Blown Away (13 page)

A mom bleeding from both arms ran over. “Officer!” she screamed. “Do something!”

Emily tried bending her neck, but it hurt too bad. “Call 911,” she gasped. “Hurry.”

“Omigod! You're that cop from TV!” She tried Emily's phone, but it was cracked and useless. She ran to the picnic table and grabbed a purse the size of Detroit, dumping the contents, running back, dialing 911. “Hello! Hello! Hello!” she shouted. “There's been a terrible shooting! Get here quick! Hurry!”

“Hold…phone…so I talk,” Emily said. The mom squatted, held out the phone with quaking arms. “Who…this?” Emily asked, jamming her ear into the phone.

“This is Naperville 911—”

“McDowell Forest Preserve!” Emily yelled, throat burning. “Parking lot!”

“Emily? Is that you?” Jodi said. “What's happening?”

“Officers down! Unsub! Mayday!” Emily stopped as coughs racked her body. The mom pulled her into a sitting position. “Automatic-weapons fire! Civilians shot! We need help!”

“Police and fire enroute Code 13,” Jodi reassured her. “Are you injured?”

Emily's lungs screamed as she forced out the Unsub's description. She heard the alert tones of ISPERN, the Illinois State Police Emergency Radio Network, which every cop in the state monitored. Jodi was sending in the marines. “We need paramedics. Lots.”

“Are you hit, Emily?” Jodi demanded.

“Yes…hit. Branch hit, too,” Emily said. “Oh, he's hit real bad.” She listened for sirens, heard none, felt as alone as the day Mama died. “Jodi?” she asked, despising the anxious squeak in her voice. “Is anybody…coming…to help?”

“The whole world's coming, Detective,” interrupted a voice she didn't know. “Lay down and relax, and I'll take care of you. Police, paramedics, and a medevac helicopter will reach your location in five minutes.” Pause. “Who was shot? Tell me everyone who's shot.”

“Me,” Emily mumbled. “But I'm not bleeding. I was wearing my vest.” Her vision fuzzed a second time. “Branch shot, too. He's next to me. On ground. Not moving. Then some moms.” She looked at her helper, who held up three fingers. “Three moms hit. They're still alive. Some little girls, too”—the mom flashed zeroes—“but they're OK. Not hit.” She recognized the new voice. Chief Cross. She knew now Branch would live. Chief did everything perfectly. He'd save Branch. Save everyone. He would, he just
would
. “We came here to clear our heads. Not goofing off, Chief, coming right back to work.”

“I know that,” Cross said. “You just hang tight, Emily. We'll be there in four minutes.”

Emily.
She was absurdly pleased at Cross using her first name, and now she could hear sirens. “I'm going to check out the chief, Branch—”

“Emily!” Cross interrupted. “I want you to lie down. You're difficult to understand. You might have a concussion. Did you hit your head?”

She didn't know. It happened so fast. “Look at my head?” she asked the mom. “See if I'm bleeding.”

The mom patted somewhere Emily couldn't feel, displayed her palm. It was red with blood and gravel bits. “Blood on my head,” Emily reported. “Doesn't hurt. I have to wake up Branch. He's still not moving…oh God.” Panic body-slammed her back twenty years to Mama's paralysis. She struggled to focus. “Chief, he might be dead—”

“Don't talk anymore,” Cross said. “Save your strength. You've done everything you can, Emily. Let me take it from here. In three minutes there'll be all the help you need. OK?” No answer. “Emily! Will you let me take care of you?”

“Roger wilco over and out,” she mumbled, the phrase popping into her consciousness from one of the cop shows she'd watched from Daddy's lap. The mom stripped off her orange cable-knit sweater and shoved it under Branch's head. Her expression clearly said, “This guy's a goner,” but her mouth said, “I'm sure he'll be all right, Officer. Is he your partner or something?”

Emily twisted her ring. “He's…he's my…” She struggled to her knees, pain hitting like an armored car. The mom grabbed her arm. “The sirens are close,” she said. “You should lie down.”

“No. Just help me with him.”

“OK, Officer, whatever you say.” The mom positioned her, and Emily put her fingers on Branch's neck, willing her hand not to tremble. She pulled back, panting, motioning for the mom to try. She did, nodded excitedly. “He's still alive, Officer! What should I do?”

Emily pointed to the picnic table. “Go take care of them. Keep the cell phone. Chief Cross will talk you through anything else you need to do.”

“But what about—”

“Go help your friends!” Emily commanded. “Those girls cannot lose their mothers like this, understand? You can make sure they don't. Now go!”

The mom hesitated, then hurried away. Emily turned back to Branch and examined him. No obvious bleeding, but who knew what was under his clothes. “Oh, Branch, you should never have taken off your vest,” she sniffled, stroking his ashen face.

“No kidding,” Branch groaned back.

“Oh!” she gasped.

Branch opened his eyes, grinned weakly. “Em. Are you hit?”

“My vest saved me,” Emily assured him.

“Saved me…too. Thank…thank you.”

“Enough of that,” Emily said, squeezing his arms. “How do you feel? Try to move.”

Branch's face pinched. “Can't. Muscles are screwed up. Getting hard…to breathe…”

“All right, don't talk,” Emily said. “Save your strength.” The first police cruiser skidded sideways through the hairpin. Emily, alarmed, looked to the splintered table. “Get everyone inside the picnic shelter!” she shouted. “Now!”

“Why?” the mom yelled back. “Help's here. We're perfectly safe!”

“A hundred cops will arrive in the next few seconds, and one of them will plow into you by accident.” A second black-and-white screamed in—
thank God, it's Annie
!—then several more. “Do it now! Hurry!” The mom saw how far the cars were sliding and grabbed an armful of girls.

“Good…idea,” Branch croaked. “Don't need…anyone else…dying.”

“You're not going to die! I won't let you!” Emily snapped as the first ambulance raced into the lot, spitting gravel. She heard rotor blades beat air overhead. “The medevac's here, Branch,” she said. “You'll be at the hospital in two minutes.”

“It's Channel Seven,” Annie Bates growled as she ran up. “Dammit to hell.” She keyed her radio. “News choppers on scene. Can you clear them out so the medevac can land?”

“Working on it,” Cross replied. “But negative on medevac. Grounded with rotor problems. I rerouted another flight, but it won't reach your location for nineteen minutes.”

“Too long,” Annie said.

“Doesn't matter,” Branch grunted, sweat pouring off his face. “Emily won't let me die. Did somebody call my…call my wife?…”

“Awk!” Emily gagged as a geyser of blood blasted her square in the face. “Help!” She fought desperately for air, gagging and coughing to clear her lungs.

“Rupture!” Annie shouted, ramming her hands atop the flood. Blood sprayed sideways through her fingers. “Right thigh! Femoral artery's torn! I can't stop it!”

Emily roared like a wounded grizzly, knocked Annie's hands aside, and plunged her fingers deep into the bullet holes. Warm pulpy tissue sucked in around them, forming a seal. “Is it stopped?” she shouted, feeling Branch pulse against her fingers. “I can't see a thing through this blood!”

“Slowed! Not stopped!” Annie said. “Work your fingers toward me, Emily. That's it, keep going.” Blood arced high over their heads. “Too far! Pull back! Good, little more my way. Halt. Perfect. Bleeding's stopped. Don't move.”

Emily's hands were already cramping. “This won't work too long,” she groaned. “Get him to the hospital!”

“We'll take it from here, Emily!” shouted Viking, the paramedic from the library, as he ran their way. “Move out of the way. Give us room to work!”

“I can't,” Emily wailed. “A bullet ripped his femoral artery! If I move, he'll bleed out!”

Viking dropped to his knees. “She's right,” he announced as the ambulance backed their way. “OK, everyone, we'll patch the rest of Branch's wounds to prevent further bleeding. Then Emily pulls out her fingers. I clamp off the artery and pack the femoral hole. It'll hold just long enough to get him to Edward.” He looked pointedly at the driver, who replied by goosing her accelerator.

“Good. Emily, don't move till I tell you. Rest of you, hop on those wounds.”

Emily nodded, biting her lip as the paramedic cloud swarmed. “Transport begins the instant he's stable,” the driver radioed. “We cannot, repeat, cannot stop for any reason.”

“Understood,” Cross radioed back. “Don't take Washington Street. It's jammed with rush-hour traffic. I've shut down River Road. Go into Edward the back way.”

“Copy that. I will take River Road.”

Viking put his surgical clamps next to Emily's fingers. “Ready?”

Emily gritted her teeth as the arm spasms moved into her shoulders. “Ready.”

“On three, pull your fingers out. One, two, three.”

“Ahh!” she screamed, falling backwards, fingers popping out like wine corks. Blood sluiced into the air as Viking's metal clamps disappeared into the hole. Moments later the bleeding stopped. Three other medics poured in Israeli Army instant-clot drugs, then packed the bloody wound with gauze.

“Go! Go!” Viking commanded. Branch's gurney shot up like an elevator, two dozen cop-car sirens kicked on, paramedics piled in back, and nine seconds later the ambulance was howling through the hairpin and out of the forest. Viking turned to Emily, who was curled sideways under a blanket, with Annie stroking her hair and face. “How do you feel, Detective?”

Emily's body was one giant cramp. “Yeah!”

“Wrong answer. How do you feel?”

“Oh! I'm all right!”

Viking nodded noncommittally, glanced at the vitals monitor the other medics had attached. “Blood pressure's a bit low. How 'bout a ride to the hospital?”

She groaned, trying not to weep from the vicious pain stabbing from everywhere.

Viking motioned for a gurney, held up thumb, index, and little fingers. “How many do you see?”

She squinted. “Three.”

“What month is this?”

“April.”

“When's your birthday?”

“May 1.”

“How old will you be?”

“Forty.”

“Who is Hercules Branch?”

“Don't call him Hercules. He hates that.”

Relieved grin. “Let's get you to Edward….”

A couple minutes later the ambulance doors flung open. Emily peered under her armpit at an endless sea of cops weaving and undulating like blue prairie grass. Marty Benedetti sprinted her way like a man possessed.
Why on earth is he covered in blood?
she wondered. News choppers darted like metal dragonflies. She wanted to give them the finger but couldn't lift her arms. White coats cut off her uniform as they wheeled her through the blue grass. “I kept him alive,” Emily mumbled as they flew into the emergency room. “Don't you let him die…don't let…don't let…”

Then the world faded.

Tuesday, 11
A.M
.
Forty-three hours till Emily's birthday

The angel walked closer, the bright light from above burnishing its halo. Emily tried to see its face, but her eyes hurt too much to keep them open. Her chest burned with each breath.

“Am…am I dead?” she asked. “Are my parents here? Jack?” She forced her lids apart. She had to know.

The angel shook its head. A muscled arm descended, and a long, polished finger touched her lips. She felt a tingle where it touched her cracked flesh.

“Am I dead?” she repeated. “Is this…heaven?”

The angel shook its head more insistently, then put a finger to its lips.

“Shhhhhhhh,” the angel breathed. “Shhhhhhhhh…”

Emily blinked once, twice, and then the world faded again.

Tuesday, 3
P.M
.
Thirty-nine hours till Emily's birthday

“Where am I?” Emily croaked as she fluttered awake. Her body throbbed. Machines by her bed pumped fluid into the back of her hand, sucked it from under her green gown. She tried to sit up.

An alarm sounded, and a pretty brunette with caring eyes hurried into the room, stethoscope bouncing. “Welcome back,” she said, reading the monitors. “We missed you.”

Emily, dizzy, sank back into the pillows. “What is this place?”

“Edward Hospital. Intensive care unit.”

Emily stared. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Barbara Winslow. Chief of the trauma unit. I'm your doctor.”

Emily's heart churned as she recalled the angelic vision. “A real doctor?”

“As opposed to what?” Winslow said. “Action Medical Barbie? I'm the real thing, Detective.”

Emily sighed in relief. “Thank God. Last time I opened my eyes, I saw an angel. I was afraid I was dead.”

Winslow's eyes crinkled. “That ‘angel' was probably a nurse giving you an injection. Or one of the ten million police running through here during your eight-hour blackout.” She smirked. “Plus one sneaky TV reporter trying to get an exclusive. I bounced him good and hard, let me tell you—”

“Eight hours?” Emily gasped, wrenching upright. “I've been unconscious that long?” A machine squawked in protest.

“Mm-hm,” Winslow confirmed, placing a lightly freckled hand on her arm. “Please relax. Budgets the way they are, you break my heart monitor, they won't give me another.”

Emily tried laughing, but it came out a hack. “What's your name again?”

“Winslow. Dr. Barbara Winslow. What should I call you? Detective, Emily, or Miss Thompson?”

“Missus,” she said automatically, squinting against the overbright room. “But call me Emily.” She winced at the spasms in her rib cage. “God, I hurt.”

“That's actually good news,” Winslow explained, walking to the sink. “A couple inches either way with those bullets and you'd be having this conversation with St. Peter, not me. Ergo, pain is good.”

“Ergo?”

“Catholic education. What can I say?” She dried her hands, untied Emily's gown, and worked her fingers around. “Good,” she murmured, each press eliciting a gasp. “Very good.”

“Easy for you to say,” Emily groaned.

“It's extremely easy,” Winslow said, rolling Emily to check her backside, “considering you were shot twenty-four times.”

Emily's toes curled at the unbelievable number.

“We counted the bruises,” Winslow explained. “Your bulletproof vest did its job keeping the bullets from penetrating, but the shock waves beat you badly. In essence, there were two dozen hammers, and you were the nail. You'll ache for several weeks.”

Emily gingerly pressed one, which was as black as a week-old banana. She clamped her jaw against the radiating pain. “Any permanent damage?”

Winslow redraped the gown. “None. You're incredibly lucky. You've got the body bruises. Several cuts, but they're shallow. No plastic surgery indicated. You don't have an infection or rib fractures.” She pointed to Emily's skull. “You banged your head awfully hard, so we did a CAT scan. There's no concussion or fracture.”

“But I blacked out,” Emily said. “Why did that happen if I'm not badly injured?”

“Your chief told me you hadn't slept since dawn yesterday,” Winslow said. “You desperately needed rest, and your body seized the opportunity.”

“I don't remember it.”

“There's no sensation of time passing when you're unconscious.”

“I see.” She didn't, actually, but was too weary to care. “How did I get here?”

Winslow walked back to the sink. “You arrived in an ambulance,” she said. “After the shooting. You passed out, I worked you up, and now you're awake.” She washed and dried again.

Emily ran her tongue over her teeth. “When can I go back to work?”

Winslow picked up a clipboard, wrote as she talked. “Not for awhile. You'll stay three days for observation and physical therapy. Then you'll rest at home till the bruises get lighter.”

“I don't have three days,” Emily said, explaining the birthday deadline.

“Oh, dear,” Winslow said, frowning. “Nobody told me. Doesn't matter, though. You need to stay. Sometimes injuries take several days to manifest themselves, and I want you here if that happens. We have excellent security, Emily. You're safer here than on the street.”

Emily shook her head. “This Unsub is exceptionally dangerous,” she said. “Your security can't handle him. I don't even know if we can. If I stay here, he'll kill doctors, nurses, and patients to get to me. He'll kill anyone.” The thought of more innocents dying cemented her determination to leave as soon as possible. “Don't make me check myself out.”

Winslow was clearly unhappy. “I can't hold you against your will—”

“No. You can't.”

“All right. If you insist on leaving, at least let me prepare you.”

“How?”

“I'll get physical therapy up here right away to get you out of bed and moving. Soon as you can walk normally, you can go. You'll have pain from the bruises, but everything else should be all right.” She wrote the therapy order, stuffed it in her pocket. “Any questions about your treatment? About anything?”

Emily shook her head. The room swayed. “Nothing right now.”

“I'll stop by later and check on you. But you're going to recover just fine.” Winslow headed for the door. “By the way,” she tossed over her shoulder, “what you did for Branch was magnificent. We're all proud of you.”

“What do you mean?”

Winslow turned and stuck her tongue out. “C'mon, don't be modest,” she teased. “The paramedics told me how you saved his life. Take the bow—you deserve it.”

“I'm not being modest. I don't know what you're talking about.”

The doctor's brows beetled. “You don't remember putting your fingers in Branch's thigh?”

“These?” Emily replied, staring at her hands. “They're clean, Doctor. How could they have been inside someone?”

Winslow walked to the bed. “You were attacked this morning at McDowell Forest Preserve on the city's north side. Detective Captain Hercules Branch was shot at the same time, as were several civilians.”

“Branch…” Emily murmured, scrunching up her face to think. “You mentioned that name. It sounds familiar.”

“Your friend. Your boss,” Winslow prompted. “Hit by submachine-gun bullets. Started geysering blood from his femoral artery. You thrust your fingers into the holes and plugged—”

“Branch! Omigod!” Emily shrieked, the incident roaring back in Technicolor. “Is he all right? Tell me, Doctor. He's got to be all right—”

“He's alive,” Winslow interrupted, dropping the clipboard and taking Emily's hands. “But he was critically injured. He's still in surgery.”

Emily was drowning in Branch's blood. “Eight hours?”

“Yes. He might go another eight. Or twenty. Nobody knows for sure.”

 

“Got a minute, Chief?”

Cross turned to the FBI agent. “Sure. Make any sense out of those case summaries?”

“More than you might think,” the agent said, flipping to a yellow Post-It. “Operation is one of the girl's games, right?”

“She's not a girl,” Cross said.

“Whatever. I think there's a connection between your Unsub and the murder of that Massachusetts trooper last Christmas….”

Five minutes later Cross slapped the agent's back, stopped at the auditorium to order the task force to nail down the connection, then headed for the hospital.

 

Emily felt tired beyond anything she'd ever known. “I promised Branch he wouldn't die,” she whispered. “I killed everyone else I ever loved. I'm not going to kill Branch, too. I won't!”

Winslow's pager buzzed. She read the message, frowned. “I'm sorry, Emily, I have to deal with this. Try to get some sleep, and we'll talk later.” She headed out the door, and Emily closed her eyes, murmuring the only prayer she could remember from catechism—“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want”—but was interrupted at “the still waters” by a buttery baritone voice.

“Branch is gonna make it, you know. He's too damn ugly for heaven.”

“It's you!” she peeped, eyes popping open. “Thank God, it's you!”

“In the flesh,” Benedetti said. “Damn, you look fantastic!” He rushed to the bed and enveloped her, careful not to touch the bruises. Her eyes leaked tears, and he dried them with his thumbs. Then picked up her hands, kissing each passionately.

“Hurts,” Emily groaned.

“Oh, geez, sorry,” Benedetti said, dropping them like hot rocks.

“It's OK. It's just everything feels like I went fifteen rounds with Godzilla.”

“You did,” Benedetti said, scooting over a chair. “But you won. You're alive.” His voice was husky with worry.

She reached up and stroked his cheeks. “You're alive, too,” she whispered. “Thank God, you're alive…uh…”
Oh, no.
Her memory was so fried she couldn't even remember the name of this wonderful man she'd just decided…
Wait! It's Marty! Martin Benedetti! Don't forget!

They talked, touching each other's arms and hands, till Emily's eyelids sagged. “Hospitals suck,” she murmured, shifting for the umpteenth time. “I can't wait to sleep in my own bed.”

“That'll be awhile,” Benedetti said. “You're going to a safe house when you're released.”

Emily flushed, anger trumping exhaustion. “You mean hiding.”

“Tomato, tomahto. But we'll talk about that later. First, we need to—”

“I could kill Branch for not wearing his vest,” Emily whispered. Her eyes leaked again, but she had no strength to wipe. “I could just kill him.”

“Me, too,” Benedetti agreed, handing her a Kleenex. They sat quietly, thinking private thoughts. Then Emily forced herself to remember. “He stole my knife, Marty,” she began, fragments appearing out of the fog. “The World War II bayonet of Daddy's that I carry in my boot. The freak walked right up and took it. I couldn't stop him because I couldn't move.”

Benedetti jotted notes. “Your handcuffs are also missing. Did he take those, too?”

She shrugged, having no idea. “You know what's weird? My gun. Why didn't he take that? It was on the pavement, right in front of him. Why only my knife and cuffs?”

“Guess we're gonna find out.”

She touched a bruise to make sure she was alive. Pain said yes. Her mind flicked to the strobe light of bullets flying from the Unsub's weapon. “He shot so fast, Marty. What was it?”

“A Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun,” Benedetti said. “Serious weapon. Expensive and hard to get unless you're in law enforcement.”

“Ammunition?”

“Nine-millimeter ball. U.S. military surplus.”

“He's a soldier?” she said, stirring. “Marty! Maybe the Pentagon can tell us—”

“Doesn't mean squat,” Benedetti said, tugging at a sideburn. “Millions of civilians buy military surplus for target practice. It's cheap and available worldwide. We know the manufacturer from the ejected shell casings. He'll provide the distributor, who'll give us the retailer. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“Smart as this guy's been?”

He didn't contradict.

She shifted uncomfortably. “If Branch got shot so many times, why isn't he, uh, you know—”

“More injured?”

She appreciated his choice of words. “Right.”

“Because of you. Your vest shielded his head, chest, and major organs, so the bullets struck only his lower body.”

“Uh, the femoral artery, right?”

He intertwined his fingers in hers. “Hey, your memory's coming back!”

“Hardly. Dr. Winslow told me,” she said. “I don't remember any of it. From what she says, it's a miracle he's alive.”

“You're Branch's miracle, Emily. You're a hero. Especially to me.” He held her eyes a long time, electrifying her. Then sadness washed over his face. “But he's got a long way to go.”

“I know,” she said, sensing his anguish. “I'm so sorry, Marty. I know he's a good friend.”

“Best I ever had. The peckerwood.”

She closed her eyes. “Tell me about his condition.”

Benedetti cleared his throat. “He took six bullets. Four punched straight through, not touching anything important. High-speed puncture wounds, basically. One fractured his right hip. Docs already replaced it with titanium. Another tore the femoral artery. Docs fixed that, too. Cleaned out your fingernails while they were at it.” Grin. Fade. “Several deep lacerations but nothing stitches can't handle. The repair of all that stuff is going unbelievably well.” He fell silent, looking away.

“What stuff isn't, Marty?”

A long silence, then, “The bullet that broke his hip kept going. Into his spine.”

“Spine…oh God!” Emily slapped a fist to her mouth. “Does that mean he's—”

“Yes.”

Hope leaked like a punctured tire. “Is it permanent?” she asked, trying not to cry.

“They don't know yet. It sideswiped the vertebra, didn't hit directly. So they're hoping the paralysis is only temporary.” He tapped his foot several times. “Christ, it better be. Branch would rather eat his gun than be stuck in a wheelchair, shitting his diapers—” He cut himself off. “Aw, goddamn, your mom. I'm really sorry I said that.”

“He'll beat this, Marty,” she said. She couldn't live with any other outcome. “Because he's—”

“Too ugly for Heaven. Right,” Benedetti said.