The steady beep-beep-beep turned into a single warbling alarm. The breath caught in Clare's throat. One of the EMTs swore. They dropped the pallet. Annie ripped a syringe off a Velcro pack and tore it open. Karl threw himself to his knees and began chest compressions, sharp fast pumps that looked like they would snap Russ's already-wounded body in two. The third paramedic moved in, blocking Clare's view, leaving her with only the high, piercing alarm to tell her that Russ was dead.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
Dead. How long? Death was a process, not an on-off switch. She knew that.
For thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
The EMTs communicated in short harsh bursts, microwave information. Annie broke open another syringe.
Thou spreadest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.
Kevin's sobs fell to gasps. Silence spread around them like ripples from a pond.
Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup overfloweth.
Was it a minute? Two? The alarm began to sound like an inconsolable cry. A wailing for the dead that will not return.
"Surely"-her voice cracked-"thy goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life?"
The alarm blipped. Blipped, beeped, paused, beeped, and settled into a steady rhythm. Clare sagged against Lyle, whose fingers she finally felt cutting into her arms.
"Go, go!" the third man said. They heaved the pallet up and surged toward the open ambulance doors.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
"Christ Jesus Almighty," Lyle said, his voice shaking.
"Amen," she said into his shoulder.
He released her. "You fit to drive to the hospital?"
She nodded. "Where are they taking him? Glens Falls?"
"Washington County. One of their ER docs used to work in New Orleans. He's seen more gunshot cases than anyone else in the area."
The ambulance doors slammed shut. The lights and siren started up.
"Go on," he said. "I need a word with the rest of 'em, then I'll be along."
She took a step toward her car. Turned. "Lyle," she said, "what happened?"
"I had a vest for him. Right in my hand." He stared at the gore running down his fingers. "It was right in my hand. But he had to be a goddam hero." He wiped his face into his upper arm. "If he lives, I swear to God I'm going to kick his ass from here to Fort Ticonderoga."
XVI
They were at the scene all day: him and Hadley, Eric and Noble, and four state CSI technicians. Two mortuary vans arrived for the dead gang members and the body of the Children and Family Services caseworker. An assistant DA and a plainclothes investigator from the NYSPD were checking out whether the chief and MacAuley had fired their guns lawfully at the gangbangers. They made Hadley talk to the suit; the rest of the MKPD had bad feelings about state investigators. Emergency counselors from CFS were teary-eyed over the death of their colleague. Relatives came to claim the kids. By phone, an agent from the First District Anti-Gang Task Force and the mayor reminded them they were all eligible for free mental health services after traumatic events. They made Hadley talk to the mayor, too; she had lived in California for fifteen years, and Californians believed in that sort of stuff.
The deputy chief kept them updated with calls to Kevin's cell phone. "He's gone into surgery." That was good. "His heart stopped again." That was bad. "He survived surgery." Hadley and Noble thought that was good. Eric thought it was pretty thin gruel. "Survived?" Eric said. "What's that, the minimal? Like batting.100?"
Kevin didn't say much. Thinking about the chief dying made him feel sick to his stomach. His head was stuffed with death: the sprawled and bloody bodies of the Punta Diablo gang members, the slack-mouthed corpse of the CFS woman, and the mutilated remains of Amado Esfuentes. He couldn't seem to stop tears from rolling down his cheeks at odd moments. One of the staties made a crack, but Eric McCrea dragged him aside and said something to shut him up.
Eventually, they finished. One after another, the counselors and investigators and technicians and morticians rolled away down the drive, until it was only the MKPD and it was time to go.
"Get in the car," Hadley called from behind the wheel of her cruiser.
He was standing in the spot where his squad car had been. "MacAuley took your unit," she went on. "For God's sake, let's get out of here and get something to eat. I'm starving."
He got in. He wasn't sure he could eat anything. He looked out the window while she drove, the green fields, purpled with loosestrife and thistles, the indigo mountains standing against the long western rays of the sun. It didn't seem right, that everything went on, beautiful and oblivious, while people who had been alive this morning lay on cold slabs this evening.
"What was the last word from the dep?" Hadley's voice was quiet.
"He's on a ventilator. He hasn't regained consciousness."
Hadley worried her lower lip. On another occasion, he would've thought it was hot. "Sometimes, that's good," she said. "You know. Like a healing sleep."
"Yeah."
They both watched the countryside unfold as they rolled up and down the Cossayuharie hills. Suddenly, she said, "You got anything to eat at your place, Flynn?"
"Uh… yeah. Frozen meals. Leftover pizza."
"Good. Give me directions." She looked over at him. His confusion must have been plain. "I just… I can't face my kids and my granddad yet. And I sure as hell don't want to hang out someplace where anybody can gawk at my uniform." She was right. The word had probably already gotten out. Whoever didn't know about the shooting already would get the news tomorrow, when the Post-Star hit the doorstep. "So let's go eat at your place." She glanced at him again. "You don't live with your parents, do you?"
He wheezed a laugh. "No."
He told her how to reach his duplex in Fort Henry. He had the top half of a Depression-era workingman's house, plain as crockery, but the street was quiet and shady and he had garage space for his Aztek.
"Nice." Hadley parked in front of his space and dropped her rig in her cruiser's lockbox. Upstairs, he showed her the kitchen and excused himself to secure his own gun. "Get changed," she said. "Believe me, if I could get out of this damn outfit, I would."
He locked up his.44 and traded his uniform for baggy shorts and a T-shirt. It felt weird, stripping with her right down the hall in the kitchen. By the time he got back, she'd turned on the oven, found his stash of Miller's amber ale, and unwrapped four packages of frozen stuffed potatoes. "You know," she said, "these aren't that hard to make from scratch. Takes six minutes to nuke a potato."