Yet another scene I suddenly found myself having to cope with, lest the story come to a grinding halt. I think I did OK getting beyond this potential road block, though I’ll have to do some real research during editing to be sure I don’t bend reality too far to be acceptable.
Part of what’s making this portion of the story difficult to write, I think, is that the transition is being made between act one and act two, but I’m not quite done with act one yet. Obviously, in editing, I’m going to have to clean up the timeline a bit, but for now I’m just going to have to go with it and try my best to make it work.
As for my overall progress, I’m slowly but surely eating away at that word deficit. If I can keep this pace up for a few more days I’ll be back ahead of the game.
For Idle Hands (working title) - Part 15
“Stupid!” I screamed, as I struggled to pull Gunn to one side, out of the shooter’s presumed line of fire. I could use my right arm fine, but my left arm was still weak from being shot, and I couldn’t put much weight on it. That made it awkward to drag Gunn while propelling myself, but somehow I managed it and again flattened my back against the wall.
Now that we were out of the firing line, I could take a moment to check Gunn over. Depending on how badly he was hit, I might be able to patch him up enough to save his life. I wasn’t going to have watching him bleed to death without helping hanging over me for the rest of my life, even if he was a moron who put himself in the shooter’s sights before we’d cleared the window.
He was still breathing, and there wasn’t much blood, all things considered. Good. I rolled him onto his front, there was an obvious hole in his shirt just below his shoulder blade, and from there to his armpit and down the side his white Oxford was red and slimy with blood. Using the hole that was there, I ripped the shirt open. Underneath he wore a bullet proof vest. I guess he really hadn’t trusted me.
The bullet had struck the vest at the edge of its protective zone and ricocheted into his back at a shallow angle. At first glance, I’d say it had hit one of his ribs and been deflected out under his arm. Tearing the shirt further bore this out. The fact that the bullet hadn’t punctured the vest suggested that it wasn’t a “cop killer” round. That was good, a teflon coated round would have punctured straight through and killed him for sure, but it also meant that there was a chance that the bullet broke apart when it hit his rib and that pieces were still lodged inside. Nothing I could do about that now but stop the bleeding and treat him for shock.
I heard footsteps on the floor outside the door, and Dever stuck his head in, eyes wide and panicked.
“What…” he began, then he caught sight of Gunn. “Oh my God!”
“Get down!” I yelled, waving frantically at him. “Shooter! Outside!”
He glanced at the window then threw himself to the floor and shimmied out the door on the other side of the opening so he could still see me.
“The fuck is going on Nick?” he shrieked, covering his head with shaking hands as if he expected bullets to rain down from above and actually thought he could do anything about it.
“Shooter, outside,” I repeated, “with a laser sight, probably a silencer, either that or he’s behind some solid cover. You need to get someone out there.”
He just stared at me, trying to sift through what I’d just said for any sense of sanity, most likely. That wouldn’t do, not now. I put on my best drill instructor face.
“Dever! Get someone out there, now!” The last word echoed through the room and down the hallway. It did the trick, Dever jumped to his feet and ran down the hall, yelling something unintelligible.
I turned my attention back to Gunn. He was still breathing, but it was shallow, and he wasn’t conscious. I tore the rest of his shirt into strips then unfastened the vest and tore it off. I used the torn strips to fashion a makeshift bandage, tying them together and looping them over the wound and then around his neck to keep them in place. I used what was left to pad the open wounds and cinched the whole thing tight. Then I rolled him onto his back, supporting his head and shoulders on my legs and applying pressure to his wounded side. HIs face was flushed, but he was still breathing, and the bleeding was more or less under control.
Clint, the EMT, appeared in the hall outside the door. He crouched down where Dever had huddled and called to me.
“Mr. Shamus, the officers are out there looking. As soon as we get the all clear we have to get Gunn out of there. How’s he doing?”
I shrugged, “as well as can be expected. It’s been a long time since I’ve field dressed a wound, but I think remembered all the important parts.”
I smiled weakly and he chuckled. The silence in the room was deafening an I kept expecting another shot to ring out. I guess it was getting to Clint too.
“Mr. Shamus, where did you learn to field dress?”
“Please, call me Nick. Mr. Shamus sound like a bad joke,” we both laughed a bit at that, it was helping. “I learned in the Army. Infantry (Note: Research and add realistic service info) .”
“You see any action?”
“Two tours in Desert Storm. The first one was nothing, but the second…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to go there, not now.
“Navy,” Clint said, gesturing to himself, “never saw any real action though. Not until I got home anyway.”
He hefted his med kit to emphasize the point. I nodded and tossed him a quick, curt salute. He returned it. Just then Dever ran up behind Clint.
“It’s clear,” he called as he approached. Clint sprung forward and started checking Gunn over.
“Did you get the shooter?” I asked.
“No, no shooter, but we found a couple shell casings. Son of a bitch was set up in the cemetery, he used a tomb stone for cover.”
“Officer Dever,” Clint said, “can you find me a pillow, and make sure someone called 911 already?”
“Oh, um, yeah, of course. Yes sir,” Dever stammered, then ran off.
“Is he going to be OK?” I asked Clint.
“It’s hard to say. You did a good job stopping the bleeding, but he’s got at least two broken ribs, and there’s a chance he’s bleeding internally, or that a fragment of bullet or bone hit one of his lungs, or even his heart. We just won’t know until we can get him to the ER and check him out completely.”
Dever came trotting back with what looked like a couch cushion under his arm, and a sealed emergency blanket that he was trying to open as he ran.
He handed both to Clint, who gently raised Gunn’s head so I could slide out from under it, then lowered it down onto the cushion. He unfolded the emergency blanket and threw it over Gunn.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Dever said to me once I’d stood, “it should be here in ten minutes.”
“This was meant for me,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do, but Gunn slipped up and the shooter to the shot. His aim was off, but if that had been me I’d be dead now, he’s only alive because he was wearing that vest.”
Dever didn’t say anything to that, he just looked between Gunn and myself. Then he looked hard at me.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, “the rest of the guys are holding back until Gunn is clear, so we’ve got a few minutes to get you out the back without being noticed.”
He walked from the room swiftly and I followed. He was walking so fast, skittering I might have called it, that it took me a minute to catch up and match pace.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? If anyone finds out you snuck me out the back after being in the room as your chief detective got shot, not to mention the driving to endanger issue, you could lose your badge.”
“I know. Detective Gunn was going to take this chance, now he may be dying so someone else has to step up.”
I grabbed his shoulder and turned him around, stopping him dead.
“But, why? Why the hell was Gunn prepared to take that kind of risk, for me?”
He sighed, ” don’t know the details, but I got the impression that there’s a lot here that Gunn couldn’t deal with for one reason or another. But you’re not a cop, you can do things we can’t.”
“Most of what I can do, that you can’t do, wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“I don’t think this is the kind of thing to end up in court, Mr. Shamus.”
He walked on then, leading me to a fire exit in the back of the building. He refused to say another word about it. Before he closed the door behind me he handed me my cell phone, which I’d left in the pocket of my jacket.
Then he closed the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The rear of the police station held the auto shop and the parking lot for cruisers, building systems such as central heating and air, and really nothing else. There weren’t even any windows to speak of on this side of the building. At the moment, with all of the commotion inside, there were only a few mechanics kicking around who didn’t know me. So long as they didn’t get close enough to see the blood on my pants, they wouldn’t think anything of me exiting the building here. To keep appearances up I headed towards the general parking lot. I had no idea what I was going to do once I got there.
The open ares containing the police station and the town hall was bordered on three sides by chain link fences, erected in the middle of the dense tree lines that separated the municipal green from its neighbors. I could climb that fence, but I didn’t relish the idea, and I was certain I’d be spotted, given the heightened state of alert that had descended over the building. It was only a matter of minutes, most likely, before someone decided to grab anyone found on the property for questioning. They might have already started and just not gotten this far yet.
Damn it, this wouldn’t do at all.
And then I saw it, the red Pontiac Grand Prix I’d driven myself, once upon a time. Carolyn had gotten the car in the divorce, and here she was sitting in the parking lot, apparently waiting for me if her beckoning wave was anything to judge by.
As casually as I could manage, I walked over to the car and slipped in.
“What are you doing here?” I asked once I’d shut the door.
“Picking you up, and none too soon from the looks of it.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’m a lawyer, remember? I have a few friends inside the town office. It’s a professional hazard.”
“But, why? Why the hell is everyone so eager to help me all of a sudden?”
“Are you actually complaining about this?”
“Hey, when you’re used to everyone doing their damnedest to make your life difficult, any kindness raises red flags.”
Rather than answer, Carolyn handed me a large pair of sunglasses and told me to buckle my seat-belt. I did as I was told, this was no time to set off another domestic situation.
Carolyn calmly started the car and just drove out. She was known here, so no one so much as gave the car a second look. Once we were out I ditched the sunglasses in the glove compartment.
“Derrick’s going to be heart broken about his car,” I said, wanting to stick to a safe topic for now. “I borrow it for less than two hours and manage to total it. That’s got to be a personal record.”
“That was easily one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done, Nick. What were you thinking chasing Wally through town like that?”
So much for safe topics. I slumped down in the seat stared out the window.
“What’s going on, Nick? This isn’t just about Yadira’s murder is it? There’s a lot more going on here, isn’t there?”
“Considering I’ve been shot at three times today, and at least one other cop has been shot as a result, yeah, I think I’ve stumbled into something really bad here.”
“How are you holding up?”
I crumbled, slouching against the window as my hands started to shake. She always had a way of saying just the right thing to get to me.
“I’m tired, Cara. I’m just so fucking tired.”
I closed my eyes, and drifted off. I didn’t dream, and for that I am eternally grateful.
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