the man’s groin. “Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“epi’s in.”

Ron slumped back in the seat. “Okay.” He made another notation on his glove. He was suddenly quite tired. He looked up to find Stan grinning at him.

“Why the hell are you grinning?”

“Nothing.” He continued to grin.

“We’re here!” Danielle shouted from the front.

Ron pulled himself up. “Let’s get him packaged for off-load.” He reached for his stethoscope to double check his tube.

The siren gave its last wail before slowly dying.

The Federal Government holds 179,059 inmates in its prison system.
 

—FIFTY-ONE—

“R
emember Davis?” Sam asked.

“The country boy from Virginia?”

“West Virginia,” Sam corrected. “Boy couldn’t march in step to save his life. Dead scared of anything female. How he made it into the army, I’ll never know. You made me keep him. Whatever happened to him?”

“Last I heard, he went home and his girlfriend’s brothers met him at the bus stop and gave him a ride to the house. He walked in to find both his family and her family assembled and his girl in a white dress,” Jack replied.

“You’re shittin’ me. Shotgun wedding?”

“You got it. Seems he had too good a time on his last leave. They even had a suit ready for him. He was married before he got to hug his mama.” Jack barely got it out before he started laughing. Sam joined him.

Finally, they both came up for air. “Why did you keep him anyway?” Sam asked.

“He was a good troop. Big and strong. I could load him up with twice as much gear as anybody else and he would march it till I told him to stop. Run all day if he had to, and best of all, he could shoot expert with anything I handed him, first time. He was a natural. Plus, the kid was patriotic and afraid of failure. He knew he wasn’t the smartest in the bunch, but he wanted to really make it. So I kept him. Kicking him out of the army would have killed him.”

“Where’s he now?” Sam asked.

“Got scratched in the Gulf and went home with a slight limp to the family farm, and is still there far as I know, probably got ten kids by now.”

“Probably,” Sam echoed. He fell silent as he remembered his own troops. They had all had a Private Davis from time to time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the pain. It returned without warning, hot and stabbing. Sam felt himself grow cold as the sweat returned to his forehead. The gun in his hand became slippery and he tightened his grip to keep from dropping it. The pain forced him to double over and show himself to Jack. He turned his head to see his friend watching him in horror. Sam saw his lips moving, but could not hear the words. The graffiti on the walls became a blurred mosaic of colors that changed with the passing searchlights of the helicopters. He saw Jack rise to come help him. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he waved him back with the Browning.

Jack sank back into his seat and watched as Sam did battle with his own body. It was soon apparent who was winning.

Sam suddenly doubled up again and vomited. A splash of bright red appeared on the floor, and Sam took several deep breaths before vomiting a second time. Several more breaths and he leaned back in his seat, once again out of Jack’s view.

It was a full minute before he heard Sam call him.

“Jack?”

“Right here, Sam.”

“Do you see now?”

“. . . Yeah.”

“I’ve done all I can. It’s up to you and the politicians now, the press, whoever. I just wanted to wake them up. Show them what the system has become. I respect the law, Jack, you know that. We just don’t have command of the process anymore. The process owns us now. You, me, everyone that follows the laws, we’re now at a disadvantage to those who don’t. What the hell happened? What happened to us? This country is eating itself. You gotta stop it, Jack, you gotta stop it. They don’t fear us anymore. Remember? Remember the fear?”

Jack listened to his friend. He did remember.

Sam’s hand appeared on the pole holding the partition. It was pale and thin. Not the strong hands of the best shooter he had ever known. He watched as the hand crept up the pole and tightened its grip. The feet were then drawn back and planted. Sam appeared slowly as he pulled himself to his feet. He finally stood. One hand clutching the rail and the other held the gun tightly against the abdomen, guarding against the pain. The blood running from the mouth was overshadowed by the eyes. They appeared at peace.

Jack finally understood. He rose to his feet and faced his friend.

•      •      •

“Movement, we have movement of the subject. This is Sierra Three. Subject is standing, facing the rear of the car. I am on target.”

“Shit.” Greg had been watching the news coverage of the train on the other screen. A line of city busses was waiting to take the people emerging from the last car to a nearby high school gym, somewhere they could be questioned out of the press’s reach. He now turned to see two figures standing in the first car.

“Sydney?” He snapped his fingers to get her attention. She covered the phone out of habit before she replied.

“They were talking and laughing for awhile. Then I thought I heard someone throw up. Now I can’t really hear anything. I just . . . I don’t know.” She stuck the phone back in her ear on one side and placed a finger in the other.

Greg spun to his own man and pointed. The man just shook his head. One of his operators addressed him.

“Sir, Sierra Three wishes to know if he is weapons free”

Greg contemplated the situation before replying. “No change.”

“Sir?”

Greg spun around. “I said no change! Do not fire unless the man threatens the driver or our agent! Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The man repeated the instructions over the radio network. Greg listened as the acknowledgments came back. When this whole thing was over, the politicians were going to have his head on a plate, but right now he was still in charge. Screw ’em.

Come on, Jack, he thought as he scanned the screens, end this thing.

•      •      •

Ron reattached the bag to the tube and squeezed it as soon as the wheels of the stretcher hit the ground. He was almost blinded by the flash from the cameras, and had to look away as they started moving toward the double doors. Security was everywhere and they found themselves surrounded as they rolled through the doors. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Ron raised his head to see a familiar face.

“How you doing Ron?” Art asked.

“Not good. Lost him once. Got him back, but he’s bleeding into his pericardium. We need blood. Who’s on tonight?”

“Dr. Plaisier.”

“Good.”

As they approached the trauma room, Ron could see the hallway crowded with people. Radiology staff with their portable x-ray machine and heavy lead vests, phlebotomists with their trays of tubes, and new interns eager to see a gunshot wound. Ron dismissed them all and concentrated on the tall thin figure, dressed in the blue scrubs, calmly waiting with his arms crossed next to the empty bed.

Danielle turned in the doorway and they spun the cot to enter the room head first. Ron took a deep breath and with his command voice let them have it:

“60-year-old male, shot in the upper left chest from an unknown type rifle. Entrance and exit. External bleeding controlled. You have a 7.5 at 23cm, central line in the right sub-clavian, decompressed on the left side both anteriorly and laterally with frank blood. Two liters lactated ringers in. Coded once. Total of four epi and three atropine. Chest got stiff. 60cc’s of arterial blood from the pericardium. Return of pulses with pacing. Stop!”

The trauma team had removed the straps and untangled the lines to move the patient over to the other bed. Ron had passed the bag off to the respiratory technician who was now bagging with one hand, while programming her vent with the other. The team had been about to move when Ron had stopped them. He now had a hold of the board to physically prevent them from moving.

“What?” a nurse asked.

“Detach the bag first.” Ron pointed with his chin.

“I have it.” The respiratory tech replied with some annoyance. Ron shook his head. He’d had tubes yanked out in the past by a tech that wasn’t paying attention.

“Disconnect the bag or we’re staying right here,” he said.

The tech opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by the clear voice of Dr. Plaisier.”

“Do what he says now.”

With a frown at Ron, she disconnected the bag.

“On three.” Ron looked up and down the bed. “Two . . . Three.” Four sets of arms and hands safely set the senator on the hospital bed. The monitor and its leads were carefully set between the patient’s legs. The bag was reconnected, and someone took over bagging from the tech while she continued her programming. Ron grimaced as he noted they hadn’t had time to tape down the pads more. Danielle pulled the stretcher free of the crowd and disappeared out into the hallway. The void was quickly filled with people and Ron was pushed out toward the wall.

“Ron?” Dr. Plaiser’s voice cut through the multiple voices. Ron looked to see the doc’s head above the crowd on the other side of the room. He was using his stool. Something they had all found odd when he had first come here, but it was really quite smart. By standing on it, he freed up a space at the patient’s bedside for his team to work, and yet he could still see everything. While he was addressing Ron, he still had his eyes on the actions of the trauma team.

“Yeah, uh . . . coded approximately—” Ron looked at the clock on the wall, “—just less than ten minutes ago. Had good CPR the whole way. He’s now paced at 80 beats per minute. Good carotids—faint femorals.” He paused as a new blood pressure came up on the monitor. 88/54. “That’s narrower than his last,” he informed.

“Okay,” Dr. Plaisier spoke. “Stacie?”

“Tube is good.”

“Art?”

“All lines are good. Labs are sent. Getting an arterial stick. Pacer is holding.”

“Okay. Listen up. I want two units of O-neg. Head, neck, chest, and pelvis films. Set up for a chest tube on the left, alert CT and the OR. I need his medical history, where’s that file?”

Ron backed out of the room as the team scrambled to comply with the doctor’s orders. He was about to turn and leave when out of the huddle he heard the doc’s voice.

“Nice job, Ron.”

Art’s head popped up for a second with a grin. Not everyday a surgeon said that to a medic. He returned the grin before stripping off his gloves and leaving to find his partner. He strolled down the crowded hallway toward the ambulance entrance. There he found Stan and Janice leaning against the wall outside the EMS room. Janice was holding her gun belt in her hand and an ice pack to her head.

“Almost left it on the truck.” She shrugged.

“That would have been bad.” Ron smiled. “You two did great. Thanks for the help.”

“Yeah, nice job there, rookie.” Stan gave her a friendly punch in the shoulder.

“Who are you kidding? I had no idea what I was doing. All I know is that partner of yours grabbed me, tells my partner she needs me, and he just says go. I need to have a talk with him.” She grinned.

“Where is she, anyway?” Ron asked.

“Out in the rig, cussing at the mess and the reporters, I think,” Stan replied.

“I better go get her. I’m sure my boss will be here soon. Janice, if yours gives you a problem, give me a call or have them do it. I won’t leave you hanging.” Ron handed her his card.

“He’s on his way,” she replied. “What about the press?”

“Let the hospital’s people handle that. I’m not saying a thing.”

“Me either,” Stan echoed.

The doors slid open and Danielle stormed in. She did not look happy. She peeled off her coat, and tossed it in the EMS room before joining them.

“Would you believe some reporter got through security and tried to get in the back of my truck? I about decked him. We’re down for decon, I already told dispatch and I can’t clean it up until those reporters leave. How’s he doing?”

Ron shrugged. “50-50.” He was about to elaborate when he noticed new activity around the trauma room. He walked back to the entrance to see the huddle working feverishly on something.

“What happened?” He asked the nurse at the door.

“Someone yanked a pacer pad off and they lost capture. The doc cracked his chest and pulled more blood off the pericardium, but he’s coded again.” The bodies parted for a moment, and Ron caught sight of Dr. Plaisier with his hand inside the senator’s chest. He heard him call for the paddles. A nurse shoved his way past, carrying more blood.

Ron watched as the doc repeatedly shocked the heart with the internal paddles. It was a repeat of the ride in. It lasted another fifteen minutes before he saw the doc check the time on the overhead clock.

Senator Harper of Georgia was dead.

•      •      •

Jack watched as his friend fought to stay on his feet. His face was pale and the pain was evident in his expression. He kept his gun leveled, but moved it off target. There was no way Sam was going to beat him to the draw. Was this for the cameras? Jack had no doubt that this was on every channel, and Sam knew it, too. The reason Sam picked this spot in the first place. He had it all planned, just in case, Jack marveled. Jack would let him have his time in the camera’s eye, and then he would take him in. Get him to the hospital. Save him. It was what brothers did.